To Love, Honor And Let Fish

Every room in my home has its own little library of reading material dedicated to fishing. Clutter and stacks abound! Apparently, each issue of each magazine is as precious as the next because, according to my husband, none of them can be thrown away.

I trip over these magazines. I dust under them. I grab them off counters and stuff them in drawers when guests arrive. Flashy covers, sporting brilliantly colored fish with smiling humans holding them, tell stories of freshwater fishing, saltwater fishing, the top ten rods, the most effective plug color, where to plan your next fishing trip…I could go on.

You know what I never see gracing the cover? Articles entitled, Thanks to My Super Cool and Supportive Wife for Allowing Me the Freedom to Fish or Ten Functions My Wife Attended Alone Because the Bite Was On.

I have decided the time has come for such an article–an article spotlighting the real MVPs and silent supporters of crazed fishermen. Because, face it, gentlemen, if we weren’t okay with it, you wouldn’t be doing it.

First, let me state that I don’t believe fishing is a “guy” thing and that women don’t enjoy it. Women may even obsess about it as well. I probably give more leeway to my husband than most women during fishing season (which is 12 months a year, by the way). But, I know that giving you this glimpse into the fishing/marriage world my husband and I created will resonate with many of you.

We married in May. Why? Because my other options were the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve or the month of February. Frankly, blizzards and bone-chilling temperatures worried me. So, May it was—too early to start going offshore for the tuna bite and, historically, too early for the big bass to show up. Personally, I love the combination of roses and sunflowers, and the weather in October. Given carte blanche to pick my own date, I, the bride, would have gone with early October. The fall run.

Now that we are a family, there are more restrictions. His birthday weekend IS an overnight tuna trip. No fall vacations. Summer weekend outings are spontaneous and dependent on tuna reports. Our family pet can only be a “water dog.” All home improvements are done within the 28 days of February. And, before we brought our child into this world, hubby laid out which specific seven weeks she had to be born in. Bless her heart, she came early, arriving on June 4th, just before the start of tuna season.

Hubby is shocked that there are actually wives unwilling to sit in the passenger seat of a Wrangler that smells like sun-warmed marsh water for most of the year. Oh, how I laugh when our fishing and non-fishing worlds collide, and hubby realizes not all wives are as supportive as I am. The best comedy show is my husband opening invitations we get in the mail. If I have popcorn handy, I grab it and sit at the kitchen table to watch. He complains, “Who gets married at the end of September? I’m not going.” “Really? A Christening on the first full moon in November. Poor planning.” “I don’t care if it is a sit-down dinner. We can’t RSVP until I know how close that offshore eddy is, which probably won’t be until the afternoon before the event.”

When living with a fisherman, you will find he has his own internal clock that’s different from the rest of his family, neighbors and 98 percent of civilization. Sleep—normally happening in three- to four-hour stretches at a time—is based on tide charts.

By proximity and default, this system of sleep, wake, fish, repeat, affects me as well. By proximity, I mean a shivering fisherman slipping into bed at 3:30 a.m. Sometimes, I am not even aware he is home until his icy toes slide down my leg as he crawls into bed. However, sometimes “proximity” immediately kicks in, and I am privy to every bang and hushed curse as fishing gear bounces off walls on its way through the house to the basement. Then, there is default: I am the first person my husband sees when he returns home from his adventures. This means I am the first person to whom he can reenact the night’s highlights and ‘the one that got away’ stories. Unfortunately, these stories are always relayed around 3 a.m. There are nights these recounts start subtly. “Are you awake?” “Melissa, are you sleeping?” When I concede that I WAS sleeping, but am no longer doing so, I get, “Oh good. Since you’re up, you aren’t going to believe what happened…” Other nights, when firsts, biggest, and new discoveries have occurred, I get awakened by my husband striding confidently into the bedroom with celebration beer already in hand.

The first night my husband ever woke me up with drink in hand, he had landed his first 40-pound bass from the beach. His excitement was contagious, so I didn’t flinch the next day when he proudly placed the lure he’d used to land it on our fireplace mantle – a trophy to commemorate the event. Later that week, I saw a rubber fish next to the plug. A few more plugs and rubber fish later, I asked my husband when he was going to take his stuff downstairs and put it away because the mantle was looking cluttered. “Oh, those don’t get put away,” he stated. “They’re trophies.” You give an inch to a fisherman and he takes a yard. He went on to explain the significance of each addition to our fireplace, the focal point of our living room and the first thing you see when walking into our home. This was his largest bass on a rubber bait. That was from his first fish caught at a new secret location. This plug was the only green plug he ever caught a bass over 20 pounds with…and so the lecture continued. Although I appreciate his pride in his sport and his accomplishments, we need to draw the line somewhere. A mom can’t keep every macaroni portrait from her child on the refrigerator at once, right?

We moved into our cozy little home almost five years ago. There are still areas I haven’t seen. Most of the garage and the back half of the basement are a mystery to me. I swear fishing stuff was moved in and set up before we even closed on the house. We didn’t have a living room couch at first, but we had an airbrush booth set up in the basement for painting lures. A rod-building bench miraculously appeared before we even picked out paint colors for the walls. I try to remember back to when we first saw the house. I guarantee my husband hid these areas from me to claim them for fishing. We never voted on who got the garage and the basement, yet, I seem to have lost both territories. Almost five years in this house, and the extent of my relationship with the garage is to open the door and throw the recycling bag in.

Life with an obsessive fisherman is never dull, but I take comfort in knowing that whatever comes next will be fishing related. On date night, my husband asks, “Can we take the long way to the restaurant so we can drive the beaches?” On romantic tropical islands, where some couples sit on the beach proclaiming love and devotion, my husband chatters incessantly about dips, rips, currents and secret areas where fish might be. Fancy weddings held in waterside catering halls will always have my husband mumbling, “I should have brought a rod,” as he stares at the water, completely certain he is seeing fish jump within casting distance. And, to most people, a bridge is just a bridge. For my husband, a ride over a bridge is prime opportunity to see what bait is moving or to watch birds working. He has me trained so well that as soon as we come to a bridge, I start scanning and reporting.

Fishing is a 12-month-a-year hobby/sport/obsession, no matter what the weather and the cycles of nature do. If the fish aren’t around, a fisherman is thinking about fish. If he isn’t fishing, he is working on his next creation. Plugs are hung to dry above the wood stove and strands of different-colored bucktail hair litter the house. The end-of-the-season gear cleaning takes weeks. Preparation for next fishing season takes months. All the lures, jigs, and rods must be made during the offseason because once it “all turns on”, there won’t be time to do things like tie jigs and epoxy plugs. Every fishing show in the neighboring states needs to be traveled to. The months of no fishing are filled with breaking down the months of actually fishing—critiquing those months with fishing buddies via text messages and phone calls. It does not end.

So, why do I allow this? Why am I so lenient, especially when I said earlier that if you give an inch to a fisherman husband he takes a yard? It is actually simple and quite easily summed up.

The moments of peaceful solitude and contentment my husband has while fishing are something he cherishes, so I encourage him to enjoy it. Fishing is his escape. At times, it is his religion, and nature is his church. It is what he needs to decompress from a mentally and physically demanding job. He is a first-rate, honest and hard-working man and husband. Can I deny him the opportunity to do something that is helping him remain this way?

How would he pass his time if he wasn’t fishing? He could be at a bar or out gambling. Maybe he would lie on the couch all night, working on a big belly and watching reruns of Fear Factor. Some men chase women. I certainly know he isn’t out on the prowl when standing on a slimy jetty or 80 miles offshore. Worst of all, maybe he would pass the time by sitting next to me on the couch each night, silently resenting me for denying him something he is so passionate about.

I love my husband and have no doubt he loves me. But, fishing brings out joy in him in a way that I can’t. He lights up and paces, as eager as a child on Christmas morning. Fishing intrigues him. It makes him proud. It makes him feel alive. The man-versus-fish battle of wits is irresistible to him. In preparation for a big offshore trip or in the aftermath of a great fishing session, his body vibrates and excitement flows out of him. It makes him talk quickly and trip on his words in a rush to get his story out. Fishing can turn the face of my normally serious and stern husband into that of an innocent wide-eyed child. At times, I am just baffled, yet marvel at this. Sometimes, I find it hilarious. At other times, I find it adorable. In the end, I believe that if you truly love someone, you shouldn’t deny him that joy.