One of my very first memories

My family grew up in Middlebury, Connecticut a mile from lake Quassapaug. “Quassy” was known having this tacky amusement park on one end of the lake – complete with bumper cars, wooden horses and cotton candy.

But on the other end was a wee beach just a few feet from the main road.

That’s where my dad took me fishing one day.

I must have been about six years old. We pulled off the road in the family Grand-Safari Pontiac station wagon. My dad gathered the fishing pole, worms and the styrafoam cooler, and I followed him down to the beach.

After working the worm onto the hook, he snapped on a red and white bobber and cast the line into the water. I don’t remember how long we waited, but know it must have been a while, because fishing is mostly about waiting.

So here’s the early memory part:

I remember feeling a slight tug and getting excited and everything else you’d expect in a childhood memory about fishing. But I also remember being completely awestruck that I was instantly and directly connected with something much greater than myself – as if I was wrestling with the universe itself.

But there was no “winner” or “loser” in this fight. There was no “me” or “it” in this fight. There was only “fight” itself – if that makes any sense. The fish and I were completely present – so much so, that, for an instant,  I felt like I became the fish.

When the fish got close enough, my dad reached into the water, wrapped his thick hand around it’s belly, picked it up, and backed the hook out of its mouth.

And there it was – darting back and forth, thwacking the styrofoam walls of the cooler with its head. It was surprisingly small – maybe five inches.

As we left the beach, I marveled at how this fish could feel so much bigger than me, and still seem so small and helpless within the confines of the Styrofoam cooler.