Go Fish

By Shaquita Banks

One of my favorite summer memories was fishing with my dad and grandmother. Those fond memories are the absolute best. My dad bought me my very first fishing rod—a purple Tweety Bird one from Walmart—and showed me how to cast. In the week leading up to the trip, I practiced casting and pulling the rod over my shoulder before casting it out long, where the end landed in the grass.

By Saturday morning, I was ready. I’d always been a morning person, waking up at 7 am, and this Saturday morning was no different. I’d showered, brushed my teeth, gotten dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. My dad and I loaded two empty ice coolers and our fishing poles into his paint-chipped, black 1987 Chevrolet pickup before going to pick up my grandma, who lived about a mile and a half away.  Instead of modern fishing poles, she opted for three long cane poles that reminded me of bamboo branches. After we picked her up, we got on the road.

First, we had to stop at Walmart for a few essentials. One of the most important items was his fishing license. While in the Sporting Goods section, he looked to ensure we were well-stocked on fishing supplies and something that both surprised and exhilarated me: live bait in the form of earthworms and crickets. As for snacks, we stocked up on saltine crackers, Vienna sausages, potted meat, chips, ice, a Coca-Cola for him and my Grandma Fay, and a Sprite for me, along with a few bottles of water. Now we were ready.

It was a short drive from Walmart to the lake. I don’t recall the name of the lake, but I remember being on a gravel road, flanked by water on either side. My dad made his way to the back of his pickup and unloaded the hunter green boat, which had belonged to his late father. After loading the boat with the electric motor, ice coolers, and live bait, my grandmother and I got into the boat. He got in last, using the wooden paddle to push us off the bank.

I was so thrilled just to be there. The lake was dark green and lukewarm. The 8 a.m. breeze kept things cool. My Grandma Fay baited one cane pole with an earthworm, and then the other, laying both poles on either side of the boat. She settled in, cigarette in hand, while my dad baited my hook with a cricket. To be honest, the crickets freaked me out; they moved way too fast, and I was afraid of one getting on me (to this day, I won’t bait my own hook with crickets). Once done, I pulled the rod over my shoulder like I’d practiced in my front yard and let it rip, casting it about a yard away from the boat.

I sat. Waited. Reeled in—nothing but a drowned cricket. “Watch the bobber,” he said. “When it goes down, then you know you have something on the line.” I cast the line again while my dad cast his own line.

My grandma started talking about some of her former fishing expeditions and about the fish she caught. Usually Brim, maybe a few catfish, and where she caught them. Typically, she fished off the bank instead of a boat. My dad responded with a few ‘yeahs’ and ‘mm-hmms’ while watching his own line. I bombarded my dad with questions about fish, our chances of catching one, and why my grandmother only fished on a bank until he sighed and told me I was going to scare the fish away. So, I did what any girl would do in my position. I got hungry and wanted to snack.

Laying his rod down carefully, he opened the cooler and got us all snacks. We ate Vienna sausages on crackers, sipped our sodas, and got back to fishing—only for my dad to point out I had let a fish steal my bait while I wasn’t paying attention.

Being the patient father that he was, he helped me bait my line again. This time, I opted for a long brown earthworm, watching it squirm as my dad double-baited it. In my eight-year-old mind, the baiting must not hurt them that much since they were still squirming. Once my bait was on, I cast the line into the water once more.

This time, I was focused. Quiet. Concentrating on the bobber. After a few minutes, I saw it bob and immediately reeled it in. I pulled in the earthworm, dripping wet, with half its body gone and dangling on the end of the line. “Be patient,” my dad told me. I reeled it back and cast it out again. Watching the bobber, anticipation ran through me. The excitement. The thrill of the wait. Waiting for just the right moment.

The bobber bobbed again, this time, it went under the water. I gave it about ten seconds before reeling in the line. And what do you know—there was a fish! It was a small brim—blue, green, and silver. My dad laughed—a mix of pride and amusement as I reeled it in all the way. Now what?

He grabbed a glove from the tackle box, took it off the hook, and placed it in the ice cooler. My chances seemed better with earthworms than crickets, so I had him bait my line. I had gotten the hang of it, and now I was hooked. I cast again, eagerly waiting for my next catch.

My grandmother passed away last year, and I don’t cast my line often these days. However, it’s warm memories like these that bring me back, filling me with immense gratitude. Like the patience of fishing and the love shared on the water, these fond memories will never fade.