My father loved to fish. As he did with everything in his life that was important to him, he kept his fishing gear in perfect order. Particularly fascinating was his tackle box of flies, lures and Iines. He tied the delicate flies himself, using gorgeously coloured threads and materials, surprisingly nimble despite his blunt fingers. The flies had wonderful names such as Bloodwing, Silver Dragon, Golden Grasshopper. A small book with elegant colour illustrations informed the reader which type of fly was best for which fishing conditions and type of fish.
I was permitted to admire, but not use these beauties. But I was taught to fish using lures and bait. I remember being pleased with myself that I was capable of pushing a sharply curved hook through the entire length of a live wriggly worm. When I was fortunate enough to catch fish my father helped me take them off the hook until he thought me competent. He also taught me how to administer the fish a quick knock of death against the side of the boat, which I found both disturbing and satisfying. But he always spared me the task of cleaning and filleting the fish, before we enjoyed a delicious dinner of fresh pan-fried trout.
Many years later, when I showed my sons how to bait a hook with a worm, they were suitably impressed and enthusiastic. They too enjoyed the subsequent catches, and I too like my father demonstrated how to remove the flopping fish from the hook and give it its sharp knock of death.
Unfortunately, we did not succeed in sitting down to the delicious dinner of fresh fried trout. My efforts at cleaning and filleting the fish while consulting a guide resulted in gory mashed fish and totally lost appetites by all.
I have been trying without success to think of a moral to learn from this anecdote. I am missing a skill necessary to generate a mouth-watering reward for myself and others. But I have the reward of knowing that my father loved both me and fishing so much that he wanted to spare me a grisly task while also ensuring that I would share his love for fishing. And perhaps he knew that I – and his grandchildren- would continue to enjoy catching fish and equally enjoy throwing them back to freedom without administering the knock of death!