The Fishing Trip

Mark had a typical reaction when I told him he was going on an ocean fishing trip: he groaned.

"Why do you always sign me up for these things?" he whined.

"Because if I didn't, you'd spend all your time playing video games," I answered.

Mark stared at me quizzically. 

"Um...yeah," he said. Duh, he also thought, but was smart enough not to verbalize. And the problem is???

The problem is, I don't want all his childhood memories centered around the TV. I signed him up for ocean fishing, happily, until the final email arrived, stating we had to be on the dock by 5:30. IN THE MORNING. On a Saturday. 

I reacted the same way Mark did--I mentally kicked me.

When the alarm rang on Saturday morning at 4:45, I kicked myself again. I wondered if I was so desperate for a kid-free day that I'd actually wake up while it's still dark--and then realized yeah, that sounds about right.

Mark did surprisingly well. He was up, dressed and ready to go within 15 minutes. He even put on a lucky hat--his Miami Dolphins cap--"in case we see some dolphins."

"Donuts?" he asked. This is the only early-morning incentive/reward that actually works on him.

I shrugged and said, "I don't know if the donut store is even open this early!"

"Yum Yum's open 24 hours," he replied. I don't know how he knew that, but he was right.

And so, by 5:10, donuts in hand, we were on the road. 

"Look at the sunset!" I said, as the skies lightened up.

"Sun rise," Mark corrected. 

I shrugged again. Being awake when this early is such a foreign concept, I don't even have the right vocabulary for it!

After a couple wrong turns, we made it to the docks and found the other Boy Scouts. They looked almost as happy as we did. 

I rented a rod and reel for Mark, and purchased some lead weights (we've learned the hard way that weights really are a necessity). I tried posing Mark for a few quick photos, and this is where his mood visibly disintegrated.

"OK, no more," he finally declared, walking away. 

I asked the dad in charge of the trip when to pick Mark up, and he graciously offered to drive him home. I was basking in how nice that was, when he added, "If I remember..." My gratitude immediately turned to worry.

"Make sure you stick to Zach's dad when you return," I told Mark. "Otherwise, you'll be chillin' on the docks till I get here." Mark nodded, and gave me a second look to see if I was kidding. I was not.

I raced back home to my bed, but when I got there, sleep eluded me. My body was tired and achy, but not enough to fall back asleep. It looked like I was in for a long day.

But I made the best of it. Maybe I couldn't sleep, but I could certainly clean, and it went a lot faster without a surly teenager continuously calling out, "It doesn't matter! Nobody cares if the house is clean!"

I did multiple loads of laundry, had the yard sprayed for black widows, went to a movie, lunch and a little shopping with Edra, and made it home moments before Mark did (yay, Zach's dad for remembering!).

"How was the trip?" I asked.

"Great!" Mark exclaimed. "I caught two fish and--dang it, I left them in Zach's car!"

If I said I wasn't a little relieved, I'd be lying. I have no idea how to cook rockfish or sand dabs.

"Did you get sea sick?" I asked. "Did you drink the ginger ale I sent?"

"No sea sick, yes, ginger ale," he said, licking his lips at the memory. "I ate a lot on the boat--the food was sooooo good."

I wasn't surprised--they'd been gone for 10 hours, and that kid can eat when he wants to.

"Did you have a burger?" I asked.

"TWO burgers!" he exclaimed. "And a grilled cheese sandwich, and two bags of chips, and a soda, and a Snickers bar."

"What!" I said. "So you didn't eat any snacks?"

"Oh, and I ate ALL my snacks!" he added. There were 20 granola bars in that bag--I couldn't believe he wasn't sick from all that!

He told me all about the boat, and the sea, and how he napped at the beginning and end of the trip. He told me about the fish everyone else caught. 

"Some kids caught a bunch!" he said, frowning. "But I only caught two."

"Because you were busy eating the whole time!" I reminded him. "And sleeping."

"That's true," he said. "Still had fun, though."

He told me, excitedly, how big each fish was and how he'd paid the deckhands a dollar a fish to clean them (God bless those deckhands!). He told me his hat worked, and that they saw dolphins. He told me again about all the food he consumed, and how much fun he'd had with the other boys on the boat.

I smiled, taking it all in. This--this is why I sign you up for the trips, even when you don't want to go! I thought. But I didn't need to say it out loud--no sense in rubbing it in, or riling him up. Part of being his mom is expanding his horizons, even grudgingly--and the other part is reveling in his joy when it turns out he actually does like doing stuff other than just video games.

"It was a really good trip," he finished, rubbing his eyes. "I need a shower--I totally smell like squid!"

Fernando, who'd been sniffing around Mark's ankles, agreed. 

"OK, get to it," I said, smiling and rubbing my own eyes. 

Because at that moment, getting up at 4:45 a.m. on a Saturday, seemed totally worth it.

A fish tale

This weekend, Mark and I went fishing. No, seriously, we really did.

It was originally a camping trip, too, but when the camping part got cancelled, we opted to stay at my brother's cabin. Mark was being a little pill before we left. He rebuffed all my suggestions of what to bring (pajamas, a sweatshirt, toothbrush), telling me in his huffiest voice ever, "Mom, I know how to pack."

He toned his snarky attitude down a bit when we arrived in the mountains and it was 55 degrees. I could see the wind rippling the lake, and the people all around the edge, bundled up in heavy jackets and hooded sweatshirts.

"Looks kinda cold out there," I told Mark, but he didn't care--he wanted to practice casting. He hopped out of the car, fishing pole in hand, and raced to the lake. It was at that moment he realized he forgot his sweatshirt, pants and sneakers (he later realized he also forgot his pajamas). He lasted all of three minutes out there, and I suddenly realized our fishing adventure on Sunday might not last very long.

But I didn't care. I was there to spend some quality time with Mark, to bond with my son. The son who immediately ditched me Sunday morning, pleading to ride in Uncle Scott's fancy new sports car.

"My dad's car is so awesome!" my nephew Grant bragged. "It can go zero to 60 in like three seconds!"

"Know what's cool about my car?" I asked him, pointing toward my trusty Prius. "It gets 50 miles to the gallon!"

Grant just stared at me awkwardly. He silently looked at the sports car, all muscle with a sporty red racing stripe, and finally just walked away.

And so I spent some quality time with Jimmy Buffett instead. I sang along to my radio, watching Scott and the boys speed off at a million miles an hour down the twisty mountain road, until they disappeared.

We arrived at the Boy Scout camp around 10 a.m (and 10:10, respectively). The day before was gorgeous, sunny and nice. But that day was gone, leaving in its place a cold, damp morning. A big cloud wandered into the camp, and suddenly, the lake and the people on the other side of it melted away.

"Oh my God, I'm freezing!" Mark whined. "I'm wearing three shirts and two shorts and I'm still cold!" (Um, because it was FORTY DEGREES OUT THERE!) He was cold all the way down to his socks and flip-flops. Uncle Scott finally took pity on him and lent him a spare jacket.

We walked down to the lake, where the scouts were already at work. Some were fishing, but most were running around the lake.

"A dead rat!" one cried, pointing at the edge of the lake.

"Don't touch the dead rat," his dad answered without even looking up.

The same boy held up a stringer, and asked what it was for.

"Is it a harpoon?" he asked. "Do you stab the fish with it to catch them?"

"No, it's to hold on to the fish in the water," the dad answered. The boy was not impressed.

"A harpoon is way better," he said.

We found a good fishing spot. The boys next to us had already reeled in some trout.

"I caught one with my bare hands," a scout proudly told me. "I just reached in the water and grabbed it!"

"Wow," I said. "You'll do just fine if you ever get lost in the woods."

I was immensely grateful for Scott within the first two minutes. He took Mark and Grant's poles and loaded them up with swivels, weights, small tri-tipped hooks, and bait. He jiggered things around with pliers, tied some little knots, and taught them how to cast into the middle of the lake. It was very impressive. 

"What about the bobbers?" I asked, showing off my vast fishing knowledge.

"Real fisherman don't use bobbers," Scott sniffed. I laughed that he thought of our sons as "real fishermen."

But they actually did pretty well. Within 30 minutes, Mark landed a trout! I was across the lake, and Scott yelled out to me. I rushed back as Mark was reeling it in.

I took about one bazillion pictures. Mark just watched as an older scout netted and unhooked the fish. He showed Mark how to hold the it up by its gills for a picture, but Mark just shook his head.

"I'm not touching that," he informed us.

"You have to hold it," the older scout asked. "You can hold it, or you can kiss it for the picture."

"Fine, I'll hold it," Mark relented. I yelled for him to roll up his sleeve first--he was determined NOT to touch that fish, and I'm pretty sure Uncle Scott did not want him using his jacket sleeve as a holder.

But that wasn't all Mark caught. He also managed to hook a nearby bush. I think it's an improvement on the last time he went fishing, when he caught a tree. At least he's catching smaller things than trees now.

The guys next to us found a sweet spot, seriously catching a fish about every two minutes. It was like someone flipped the on switch, or rang the dinner bell for the fish. The dads fishing there were awesome--every time they landed a fish, they'd yell, "Who wants it?" then hand it over to the boys to reel in. They made sure everyone caught a fish and went home happy. (Did I mention the lake was stocked? I can't imagine taking 45 scouts fishing in a big, unstocked lake--they would've died of boredom, and touched that damn rat for sure!)

Mark went home happy for sure, mostly because he gave his fish to Uncle Scott.

"You take it," Scott said, handing the fish back to Mark. "I have a great recipe for you."

"No way," Mark said, backing up. He wouldn't even touch the outside of the fish--there was no way he'd gut and clean the inside.

So Scott ended up with two trout. He laughed that the boys were nowhere to be found when he cleaned them--they liked the glory of catching them, not so much in eating them.

But I didn't expect anything else. I was just glad to get outside and enjoy the great outdoors, and to get those boys away from their video games. And they had a blast on the trip, even if their favorite parts were racing in Scott's sports car and eating donuts (NOT in the car).

Hey, it's a start...

He went to Perris

When Mark first joined the Cub Scouts, I bought a tent and a couple sleeping bags. That was enough for a quick overnight camping trip.

But when he joined the Boy Scouts, I went a little crazy. I bought a whole mess of camping supplies, including an air mattress, tarp, chairs, cookware, mess kits, a Dutch oven, and various other gadgets.

So now I'm determined to get my money's worth out of all that gear. I pretty much sign us up for any camping trip that's offered.

A couple weeks ago, we headed out to Perris Lake which, it turns out, is pretty damn hot during the summer. I'd conveniently forgotten how far inland it is. That's probably a good thing, or I would've bailed on the trip (my hatred for hot weather cannot be underestimated).

But I'm glad I didn't. Mark was thrilled there was a lake, and immediately asked to bring his fishing pole. I said yes, and secretly hoped he'd catch something more than a tree this time.

We also purchased the fishing supplies we'd forgotten before--a bobber, weights to sink the line, extra hooks, and bait. (Yes, we bought bait last time. No, we did not bring it. And yes, fish are apparently smart enough to stay away from an unbaited hook.)

Mark was really excited about fishing.

"We can eat the fish for dinner tonight!" he said.

"OK," I answered. "But you have to clean any fish you catch."

"...or we can just release the fish," he said, visibly shuddering at the thought of gutting a fish. "Did you bring any pliers?"

I just stared at him.

"How are we gonna release it if we don't have any pliers to unhook it?" he demanded.

"We're going to ask some nice fisherman nearby," I told him. I know my kid well enough to know that even with pliers, he wasn't going to touch any live fish.

Turns out fishing wasn't our biggest challenge, however. Baiting the hook was. The stinky garlic marshmallows we'd purchased wouldn't stay on the hook. Every time Mark cast his line, we'd see a splash, followed by tiny  neon yellow marshmallows floating by.

I just sighed, but Mark seemed...relieved.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll just practice casting." Which suited us both fine.

On our way back to the campsite, a roadrunner ran right in front of us. I stopped the car so we could watch it flutter along beside us.

"Meep, meep," I said, and Mark giggled.

Upon returning to our site, I noticed the holy roller revival in the campsite next door was still going strong. They were yelling, screaming, and praising God quite loudly. They even had a full live band, complete with electric guitars and a full drum set. Mark wanted to go over and bang around on the drums, but I was afraid he'd end up getting baptized or born again, so I said no. 

Mark was thrilled to find other boys to play with (apparently I'm not an entertaining companion). As I was setting up the hibachi to make dinner, he whizzed by on a bike and called out, "Hi, mom!"

"Does the owner of that bike know you have it?" I called back.

I heard a faint "yes" trailing behind him, and hoped he was telling the truth.

As dusk neared, the heat dissipated. The sun began to set behind the hills, and cast a beautiful soft, glowing light all around us. It was gorgeous.

The campfire, while impressive, was not nearly as hot or large as a typical Boy Scout fire. I was actually glad for that--one time, the dads built the fire so big, you couldn't even roast marshmallows without crying. It was like walking up to a wall of fire to make s'mores, and to be honest, I don't think it should hurt to roast marshmallows.

Mark ate his share of s'mores, as well as my share, and the shares of the three kids sitting next to us. It took all my restraint not to say, "Bolus" each time he popped one in his mouth. I did refrain until about the 15th one, but when I spoke then, I just said, "Enough." He looked directly at me, popped a huge hunk of chocolate into his mouth and then said, "What?!?"

The sugar buzz finally wore off 30 minutes after bedtime. But I swear, that kid was still twitching in his sleep.

It was beautiful and sunny when we woke up, but I could tell it was gonna be a scorcher again. I'd promised Mark another shot at fishing, but he woke up grumpy, with a s'mores hangover. He was so snotty I finally just left him behind, and enjoyed my breakfast with the rest of the group.

We packed up and headed out by mid-morning. It was a short trip, but we still had a blast. I'm starting to get pretty good at this outdoor stuff--well, except for the potential fish gutting, anyway.

I have a feeling I still won't be any good at that, when the opportunity finally does present itself.

Fishing for compliments

Part of this weekend's wilderness adventure includes fishing. As in, casting into a lake and pulling out a fish.

I'm no stranger to fishing. My grandfather was an avid fisherman, and I spent numerous summers trolling Oregon's rivers and lakes with him. I loved fishing then, although it wasn't the fish I loved so much as the time with my grandpa. He had a little boat he would navigate easily down the river. He'd point out all the wild blackberry bushes, and the best spots to fish. He'd help me bait the hook, rolling the pseudo-cheese into little balls. He'd help me land any fish I caught, and even gutted and cleaned them.

My grandpa loved helping me, but also wanted me to learn the beauty of fishing for myself. So he warned that when I turned 12, I'd have to gut and clean my own fish. I never caught another fish after I turned 12, but I still enjoyed the boat rides along the river.

My brothers fished too, although they weren't all that successful. They caught more salamanders along the dock than fish from the lake. Tim once swore he'd landed a giant fish, and pulled up a rusty iron instead. And he even hooked me once, in the cheek, as I played along the river bank. Adding insult to injury, I got in trouble for that, but my Grandma Audrey soothed me and plied me with ginger snaps, which I made sure Tim could see me eating from the window.

So when I announced to Mark I was buying him a fishing pole, I thought he'd be excited. Instead, the first words out of his mouth were, "I am NOT touching any worms!"

"You can use other bait," I told him, but he remained doubtful.

"I just don't like to touch worms," he said, and started shivering at the mere thought of it.

My brother Scott pointed me to the local sporting goods store, where I found myself in the middle of the fishing pole section. I stood there among the myriad poles and lures, completely out of my element. Finally, a salesman took pity on me and offered up a basic pole with a small tackle box included.

I then made my way to the bait section. The first jar I picked was full of worms, and I could almost hear Mark screaming, "NOOOOOOO!" I put it down quickly.

The next jar contained bright red dots -- fish eggs. I knew once Mark read the label, there was no way he'd actually touch those.

The next few jars surprised me. They contained an assortment of brightly colored marshmallows dipped in glitter. Who knew fish had ADD, and can't pass up anything bright and shiny?

Unfortunately, that bait would work on another little fish as well -- I could see Mark sampling them, unable to resist any marshmallow (even pink, glittery ones).

Finally, overwhelmed at the choices, I grabbed a jar of neon striped nuggets, and headed toward the cashier. As she was ringing up the pole, I noticed they were actually trout nuggets.

"Will these work on any fish, or just trout?" I asked.

"I dunno," she shrugged. "I really have no idea."

Luckily, her co-worker stepped in and assured me it was fine.

On the way out, I realized the hooks weren't attached to the pole. There were instructions on the back for knotting them onto the fishing line, and for wrapping a pink rubber grub onto the hook as well. This time I shivered.

Mark was excited at the new purchases, shaking the bait jar around for a better look at the little neon nuggets.

"Can people eat these, too?" he asked, confirming my suspicions that he'd taste them.

"No!" I answered. "See, it says 'Not for human consumption' here, which means DO NOT EAT THEM!"

He frowned, and I'm still not convinced he won't try it.

And so tomorrow, if everything works out, he'll be casting into the lake with the other Cub Scouts (or surreptitiously eating trout nuggets by their side). I'm not sure which will be worse: if he doesn't catch a fish, or if he does, and I have to help him unhook and clean it.

Then he'll learn there are more disgusting things than worms to touch -- namely, fish guts. Or live fish parts, as we struggle to unhook and release the little guy back into the lake.

I'm already pretty sure I'll like fishing better as a granddaughter than as a mom.