Fishing

Fishing is one of the very few good memories I have with my dad. He seemed to be a different person when we went on camping trips. Gone was the disinterested parent; the abuse, both physical and mental, in its place was a man who showed interest and passion for something. Maybe it was the only time he was happy; I guess I will never know. His passing years ago left me always wondering why he was the way he was.

We were a part of the Arlington Bass Busters; I say this with great pride, with many fond memories bubbling to the surface as I write this. The club hosted a tournament once a month and meetings once every couple of weeks. The tourneys only called for a two-person team, so my dad would rotate turns between my older and younger brothers. We would all usually go to the meetings, and we had a ton of fun because we got to order drinks from the club bar and eat our fill of peanuts from old wooden bowls. The drinks, of course, were Shirley Temples but we felt bravado swell up as we stepped up to the bar to order our drinks. This was also a time to visit with friends we only saw at the meetings or the tourneys, and it always ended with either football outside, hide-and-seek at the Holiday Inn where the meetings usually took place, or just plain old roughhousing.

The tourneys were held all over Texas and sometimes Oklahoma and Louisiana. My dad took great pride in his bass boat, fishing gear, and camper that he lowered onto the bed of his pickup for camping and fishing trips. My favorite spot was always Lake Whitney; it was such an amazing lake, especially right before dawn or at sunset on clear, calm days. Also, they had showers and toilets, which was nice towards the end of the trip to have a shower before the end-of-tourney fish fry.

One of my few and favorite memories was one such club fishing trip to Lake Whitney. It was about an hour before dawn; my dad shook me awake and, with an excited and hushed tone, said, “Hurry, we can be first on the lake and hit the best spots.”

We launched the boat, which was exciting as well, because I got to power the boat off the trailer and pull it to the dock. My dad rushed back from parking the truck with his worn grey Stanley thermos that he had my entire life; he never bought a new one. He had an Igloo filled with sandwiches, drinks, and other treats. We flew across the lake at breakneck speed I thought surely we would take flight on more than one occasion - reached his favorite spot, and then we just sat there for what seemed an eternity, no words exchanged, only the calm water and the silence. Then my dad would crack open the thermos and pour me a cup of coffee; the only time I was allowed coffee and other things as well. Fishing, he explained, was special and rules could be broken. The rest of the trip went by as usual: fishing all weekend, the weigh-in, and then the fish fry. But I will always remember those early still mornings of silence on the lake with my dad, no words needed.

This is Will B saying: the best memories are sometimes the still, quiet ones, no words needed or wanted.