Fishing Flags
What do two flags, flapping in the breeze some 3,200 miles apart from one another, have in common?
I was on my way to the local river recently, stopped at an intersection, when I spied the American flag catty-corner from me. That it was held perpendicular to its pole made me smirk slightly, acknowledging that it would be windy, to some degree, on the river. A north wind specifically; momentarily I pondered this specific effect on the fishing. Then my mind jumped across time and space.
It was as if I’d caught a scent on the air from long ago. Perhaps a perfume my grandmother used to wear, or a dinner my mother cooks, or the unique smell of a dive bar, restaurant, or retailer. So distinct, and so ingrained in a concoction of senses, memory, and emotion, scents like these subconsciously transport a mind at light-speed from one place and time to another, and then back again.
Such was the case as I eyed that flag, my drift boat in tow.
I was taken from the northwest to the southeast - from Springfield, Oregon to Marco Island in Florida - to one specific flagpole and flag that I have also eyed numerous times while considering the day’s fishing to come.
That flag in Florida is poled across the street from my dear friend Capt. Andy Lee’s home and it is as common as morning coffee to regard, acknowledge, and consider its state as we ready the boat and our belongings in preparation for a day of fishing in the Everglades. The best case scenario is an unmoving flag, lifeless and draped down the pole itself. It’s a small thing - and may have debatable correlation to the conditions at the boat launch which is 45-miles away - but it’s something and there’s no denying that when that flag lies flat, our excitement increases, the chatter turns giddy, and our steps quicken. Thoughts turn to glass-flat bays and rivers, a skiff smoothly on plane; backcountry calm and quiet broken only by rolling tarpon.
We have also stepped outside his house, pre-dawn, and immediately heard the flag flapping. In this scenario, converstaion is also stimulated but more in disbelief and disgust. How can it be? It must be too early for such a stiff breeze. I picture the boat launch, frothing with waves, and what will be a punishing run across high seas to the backcountry. Maybe we will find a lee or two, maybe a fish will be there. If so, will it be happier than us?
The third, and most-common scene we find in the morning, is something in between these two extremes: a flag alternating in its activity, fluttering slightly, then swaying, then falling as if nodding off. We will eye this flag repeatedly, optimism rising and falling as the flag does.
So, what do these two flags, flapping in the breeze some 3,200 miles apart from one another, have in common? No matter what they do - within reason - we still go fishing. Why look at all? It’s impossible not to.
The light turned and I eased across the intersection, back in Oregon after my brief transport to Florida. The flag waved as I drove past.
