If You Don’t Go Fishing
If you don’t go fishing, you don’t see the water.
You don’t see the river, the creek, the stream, the bay, the flat, the pond, the riffle, the run, the pool, the hole, the chop, the cut, the bank, the bucket. You don’t see if it’s low and clear or if it’s in shape, if it’s glass-calm or frothing, if it’s nervous or if you are. You don’t see if it’s blown out, and you don’t get blown off, if you don’t go fishing.
If you don’t go fishing, you don’t see the slow rise in the bubble line on the far seam in the shade, or the forked tail wiggle in the humid air in the sun over the golden sand. You don’t see the splashy eat just at the edge of your line of sight and you don’t see the refusal on your favorite fly in front of the boat. You don’t spot the shadow of the fish you wanted to see, as the fish swims away, if you don’t go fishing.
If you don’t go fishing, you don’t find the next, next pool around the bend; the depth-less one with the heron perched on the downed log and the small, sandy, footprint-less beach. You don’t find the truck-sized boulder that the tide bends the current around, and around, and around, and then, finally, over. You don’t find the drop-off where the fish sit at dusk, but where dusk doesn’t sit long, if you don’t go fishing.
If you don’t go fishing, you don’t witness the hatch, the spinner fall, baitball, the blitz. You don’t witness the eat that you tried and waited years to see. You don’t witness the blowup or the blowout when the fish spooks, nor the bigger fish chasing the one you hooked, if you don’t go fishing.
No perfect sunrise reflection on the lagoon, no dispersing and disappearing sunset across the loch, if you don’t go fishing.
No nap in the tall grass under the shady, rustling aspen. No afternoon beer that’s 60 degrees colder than the air. No sunburn, no calluses, no watch-tan nor sandal-tan, no leaky waders and shivering, soaked legs.
You don’t find the old fishing hat in the mud if you don’t go fishing, and you don’t find the taco truck next to the dive bar on the way home. You don’t fall in, and you don’t make it to the rockpile.
If you don’t go fishing, you don’t tail the fish for your friend, and they don’t see you miss three strikes in a row. Your knot never fails, and you never learn to tie it right. You don’t find that fly in the tree or on the rock, tie it on, and wonder what pattern it is and who lost it, if you don’t go fishing.
You don’t make the cast and you don’t blow the shot, if you don’t go fishing. You don’t tie three more of the same fly when you get home. No phone call to your friend to tell the story. You don’t catch the fish, you don’t lose it at the net, and you don’t think about it for the rest of the day or all the way home or for the next year or for the rest of your life.
You don’t sit on the log while your friend sits on the boulder while the weight of the world sits on both your shoulders. You don’t forget about it all while you roshambo for who fishes first. You don’t let your friend go first, if you don’t go fishing.
The thoughts you have, the ones that could only exist because you stared at the water for nine hours straight, aren’t thought. The epiphany you had isn’t made, the question that you realized was actually the real question isn’t asked, if you don’t go fishing.
No knowing what happened, no wondering why it did or why it didn’t, if you don’t go fishing.
If you don’t go fishing, you won’t have gone fishing.
And you might not go again.