It is a cruel paradox, although not entirely devoid of philosophical merit. My creel is empty, and yet I’ve reached my limit.
It happens sometimes, more often than I’d like to admit, actually, given the combination of my not-too-distant history as a seasonal fishing guide and current reality as a full-time outdoors columnist. If blame is to be assigned, perhaps it can be traced to the practice of “catch and release,” metaphorically speaking, of course. Words, ideas, passion, creative thought – all seem to have been liberated through a porous membrane of gray matter like a school of minnows swimming through the unmended net that is my mind.
But maybe blame isn’t the right word. Indeed, the deeply ingrained practice might actually deserve some credit. Theoretically, at least, I’m preserving a fragile resource, in the hope that someday it will become self-sustaining. First, though, it needs reviving.
To my way of thinking, nothing revitalizes the spirit quite like a change of scenery, even for those of us who consider the Colorado Rockies among the most scenic spots on Earth. It is during this awkward season between Halloween and Christmas that those outdoor enthusiasts among us without an elk hunting tag or penchant for shooting waterfowl (read: skiers) find ourselves watching the geese fly south for the winter and wondering just what it is they know that we don’t. Non-working hours give way to fermented theories on a potentially bountiful Thanksgiving harvest of snow and sinfully covetous perusal of glossy magazine gear reviews. Creative energy is focused on the daily excuse for avoiding tonight’s conditioning class at the gym as I while away the hours waiting for weather to move in from the west and winter to begin in earnest.
It is a sad, uninspired existence, I realize, but soon to change. In fact, by the time you read this, it will have already.
Unlike fish stories, I’m still looking for a really good surfing story, one that doesn’t involve shoulder rehab, snapping a board in half or remind me quite so much of drowning. Unfortunately, that’s likely to demand more time than I have set aside in the Pacific Ocean this week, but there’s always hope. And hope makes for good stories.
I’m not entirely certain why I so readily equate surfing with fishing. The obvious answer is that surfing might very well be the only sport in which you actually become a part of the food chain. Every week it seems a story comes across my desk about some wet suit-clad surfer doing his best seal impersonation like a life-sized shark lure that works a little too well.
But a better reason can be credited to Henry David Thoreau, and his famous rumination on fishing summed up in a single sentence: Many men fish all their lives without ever realizing that it is not the fish they are after. If nothing else, substituting the word “surf” for “fish” offers some modest consolation on a long flight home from Hawaii.
Admittedly, in the surfers’ hierarchy I am something akin to a worm fisherman in a fly-fisherman’s world, where sheer persistence serves as an attempt to make up for the lack of skill, knowledge and artistic dexterity required to genuinely master the craft. But unlike those insatiable surfers who find themselves riding one wave as they anticipate catching the next, I am able to find comfort simply in my surroundings. I watch the sea turtles and pelicans in and above the azure water, marvel at the lush, tropical landscape on shore and ponder the eternal vastness of the open ocean, regaining an acquaintance with the notion the world is actually much larger than the borders of my office window.
My mind will wander far and wide in the hypnotic trance of the tide, interrupted only during those moments when a well-placed wave sneaks in and swallows the bait, after which nothing else matters.
I am surfing, after all, so, sure, I want to catch a few waves. But like Thoreau and his fish – and the rest of you landlocked Coloradans – I have learned to do without them.
Even a caught wave has to be released eventually. The creel will always remain empty. Fortunately, there is no limit on hope.
