fire and cooked some fish , Dad raised his eyebrows and snorted , “ Well , I guess we know who the real fishermen are .” For a few brief seconds , I couldn ’ t imagine why anyone would rather huddle under a plastic poncho for eight hours during a driving rain , bailing cold water out of the bottom of a rowboat with an empty Maxwell House coffee can in one hand and death-gripping the handle of a spin-casting rod with the other . Fishing apparently was serious business .
Dad shook his head . “ I thought we came to fish ,” and I knew I had committed some mortal sin of omission as that prickle of shame behind my belly button itched higher and higher along my rib cage . My grandfather just shrugged his shoulders and cracked open a Stroh ’ s , but I thought I caught the word loser in my dad ’ s expression as he avoided my grandfather ’ s eyes .
I had seen that look before . You see , my grandfather liked his beer a little too much and hanging out at pool halls a little too often . Occasionally he ’ d disappear for days at a time to who knows where , causing my mother and grandmother to worry sick and my dad to just shake his head . But Dziadz was always kind to me . Before I could read , he was the one who read me stories when I climbed into his lap . He was the one who taught me how to properly hold a pool cue . And at Sunday Mass , he was the one who took the time to translate the priest ’ s sermon from Polish into an English I could understand . He was my buddy in so many ways , but all that evaporated when I saw that look on my dad ’ s face .
It no longer mattered that Dziadzia had been the one who had taught me how to bait a hook with a worm years before . It didn ’ t matter how right our time on the island together had felt and how it had resonated with some deep authentic core . What mattered most was that look in my dad ’ s eyes and my fear of not measuring up , of guilt by association . So , not caring that Dziadzia was within earshot , I stammered out the suggestion to my dad that , you know , the next time , maybe we could switch fishing buddies — you know , mix things up a little bit — but his reply struck like a muskie devouring a minnow : “ Oh , no . Partners have already been set .” My brother just looked at me and smirked . Tainted already .
In the ensuing years on summer holidays Up North , I continued to fish from the same boat with my grandfather albeit — I ’ m ashamed to say now — in a rather hangdog , resigned sort of way . And I don ’ t know if I was more embarrassed for him or for me — for having bailed out on him , for having bailed out on myself . Because from then on , whenever Dad would invariably challenge , “ So , what ’ s the bet ?” I , like some Charlie McCarthy dummy , would hear myself mouthing someone else ’ s wooden words and rise to take the bait . With a set jaw , I would load my fishing gear into Dziadzia ’ s boat , then fume while he futzed with his tiny , ancient motor as Dad gunned his 7 1 / 2 horses around the bend downriver and out of sight .
I can ’ t recall ever returning to that island on which my grandfather and I had our little adventure . Even when it was raining . Even to just take a break and eat our ham and baloney sandwiches . We mostly stuck to fishing the whole day from our cramped little rowboat . I was on a mission .
And , in looking back on that eddying time in my life — a time when I was too young and too hungry to realize what I was being pulled into — I can ’ t help but feel this snagging sense of loss , a murky kind of grief , for allowing some tender , inner fingerling to slowly start slipping through my grasp back then , flip-flopping along the weedy edges of my heart , laboring to breathe in silent , mouth-gaping gasps .
— Becky Code , PhD ( An earlier version of this essay appeared in Notre Dame Magazine , summer 2013 .)
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