One of the greatest gifts my father ever gave me was to spend time with me every summer on Great East Lake in Maine. For two weeks a year, we packed up the car until the bottom nearly dragged along the highway, and set off for a vacation without phones, TV, or even an indoor shower! I looked forward to this vacation for months, and spent many nights dreaming of the summers at the lake when the cold and short days of winter were doing their best to keep me bundled up and bottled in the house.
For two weeks a year, I had my father’s undivided attention. It was glorious. It made me feel like the most important person in the world. I believed my father was in fact the most important person in the world outside our family, that he did great things for lots of people every day, and for him to stop and take the time to spend those days on the lake fishing and swimming with me really meant something.
We did not have a fabulous boat, or a superfast motor, or any high-tech gear. We had a 12 HP outboard motor we lugged 11 hours in the trunk of the car from home, a mildly leaky metal rowboat that came with the cottage, and a few secret and treasured lures that seemed to hold some magical attraction to the fish in that lake. Not only was it was all we really needed (besides a cooler with some diet Cokes and snacks mom packed), but it also did not ever get in the way of our good time. Not much to break down, not much to worry about damaging when my tween-aged self was puttering around the lake learning to use the motor and experience some adventure and independence, and nothing to distract us from the lake, the scenery, and being together.
We would set out in the morning as soon as the sun came up, and cast off into that glorious expanse of water. Great East Lake had not been developed then, so often we were the only people on the lake when we set out. If you turned off the motor, all you would hear were the Loons, the water, and the wind. The water was so clear you could easily see into the depths, and we searched for the places we thought those bass, pickerel and perch were hiding. We puttered through coves, around islands and into inlets, chatting about where the best places to cast were, what we wanted to catch, and pretty much anything else that came to mind. Sometimes we did not even need to speak, as the lake spoke for us.
Dad had a keen eye, and he was always so aware of what was going on around us. He could pick out a perfect patch of blueberries on an island for me to jump out and snack on when I needed to stretch my legs, or a rock shelf deep in the water that held the biggest fish, or a mother duck with a line of ducklings behind her that were swimming along the lakeside snatching berries and bugs from low-hanging branches that hung over the water. There was always something wonderful that he would see and point out to me; every foray out on the lake became an adventure, with both of us looking to see what new sight lay around every bend. To this day I try to be the same way; eyes wide open and ready to catch the amazing that we so often miss as we speed along wrapped up in our daily lives.
The lake was also the place where many important life lessons were learned, and praise earned. I spent a lot of time off the lake, early in the summer season practicing casting my line so that when we got to a good spot, I was able to drop the lure right where I wanted it to go. There were many spring and early summer days I took a hula-hoop and laid it in the grass of our yard at home, and my rod with a small weight on the end of the line and practiced casting that weight into the hoop, all so that my father would exclaim what a good cast I made, and so that we would lose less of those precious lures to the trees that lined the lake. Dad did not praise you for things that did not deserve it, so when he gave you credit, it was worth its weight in gold. I learned that practice is worth the effort, and the importance of praising people when they succeed at something they have worked hard for. I knew how those things made me feel, and want to be sure and pass that feeling of accomplishment along to others.
We once fished in a spot far-flung from our cabin in treacherous inlet with stump-laden waters that were ready to snatch our outboard and strand us. Dad KNEW big fish lurked there, and with me at the bow carefully directing him away from those propeller-eating monster stumps, we slowly and carefully made our way into the inlet. As usual Dad was right, and with a frog-popper lure I hooked the largest pickerel we had ever seen. After a great fight we got the fish into the boat; it was decided that we needed to show this one to mom to prove it happened, and to retell the fish story that had included our team work that got us through the hazardous trip though the stump gantlet, the fight to land the fish and our long trip back to the cabin. I could tell that Dad was truly conflicted about this. He did not want to take the fish home as it was as near to perfection as a pickerel could get, but he wanted me to be able to experience fully what we were doing, and what it meant.
At its core, fishing is really about life and death. While we did not need to catch the fish to eat and more often than not we released them back into the lake, we sometimes took the fish back to land to show Mom, to prove we had won a great battle. This always ended in the fish’s death, and because of that, we had to eat it. Dad was insistent that it would not be wasted, that even the small life of a small creature in a secluded place should mean something, should matter, and should continue to give life. He respected nature and that respect flowed into me. I cleaned the fish, and we ate it while telling Mom all about the adventure. To this day, I know he still mourns that beautiful fish. But the lesson of keeping life precious and understanding that what we do, what we eat, and how we live in Nature is important, is firmly rooted in my life and the things I choose to do today.
Not all of our adventures ended with the successful catch of a big fish; one in particular stands out because of the loss of a hooked fish and some wisdom found. That particular day we had not had a single fish hit our lines, not even a single nibble. We decided that instead of casting, we would troll the lake and try deeper waters. Trolling meant we kept the boat moving, so our reasoning was that at least while we were not going to be catching any fish we could enjoy the scenery and if nothing else, catch the breeze. We sipped our drinks, sat back and checked out the lake from our puttering, sputtering little boat.
All of a sudden a huge bass leapt out of the water, and my line went taught. I grabbed the rod, set the hook, and Dad cut off the engine. I could feel the fish’s great force pulling the line out far, fast and hard. I knew this was bigger than any I had ever hooked before, and wrestled with it as best I could. I asked Dad to take the line, to take over this fight, but he refused. He said it was my fish to win or lose. I did my best to use everything I had learned to bring that fish to the boat, and it did its best to stay as far away from us as possible, and fought ferociously. I do not know how large it actually was, but to my child-mind, it was equivalent to Moby Dick. I had hooked a whale, and did not want to disappoint my father by not bringing this one in. The fight felt like it lasted forever, and when the line snapped from the fish’s great weight and powerful pull, it then seemed like it was only an instant. There I was, forlornly holding the rod, with the line just flying in the wind like a spider filament caught in the breeze.
I wonder what my face must have looked like; it must have been the epitome of loss and disappointment. We both knew that the line was not the right weight for such a fish, and the likelihood of either of us bringing it into the boat was slim. Even so, I felt responsible, felt like I had let him down. I looked up into his face, and was amazed to see a great big smile on his face, and his eyes shining like stars. He then exclaimed that this was the best fight he had ever seen, that the fish was amazing and so was I. He said it was not only about having the fish in the boat, but also about how it got there in the first place. Sometimes it was the experience leading up to the desired outcome that was the really important part, and not the final conclusion. He then turned the motor back on and took us back to the cabin, where he regaled my mother with the story of the most epic battle ever fought on land or sea. He found a way to turn what at first I had perceived as failure into a triumph, and placed value on not just winning, but in playing the game well and fighting the good fight.
I am now an adult and those memories, unlike so many others these days, do not seem to fade. It is a place, a time, and experiences that I carry with me every day. The time spent with my Father on the lake and our adventures have served as guideposts and as anchors as I navigate the more murky waters of life as an adult in this current time and place. It is funny how things that happened decades ago on a small leaky boat on a big lake in the middle of nowhere can still have such an impact on my life. I often wonder what I would have been like if we had not gone there and done those things.
I know that when people speak about spending “Quality Time” with their children, they often mean that they are taking them on some overly orchestrated, planned event with all sorts of gadgets and goodies. But it is not the activities, gadgets and goodies that make the definition of “Quality” stick; it is merely the time. That what “Quality” time really boils down to is actually “Quantity” time. And you really do not even need the boat, the motor or the lures to make that happen. All your child needs is you.
