Fishing With Dad

A few years ago, my dad retired to Big Bear and lost all touch with reality. He doesn’t wear a watch or own a calendar. It’s like talking to Sitting Bull.

I asked what time I could expect him; he just hit his peace pipe: “When the shadow falls long from the pine tree.”

My dad came down the mountain because he wanted to take me fishing. It was on his smelly-bucket list. Dad is an old fisherman and I ... well, I carry Purell.

I had fished only once, when I was three, and Dad caught me plucking guppies from the aquarium. He freaked out like I was eating them, when it was strictly catch and release.

Now, as an adult, I wonder why I would hunt for something that costs a dollar at McDonald’s? And while we’re asking questions, isn’t “Filet-O-Fish” a little ambiguous? Filet o’ what kind of fish?

McDonalds: Ask us no questions; we’ll tell you no lies.™

At least my dad didn’t charter a boat. Fish aren’t the brightest of God’s creatures, yet we come at them with radar, sonar, migration charts. Some fish just lose their nerve and jump in the boat as you pass.

The jacksmelt, says my dad, is so dumb that you can catch one without any bait. They just like to swallow glittery hooks. Like many voters.

Dad and I didn’t need a boat. We would squat old-school on the jetty, like people who refuse to give up chopsticks despite the superior fork-and-knife technology.

My dad asked if I had a license, so I pulled out my I.D.

He shook his head at the heavens: “Is this really my son?”

Evidently, you need a license to fish and can take home only so many (if we could just apply those same rules to childbearing).

My dad brought a bucket of live, highly attentive anchovies, and I realized, watching them swim their last laps, that you don’t stand much chance as a fisherman when you feel sorry for the bait. So it goes.

I’m not a vegetarian, per se, but I require at minimum that my food be murdered in some remote location. Left to my own, I’d stand on the shore waiting for the fish to die of natural causes.

Dad anchovied my line, then started on his own, not once looking down. By all accounts, he was a master baiter.

He let me cast my own line, damn the torpedoes, and I’m pleased to report no blood loss. I aimed for a seagull, who was happy to guzzle my bait. Dad reeled me in, shaking his head at the heavens.

Poles in place, my job was to report on nibbles, which happen every time the water moves.

“We got one! Wait, no. It’s a nibble! No, no.”

My dad stopped looking over. I was the boy who cried fish.

Turns out that fishing isn’t so much about fishing as it is about not watching TV. My dad and I talked about all kinds of things that don’t come up during commercials. He recalled, for instance, the time I poured Ex-Lax in the salad dressing and how he almost decided to undo me.

And just when I had forgotten about nibbles, my dad’s pole doubled over and he woke up like a fireman, shoving me the net as he reeled, reeled, reeled. The fish, unsure of our intentions or religious beliefs, struggled like a madman.

Moments later, a slimy silver body flickered in the sun. I hooted and cheered like we had captured Nessie. My dad plunked the rockfish into my net, where the little guy thrashed for his life.

“You will have my dead body, but not my obedience.”

Dad and I admired the trophy and then, without snapping a photo or calling the Star, released him back to the wild. Even now the poor guy is spinning tales of his abduction.

“There was a blinding light. I think they planted a tracking device.”

Without looking down, my dad re-baited and crouched down like a baseball catcher, this time with a secret smile. He reminded me of the Buddhists who toil over sand designs for an entire week, then just blow them away. Dust in the wind.

I myself didn’t actually, officially catch a fish, but I did avoid falling into the sea, which is more than anyone expected. My dad has since returned to Big Bear, where he continues to fish not two blocks from McDonald’s. And I can’t wait till the shadow again falls long from the pine tree.

Owed to a Friend

I want you to meet my friend Dylan, a full-color cartoon living in a black-and-white world. You’d think that society couldn’t handle a guy like that, but it turns out that society has no choice. There’s no law against laughing too loud or singing in lobbies or changing your clothes on the street. Wait -- there may be a law against that last one.

And while some people cannot, in fact, handle the man, the rest of us are attracted like moths to his light.

Last week I pulled up beside Dylan at a stoplight. Instead of waving as you might, Dylan opened his door and ran over to say hi.

“Hey, stranger!” he said, banging my car. “You don’t write, you don’t call…”

Dylan’s Labrador, Leopold, who considered himself Dylan’s brother, got out of the car and also ran over. The driver behind gave us the stink eye, and Dylan, sensing the the pressure, said goodbye and demanded that I call or else he’d order an air strike.

The light turned green while Dylan chased his dog around the car, a couple of Keystone Cops. Drivers honked and grumbled and otherwise played their parts. Dylan finally muscled Leopold into the car, smiling like a man who can appreciate an unplanned dog chase.

He owns six cars, but Dylan chose to drive a rusty Cadillac ragtop that belonged on Sanford and Son. Dylan said it’s a classic, but I, a layperson, called it a piece of duker. The top didn’t close, passenger door stuck, and oh yeah, there was a giant happy face on the hood. This is the car that Dylan insisted we drive to the beach.

Halfway through the canyon, the engine started to lose important-sounding parts. To address the situation, Dylan turned up the radio. Smoke began to trickle through the vents.

“No problem,” he yelled. “We’ll run the heater to cool off the engine.”

Flames now.

“Okay,” said Dylan … pausing for comedic effect … “We may have to stop.”

Dylan lifted the hood to release a column of smoke. Native Americans could read it from miles: “Oh, white man screwed.” Dylan took off his shirt and whacked at the flames, jester to the gods. Then he looked at me and shrugged.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” he said in a Mexican accent. It was Mexican today. The day before, he did British. “Today, amigo, we surf!”

Dylan turned to solicit a ride from passers-by, not by sticking his thumb out but by standing in the road. Moments later, we bounced up and down on a pickup en route to the beach, our Cadillac smoldering yonder. Dylan called a tow truck and asked them to give it a proper burial. They were happy to do it, and would that be Visa or MasterCard.

These things happen every time I see the guy. You might find Dylan playing basketball with the guys at the car wash. You’ll catch him parked the wrong way on a residential street, chatting with the meter maid. When he leaves a voicemail, it’s always in song. Last time, Jim Croce:

“Operator, would you help me place this call … you see my friend has become just a little bit flaky…”

I’m not saying the guy is superhuman; I am just suggesting that we can, by one man’s example, break free from the stares and become who we really are. Or Dylan will order an air strike.