Good Morning Piscators,
Given my new found knee I’ve been walking allot, and found some shade on a bench in a public nature area situated along a small creek near my apartment. I was watching a couple of 10-year-old boys throw rocks at an invisible prey along a section of the creek.
They were fervent in their stoning and tirelessly threw rocks at maximum velocity. Still not sure what it was that inspired such purpose I got up from the bench and moved to a better vantage point.
Moving wildly right then left jumping back and forth across the water it appeared they were having trouble finding rocks of manageable size. Never to cry ‘Uncle’ they quickly fashioned spears from the many dead tree limbs along the creek and now slung their spears with the same intensity.
This brought back some great memories for me and immediately knew what they were doing. They had trapped a little Perch by damming up a 15-foot section of the creek chasing the poor fish back and forth. I remember spending hours pursuing a trout that got trapped in a narrow but elongated strip of water but was never able to catch it.
But on this day, one of the boys actually speared the fish finally putting the creature out of its misery. I was a bit surprised by their reaction though. Instead of the expected joyous war hoop, they both stared disbelievingly at the fish and seemed to be saddened by its demise. One boy gently held the dead Perch using both hands to cradle it as he kneeled down then lay prone on the bank as if he intended to revive it. The other boy kept asking if the fish was moving and of course it just been harpooned and had no chance.
They both got to their feet still holding the fish as if they were saying a few words on its behalf then unceremoniously tossed it back into the creek.
I watched the boys get on their bikes and take off thinking there must be a moral here somewhere. Nothing really popped out at me in this regard, but I think it’s safe to say that the joy of pursuit in most cases far exceeds the lugubrious ending when the hunt has ceased.
Sadly this principle is demonstrated by one of our own. Our good friend Joe has chased and hounded ‘Crazy Shelly’ for weeks even springing for ‘Mother’ (closer to Joe’s age than ‘Crazy Shelly’s age) at brunch this past weekend simply because he hasn’t been laid in three years.
It’s the bane of celibacy but he was oblivious to the warnings of those that know her, yet continued the quest for her most bizarre affections. The honeymoon was brief. Less than a month later Joe could be found looking like the gasping Perch; lips moving open then shut drowning in palpability.
Joe is now a broken man, locked in with no apparent means of escape. He lives vicariously through country music, and seems to get satisfaction from the loathsome lyrics as they nearly always suggest a solution, but “Piss up a Rope” no doubt says it best. “Up shit creek using turds for a paddle” He caught his fish at last!