Red Snapper and Blind Fisherman

Great gifts are usually the result of great efforts, as was certainly the case when my wife sent me fishing in the gulf while she took three kids to the beach by herself.

Before the chartered boat pulled from the dock, laughter erupted when a fisherman in sun glasses continued to ask a kid, who was telling a "one that got away story" to tell him how big it was. The kid kept responding by holding his hands apart. The deck hand and the captain knew the man in glasses, a regular customer, was blind- and a prankster, but the kid didn't. Each time he was asked the question, he took the bait, at his own expense. Over the course of the eight hour trip, I found it hard to not be aware of the man. Of how he baited the hooks with cut squid on his own. Of how he talked Auburn football and trash on his brother when he was out fishing him. Of how he called out predictions of weight to the deck hand for each fish he caught. 

I also found it hard to not be aware of how he experienced the day. The texture of the line under my thumb as the bait dropped beneath the boat. The tension of the bent rod during the fight. Warmth of the sun, scent of the bait and snapper, the steady churn of the deisel and rush of water against the boat.

Later that night I took note of how fine my daughter's hair felt as she leaned against me, an act that happens with less frequency as she moves through middle school. We sat in lawn  chairs with the thick fillets cooking on a grill before us. The charcoal smoke, the melting butter, and softening onions. We tore off edges of fish as it crisped against the grill and commented on how all the flavors, salt, pepper, lemon, butter, and fish, combined. Our campsite was close enough to the Santa Rosa Sound to hear water against sand. A great moment.

I was grateful for the chance to spend a day out on the water catching fish. And a little perspective.