Refuge: A place that provides protection
Serenity: A state of calm or peacefulness
Stealthy: Sneaky
Fishing has always been more than just a pastime for me—it's been a kind of refuge, a source of serenity I’ve returned to again and again throughout my life. Some people find comfort in friends, others in hobbies. While I have a few good friends who always know just what to say, it’s fishing that has provided me with an immediate and calming relief from life’s stresses.
It all started when I was just seven, up on my father’s farm. My dad taught me how to fish, and like anything worth doing, it involved a whole process. First, we had to get the bait—worms and nightcrawlers. We had two ways to do this, each with its own sort of adventure. The first way was simple: dig a hole in a well-fertilized patch of soil about 100 meters from the house. My father would do the digging, and I’d be the one to scoop out the worms with my small hands, feeling the earth and its squirming life between my fingers. It was messy, honest work, and I loved every bit of it.
The second method was more exciting—a nocturnal hunt for nightcrawlers. On damp evenings, my cousin and I would head out into the fields with a flashlight. The key was to never shine the light directly on the nightcrawlers. They were sensitive creatures and would quickly slink back into their holes if spooked. Instead, the flashlight would cast just enough of a shadow for us to locate them. Then came the stealthy part. I’d get down on my hands and knees, moving as quietly as possible, stalking the nightcrawler like a spy in the dark. With a quick movement, I’d slap my hand down flat to trap the nightcrawler. But catching it wasn’t the end—it was a tug-of-war. The nightcrawler would often hold on tight to the earth, and I had to be patient, waiting for it to relax before I could gently pull it free. It was delicate work, a test of patience and timing. Looking back, it was less about the worms and more about the thrill of the chase, the fun of working together in the dark with my cousin.
Once we had the bait, we’d head down to the river dam to fish. The dam had its own challenges—hidden snags just waiting to claim a hook or sinker. It was a place that tested your skill. The fish we caught there were never big, and most of the time, we’d throw them back. But that didn’t matter much. The dream of landing "the big one" kept us going, and that hope was enough to fuel our hours by the water.
Now, decades later, I still fish, though the experience has evolved along with me. These days, I fish from a kayak. I paddle out into the bay at dawn, the water calm, and the world quiet. Sometimes, I’m the only one out there for an hour or more, just me, the water, and the rising sun painting the sky above the mountains. There are days when the fog is so thick I can barely see twenty feet in front of me, and that too brings its own kind of thrill, a spooky kind of excitement. The older I get, the less it’s about catching fish, and more about the peace that settles in my chest while I’m out there.
When I return to shore after a few hours, I feel refreshed, ready to take on the day. The paddling itself is a good workout, and if I’m lucky, I might even bring back some fish. But whether I do or don’t doesn’t really matter anymore.
In retirement, this is the rhythm I’ve found—a simple life, but one I savor. It brings me as much joy now as it did when I was that seven-year-old boy fishing with his father, hands in the earth, eyes on the water, and hope in my heart.