Fish

You taught me to keep only what you can eat. Don’t keep for the sake of keeping. Always eat what you kill and be thankful. You taught me to pray before forcefully smacking the fish on the head with a bat, crushing its fragile skull and releasing its delicate spirit into the afterlife.

“bismillah ir rahman ir rahim”

You taught me when to use sharp barbed hooks and when not to. You taught me what was fair and what was cruel. You taught me discipline through line and lure.

You took me fishing that one time at Donner lake when I was little. You insisted we wake up at 5am to get there early. The water was flat and glassy, untarnished by boats or swimmers. We were the by far earliest ones there. We went after the hatchery released the mass farmed rainbow trout into the lake. The ones with less flavorful and pale meat because their diet consisted of man made fish food. They were not the rich, pink fleshed fish that fed upon life in the lake.

You said we should use a lighter test line to give the fish a fighting chance. We did not get any fish on shore the entire day. Right as the fish were about to be lifted out of the water, they would flop and break the line. We went home empty handed that day. I cried out of frustration, but you stopped me and said,

“You don’t always get what you want. Be patient and don’t give up.”

The next time we went, about a week or two later, we got a fish on shore. This time, I was patient with the fight; tiring the fish out before it reached shore so it wouldn’t spit the hook or break the line. You also taught me to gut the fish. Slide the knife into the anus and cut upwards towards the gills. Grab the gills and pull down. All the entrails will come tumbling out.

That night my nostrils were filled with the delectable smell of skin on trout sizzling in the frying pan. My taste buds were greeted by the savory taste of perfectly seasoned trout. Fish always tastes better when you catch it yourself.

After that ski trip where I fractured my vertebrae, we stopped going to Tahoe. Even though, by the grace of god, I made a full recovery, we didn’t fish for a while.

A few years later, as a present, you bought me that dark blue and black ocean rod and we went to the pier almost every weekend. I remember that you got the rod, reel, and line separately. It was so heavy that my little twig arms struggled to cast it. We used sabiki rigs to catch bait, and a heavy line attached to lead waits to catch bigger fish in the deep. You caught a baby shark that one time. I thought that was so cool.

I got older and we stopped going. Once again, we didn’t fish for a while. Our relationship got strained. I started isolating and drinking. That became more important to me than family; than you. I hate myself for that. Whenever you asked if I wanted to go fishing, I’d say no. We didn’t really talk anymore and I strayed further down my path.

Years passed that I don’t really remember, and the shit I do remember is shit I wish I forgot but shouldn’t. It reminds me of what I said and how I treated you. I should never forget.

I got sober and we slowly started talking again. For the first time in years, you asked if I wanted to go fishing. I said yes. As I sat on that boat, fighting the drowsiness caused by the anti nausea medicine, I realized how much I missed fishing. How much I missed spending time with you. How much I loved you. I realized how far we had drifted apart. Now, each time I reel in a fish, I feel that gap closing.

I don’t particularly like fishing. I don’t like killing fish. I don’t like using live bait. I don’t like being on the ocean. But none of that matters. That isn’t why I go anymore. When I have children, I will take them fishing. I will teach them to pray before killing a fish. I will teach them to only keep what they can eat. I will teach them to be patient. I will teach them to be fair, and most importantly, I will give them the time and attention that you gave me.