When I was a little kid, maybe 7 or 8 years old, I went fishing for the first time on a small lake in Wisconsin. I was in a boat with my dad and my sister and, despite my inexperience, managed to hook a sunfish. It was a thrilling moment and I reeled it in, only for my excitement to turn to abject terror as this alien creature from the deep emerged from the water, hooked grotesquely through the jaw, eyes bulging, gills flapping, dorsal spines extended. I’m not sure who was more scared, me or the fish. When my dad encouraged me to hold the fish, pushing the dorsal spines flat, to remove the hook, I burst into tears. I don’t remember what happened after that, a traumatic memory blotted out.
Believe it or not, I’ve not been fishing since that day, unless you count a photo opp of me holding a barracuda on a line during a press trip in the Caymans (that was nearly as traumatizing). Fishing: a rite of passage for American boys, a traditional pastime, an activity homo sapiens have been doing since time immemorial. Now, I’ve been diving with tiger sharks, night swimming in the remote Pacific surrounded by feeding silky sharks, and swam across San Francisco Bay from Alcatraz, despite the spectre of stray great whites lurking below. So what is it about fishing?
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