Fishing With Gandhi

One of my best memories from this summer centers on our older son and his family joining us on vacation in northern Wisconsin.  My ten-year-old grandson, having grown up on fishing stories from his Dad and from me, was determined to catch a bass while he was with us. 

On the first day they were with us, I noticed that my grandson had difficulties casting the lure.  When he asked his Dad again, “Will I really catch a bass while I’m here?,” I thought it would be wise for my son to explain that all he could do was try.  Instead, my son said, “Yes, I’m sure you will,” and I imagined a sorrowful grandson by the end of their stay.

But “O yea of little faith.”  My grandson did well catching panfish, and I saw that his casting was improving.  Near the end of their stay, my grandson did catch a nice largemouth bass, in the three-pound range.  Pictures were taken, one I will treasure of my grandson holding the fish, with his Dad and Grandpa smiling behind him.  My father-in-law had been my fishing mentor.  I had taught my son to fish, and my son had now taught his son to fish.  A great multi-generational moment.

On the last night his family was with us, my grandson begged to go fishing.  I took him and his mother, who was also hoping to land a bass, out to two of my favorite fishing spots.  My grandson was using one of my favorite poles and lures, and it was a pleasure to see him cast so well.

Then, the magic began.  “I’ve got one!” my grandson announced.  His mother picked up the net and landed a good-sized largemouth bass.  We tried for more at that site—but were not successful.  That was when I first noticed the troubled look on my grandson’s face.  He leaned forward and whispered something to his mother, who then relayed it to me.  “He wants to put the fish back in the lake,” she said. 

I asked my grandson if he were sure, and he said he was.  I told him the fish might have been too long out of water to survive, but he wanted to try anyway.  We gave the fish back to the lake, and my grandson cheered when the fish immediately swam away. 

At another favorite fishing spot, we tried again.  And again, I heard, “I got another one!” from my grandson.  He reeled in the line, and his mother netted a four-pound smallmouth bass.  I couldn’t believe it.  He was a natural.  And sure enough, we released that fish as well.

It was an incredible night of fishing, one I will never forget, but it wasn’t over.  Within minutes, he announced yet another fish, and I saw the pole bend nearly in half.  He reeled in the fish, and this time his mother netted a five-pound smallmouth bass, a monster for that lake. 

I told him that we had to bring the fish in so his Dad and sister could see what he caught and so we could take pictures.  I also said his Dad might decide to have the fish mounted.  After we returned to the cabin, pictures were taken as everyone congratulated the young bassmaster.  My grandson then announced his wish—yes, he wanted the fish to be released.  He said the picture and maybe a replica mount of the fish would be enough.

My grandson stayed down at the lake with me and the horde of mosquitoes as I lowered the fish into the water and maneuvered it back and forth in hopes of it recovering.  For the first fifteen minutes, the fish lay on its side, and its fate didn’t look good.  I knew, however, that my grandson wanted me to continue.  At the twenty-five minute mark, the fish, to my grandson’s glee, turned and swam away.  We both cheered. 

Back in the cabin, my son thanked me for taking my grandson out and asked what the experience felt like to me.  I thought about the incredible hour and a half of fishing, of my daughter-in-law and me not catching a thing, and my grandson’s joy in landing the three fish.  Most of all, I said to my son that I would always remember my grandson’s desire for me to release them all.  Then I smiled as I said, “I felt I was fishing with Gandhi.”