Several years back, more than I’d really like to think about, I came home from the office with a need to unwind. It was a splendid early summer evening, with a clear blue sky, and the water was nice and smooth. I quickly shed my business clothes and put on my shorts, a polo shirt, and some well-worn Topsiders. The mosquitoes had been a bother in the evening, so I sprayed myself all over with repellent, grabbed a beer, and selected a fishing rod with a surface lure from a group stacked in the corner of the deck.
Walking the few short steps down to the dock, I reflected on the fact that despite all of my preparations, the truth was that I didn’t care whether or not I was going to catch a fish. True, I like to fish, but no one would ever say I’m really good at it. (I once landed a huge bass fishing with my friend Bob at his place in Orlando, and he still talks about every time we go out to fish. Unfortunately, neither of our cell phones had cameras at the time, and I had left my camera at his house, so there is no proof for a cynically disbelieving world where fish stories are all too common. But we were there, and we know, and that’s enough.) My mission that evening was simply relaxation. There is something Zen-like in the repetitive casting out and retrieval of the lure that clears the mind and refreshes the soul.
It was early in the week, and despite how splendid the weather was, there were only a few boats on the lake, probably because most normal people were at home having supper. Mine could wait. I cast out my line with its Hula-Popper lure, slowly retrieving it with the occasional pause to jerk the rod and make the “pop” that gives the lure its name. It’s an “old school” kind of lure. I caught the first bass of my life on one back in the early ‘60’s, and I’ve used them ever since. Of course, they work best when the water surface was smooth, and just then it was perfect.
After only a few casts the stress and cares of the day were melted away. As I began my next cast I heard the deep booming bass sounds from speakers mounted high on a wakeboarder’s tower. There was a boat coming my way and I was certain they were about to defile the tranquillity of my perfect evening.
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against water-skiers. My brother and I were both avid slalom skiers. At the time, I had a Ski Nautique boat, designed to smooth the wake and provide the best possible pull for the skier. But wakeboarding was a next generation thing. Just as in our youth we sought out stereo systems the reproduced the best high end sounds, the new generation was all about deep, throbbing bass notes. And just as we sought to smooth out the wake from our ski boat, wakeboarder’s boats were modified to produce more wake. They do need something to jump after all. I hold no animosity toward the younger generation. I can smile at their foibles because I still clearly remember my own, even after all these years. But I now know the truth of that old saying that youth is wasted on the young.
To be totally honest, I could feel the Karmic forces of the universe coming back to haunt me when the guy on the wakeboard dropped off right out in front of where I was fishing. How many times had we taken an inside track on a poor guy fishing in the middle of cove just so we could ski the smoothest water along the shore? Far too many I assure you. I may have had a moment of remorse in disturbing the fisherman, but it passed far too quickly. Screw the poor bastard, we were young, and owned the damn world! And now it was my turn. The boat was coming right toward me, kicking up a wake and booming out some rap song. I cursed. My peaceful evening of fishing was about to be ruined.
Something really remarkable happened then. The boat slowed. The volume of the booming rap song was lowered to a level nearly inaudible from the shore. The wakeboarder in the water was quickly recovered, and the boat motored slowly away until they were well out of range. I could faintly hear the bass notes again as I saw the driver hit the throttle and zoom off, well out of range for any of the huge waves that I had anticipated, but never received, to bother my fishing in the least. I was chastised for my past transgressions, and taught a lesson by some youths that should have been the students, but assumed the role of teacher that fine evening.
I cast my line out onto the still smooth surface of the water. When I jerked my lure this time, it disappeared. The tip of the rod bent and I pulled back to set the hook, feeling that slight rush that always accompanies hooking a fish. A fine, shiny largemouth bass broke the surface and danced on the end of my line for my enjoyment.
After reeling my fish in and gently returning it to its watery environment, a smile spread across my face. It didn’t matter if one was young or old. It didn’t matter if you were a skier, wakeboarder, or fisherman. Whether you prefer your sport accompanied by booming bass sounds, or fish for a swimming bass, the lesson is clear. Even our small little corner of paradise is large enough for everyone to enjoy. All it takes is a little consideration for the other guy.
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