Gone Fishing

We took our last summer vacation with the kids and went up to NH for a wide variety of activities. One that the boys, and now Molloy, have fallen for hook, line, and sinker is fishing. For some reason, fishing is called "angling" and fishermen are called "anglers", but I would argue that "tangling" would be more accurate terminology.

We rented three fishing rods and went to the local redneck store for a container of worms and moseyed on down to the ol' fishing hole. It was nice to see that the fishing industry had branched out from their usual marketing base and now sells the perfect tool for a 6-year-old girl...a pink plastic fishing rod.

I was sure to make the kids bait their own hooks so they could experience the full composite of activities associated with the task, no matter how unappealing. Oh, and the worms were too yucky for me. They did a surprisingly good job of casting, even Molloy, but had no success at snaring an unsuspecting trout. The fish just weren't biting. I think more than anyone, Lev just wants to catch a fish, as he has been fishing many times the last few years without so much as minnow.



The One that Got Away

But fishing takes a lot of patience, and I'm not talking about the dad who has to suffer through watching the debacle of lost bait, tangled lines, territorialism on the banks, bad casts, hooks caught in the tall reeds, and dodging errant golf balls from the nearby course. Finally, Molloy could take it no longer, she stripped down to her skivvies, and took a more direct approach by meeting them on their own turf, or rather, surf. She climbed down into the water and went after them with the net.

But they all got away.

I returned to the rental shed two hours later with two broken rods and three broken hearts.