We are not fishing people, my son and I. It started when he was 4 years old. I left his father and our home in Los Angeles. We moved in the dead of winter to New York City. I found work that kept us on the edge of poverty. The toilsome commute and long hours meant my son was in daycare for close to 60 hours a week. I needed something we could do together that was cheap and cheerful while giving me a break from the nitpicking judgment of my family.
Fishing in Manhattan was as close to free as I could find. Central Park loaned rods and gave you free bait. Somehow, sitting on the concrete banks of the Harlem Meer with a line in the water delighted my otherwise morose son. The high-rises surrounded us like giants, and he earnestly believed he was on the hunt for a leviathan. I knew very little about fishing. A library book showed us illustrations on the basics of casting and setting up a line.
My son was impatient in the way children are when they believe their mother is keeping them from certain joy. The tree branches welcomed his hook as he flicked his line above his head. He laughed when it happened. I laughed, too, happy to see him shake off the weight of our fractured family.
My son is 11 now. We head past the pavilion where people are setting up a repast. He sticks his tongue out and licks the five kinks in the line, producing more spit than necessary to lubricate the knot. He turns to smile and nod at men with lines in the water β a sign of comradeship to fellow anglers. He motions for us to move to a knoll away from the trees. He intuits the trout are lingering there, ready for our cheese bait.
Our lines fly behind our shoulders and with the split-shot sinker anchoring the hook, they land in the middle of the pond. Our eyes will stay on the water, on our rods, on the men across the way, but never on the face so akin to the other. And yet, these are emotionally expansive moments.
