My First True Blue

"My First True Blue"

My Dad was the Earl Woods of fishing. Alright, he didn’t name

me Tiger (although "Tigress" would have been more gender

appropriate) but he did put a fishing pole in my chubby little

hands when I turned two. It may have been made of red plastic

with yellow trim but it was a fishing pole nonetheless and since

we were standing on a pier together I believe it qualified as my

first fishing trip.

But it took almost another two years before I caught my own

fish, on my own pole and reeled her in all by myself. She was a

snapper.

I named her "Charlie" (short for Charlotte) and we called my

Mom from the dock’s payphone as soon as she flopped into

our fishing bucket. I announced proudly that I planned on

bringing Charlie home to live happily ever-after in the glass bowl

that sat on the dresser next to my night light.

Then Dad proceeded with what must have been for him, the

a difficult fishing lecture;

"Sweetie, some fish we’ll end up throwing back into the ocean

and other fish we might fillet for dinner but none of the fish can

come home to live with us".

That’s when I threw Charlie back in the water (after a teeny pat

on her back) and gave up fishing for good. After all, it seemed

really dumb and boring. You put a pole in the water andthen

stare at it. Every so often your Dad tells you to jiggle it up

and down and every so often after that you reel it in to check

on your bait (which usually is never there because whoever

snacked on it to begin with steered the rest of their family away

from the dangerous hook gleaming above them).

Most days you just came home with a whole lot of sunburn

on your nose.

So I left the sport of fishing behind and returned to playing with

Barbie and Ken, Legos and Playdoh and buckets full of water with

all the other little kids on the dock who were dragged along

with their parents to experience the supposed joys of fishing.

And then around the age of thirteen something happened.

Dad had called me over to watch his fishing pole a moment.

Carefully closing my secret diary I joined him at water’s edge as

he gingerly passed his fishing pole over to me.

It was like a rite-of passage. I felt an almost imperceptible tug

on the line, then an imperceptible tug on my heart. I was excited,

not at the prospect that there would definitely be a fish at the

end of that tug but that there might be and that each future tug

held that same promise.

All of a sudden I was willing to sit the entire rest of the day

just for the chance to feel that feeling one more time. I guess this

was the reason my Dad went fishing and what he had been trying

to get me to feel all along. It was kind of spiritual actually as silly

as that sounds.

My Dad and I fished that same dock together for the next seven

years before I graduated to charter boat fishing. On a slightly

overcast September evening the boat prepared to leave the dock

for a night of blue fishing. I quickly learned that I was the only

young lady on board.

Immediately everyone staked out their turf.

The boat left at 7:00 pm sharp and by 7:05 pm every man on deck

had a beer in one hand and 7 cards in the other. With a

couple hours of travel time ahead of us, poker and pepperoni

became the tasks at hand.

Since I was not invited to join the game I stood on deck

getting wind-tousled and dreaming about "my first true blue".

Everything I needed to know about blue fishing I had heard

from my Dad. I knew that when they hit they ran and that

pound for pound they were one of the fiercest fighting fish

in the sea.

The captain sounded a horn and the boat took on the electricity

of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Thirty fishing lines hit the

water all at once.

Nobody spoke except every now and then the silence was

broken by a raucous "Ooh whee baby!" (fish talk for a big fish).

The first blue was coming aboard and someone said he was a

beauty. I didn’t see much in the way of good looks but I had to

admit being excited.

Suddenly blues were to the left of me, right of me, in front of me

and every space in between.

Everyone was talking about what would be the "pool" fish

(the biggest catch of the night) which according

to the writing on the chalkboard would be worth $270.00 to the

winner.

My pole then took a nosedive and the fishing version

of "Ali-Frazier" began.

I lost.

He swam to freedom.

I took a nap.

And then at 2:30 in the morning my pole actually bent in half (not a

fish story).

He was