Saturday Pier Fishing

Our plans were finalized near the end of January, just before the weather turned wintry. Ethan, Elliott, and I would drive to Wrightsville Beach, to the Johnnie Mercer concrete pier, and spend the day fishing in late February. I was honored and thrilled to be going. A whole day with any of our adult children is rare these days, and more than anything, I was excited to spend the time with 2/3 of them. We picked a date far enough out that I had plenty of time to experience the entire gamut of emotions ahead of the day.

It might not surprise my readers, but I’m an exemplary overthinker. With the month ahead of our planned outing also came plenty of time for me to ruminate on scenarios that stressed me out even though they hadn’t happened yet. I worried that I might do something stupid to draw the lads’ ire, like drop a rod into the drink or lose a prized lure, or injure myself with a filet knife and need to go to the hospital, thus ruining the day. Ethan’s wife and kids were staying for the weekend, which was bittersweet. Our grandbabies would be at our house, but I would be all the way (as they say in PA) “down the shore”, and so I would miss almost an entire day of MiMi and Pop-Pop time. Next, there was the problem of weather. I only own clothes suitable for the beach during clement weather, so I might be woefully unprepared for a wet, cold, and miserable several hours.

Finally, after weeks of snow, illness in the home, and wobbly work schedules, our last few weekends had been eaten up with guests, running errands, and just trying to catch up after the holidays. I felt a tiny twinge at yet another Saturday not getting outside chores done. As the day neared, though, all my fears passed, drowned out by how much I was looking forward to spending time with our guys.

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When I lived in Reading, I procured a Pennsylvania State fishing license, a rod, a reel, and tackle, and went fishing with a handful of friends at the reservoir. If I wasn't working or out with the same guys going to see bands, we were fishing. I never caught anything back then, but I loved the Zen-like quality to the pastime.

Somewhere in the transition from PA to NC, I lost track of my rod, my tackle, and fishing. We were raising kids, working full and part-time jobs, just trying to make ends meet. Any free time we had (and there wasn’t much) was spent trying to keep the house from coming down around our ears. I had no time to fish, let alone get the leaves raked or the grass mowed. To me, if we couldn’t all go fishing together, then I didn’t see the point.

Time goes so fast. Back then, I could barely get my head around being a husband and father, let alone the prospect of eking out time to fish. Ethan is now a husband and father in his own right. He still loves to fish when he can, but he always prioritizes his family, as he should. 

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Ethan brought some rods to a family beach trip a few years ago. The lads all took bait and dropped a line over the edge of the closest pier. They also did some surf fishing and seemed to like it, though they only caught a stingray. It was fun sitting near the surf, while Elliott, Ethan, and Evan fished into the night. There must be something enjoyable about standing out there early and late, because Ethan caught the bug, and little by little, he began to invest in the needful tools of the hobby.

Last summer, with the whole family, all three boys spent some more time surf fishing. Ethan, most of all, seemed to double down on his enjoyment. When Eth likes something, he doesn't do it by halves. His baby daughter also loved the beach, and Pop-Pop and Mimi spent a lot of time chasing the little one up and down the sand. I’ve rarely had that much fun on a vacation. As that week drew to a close, talk of maybe driving back down on a Saturday to do some fishing began.

As always happens after vacation week, reality sets in. Soon enough, summer is waning. In the meantime, another granddaughter snuck into the family, the holidays zoomed by, and then, we were in the depths of cold, dark winter. Almost six months after vacation ended, Ethan rang me up to finally plan our outing. 

Life is busy for all of us.

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Ethan asked Elliott to join him a few weeks before we were set to go as an experiment. Though he does do some fishing at the beach, Elliott is most assuredly not a fishing hobbyist. His pursuits (other than skateboarding when he was a teen and twenty-something) have been almost entirely of the indoor species. He has a retiring nature, which I thought I had, but he makes it look like an art. He’s always working on something: a programming project, recording music, reading prolifically, all while going to school and working full-time. If a day at the pier was a little daunting to me, Elliott likely had to move some things around and take some deep breaths to make time to go.

Nevertheless, they drove to the pier. The day was cold, rainy, and no one was catching anything. Elliott candidly expressed frustration with his brother for stubbornly refusing to give up and staying for hours and hours, when “we could have come home.” They were both cold and miserable, but Ethan stood firm, never doubting that he would eventually catch a fish. 

His philosophy is that the chances of catching a fish increase dramatically with a baited hook in the water. That doesn't necessarily influence whether or not a fish will bite that bait and get hooked, but as I told Elliott, you have to admire Ethan's determination. Pragmatic as ever, Elliott shrugged and said that he thought a few hours were more than enough to determine the outcome. He hung in there with Ethan, and I admired him for that.

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A few weeks later, it was time for the three of us to go. The week leading up to it turned out to be very rough for both Micki and me. We were exhausted as Friday drew closer. The prospect of waking at 4 on Saturday morning to drive three hours just to stand on a concrete pier, with lines in the water for hours, felt a little daunting. The trends of the week culminated in a frustrating and exhausting Friday well before the kids arrived. The house had to be cleaned up and rooms prepared, the pizzas I ordered for dinner were not ready on time, the upstairs sink was leaking all over, and somewhere in all the mayhem, I learned that Elliott had opted not to join us after all.

At 2 a.m., I woke and, brain swirling, had trouble falling back to sleep. Micki startled me awake at 4:10, wondering if I had forgotten to set an alarm. I hadn’t, but I got up, took a shower, thanking myself for getting my snacks and sandwiches ready the night before, and then we headed out.

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As we went slinging down the highway, Ethan and I talked of this and that, while our caffeine drinks slowly charged us. In the quiet moments, I resolved to enjoy the day come what may, without complaining about anything. I was along for the day. I chose to enjoy it and learn something, and do so with the express purpose of appreciating time with Ethan.

The weather, which had gradually warmed in Asheboro over the week, now slid back to more seasonal temperatures. Every weather app prophesied something different for Wrightsville, but when we arrived at the bait shop, the morning air seemed comfy, and I thought we might have a lovely day.

Ethan, always a charmer, was quick to make friends with the proprietor of the bait shop, who shared that his store would soon be a DOT excavation for an on-ramp or something. I never chat more than necessary; my battery for small talk is always at low ebb because of my job working with the public. Because of Ethan, we spent some time interacting with a neat guy with an interesting, if sad, story while we purchased our bait.

Then, mullets in hand (well, in the cooler), it was back to the car and off to the pier. At water's edge, the air felt cooler, damp. It was foggy—something I don’t remember ever seeing at a North Carolina beach. I wished that I'd brought a fleece for under my waterproof jacket. We lugged the bait and snack-stuffed cooler, net, and broken-down rods into the pier shop. I paid for a full day for two, while our stuff got rifled for glass bottles or contraband beer and liquor (which we didn’t have, of course). We got orange tags stapled to our jackets and then brought everything to a spot Ethan liked and set about putting baitfish on hooks and casting our lines. Ethan was patient, generous, and happy as he helped me with my rod. It was nice to see him so engaged.

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We Bares are resilient. My public may assume that I am similarly imbued as my hardy ancestors, but I have always tended more toward the Elliott side of the spectrum. I like to be outdoors, but when I'm done with chores or a hike, I like to slump into my chair and relax with a cup of tea and read or zone out in front of the idiot box. Not for me the endless, dogged hours of constant action. 

Standing on a concrete pier for hours in stiff wind and sprinkling rain, not catching anything, I began to understand (though not to voice) Elliott's objections. It's not that I wasn’t enjoying our time together. The fish just weren’t interested or were elsewhere. Part of my mind felt that, if we weren't regularly hauling in the freshly caught piscine delights for supper, what was the point of hanging around? I kept quiet and hung on, because I experienced something that day more valuable than catching fish.

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If you have kids, you know that at a certain point, you begin to understand that your babies have their own perspectives, thoughts, opinions, personalities, and values. Parents think that it is our responsibility to teach them and model correct behavior, but they can teach us a lot, too, only if we relax enough to pick up what they’re putting down. I long ago realized that all three of our sons are much better men than I was at their respective ages, and I can learn a lot from them. If I pay attention and give them a chance, I will definitely come away a better man, if I can actually shut up long enough. I did, and I learned from Ethan that the joy of fishing is really about being there, in the moment, observing, listening, learning, and enjoying the time.

I learned that while on the pier, everyone is a friend. People were generally friendly, good-naturedly speaking and sharing amiable quips as they passed by on their way to a spot they hoped would provide a sheepshead or red drum for supper. One fellow, smoking an aromatic cigar and wearing a hat that was a stuffed shark biting the top of his head, spoke to us for several minutes about his own adventures and the fish he’d seen others catch. As usual, I was less chatty than Ethan, who spoke to the man as if he were an old family friend. 

We periodically checked our bait, casting our lines anew, stared at the miraculously clear blue-green water, listened to the patter of rain on our hoods and the ‘scree’ of beach birds. The whole time, I never once looked at my watch. I just existed and fished and learned from and spent time with a man who, not that long ago, was just a little fellow playing baseball in the cul-de-sac. It was a privilege to see and spend time with the man he has grown to be.

On the way home, Ethan controlled the music, and we listened to classic tunes from the early 2000s. After a long day, we were happy to be quiet in one another's company. It was an altogether lovely day.

We probably won't go again until November, when his family will go for two weeks. It’s way too hot on that pier in late spring and summer. I think, with the experience of Saturday pier fishing under my belt, I will go to it with less trepidation and more comfort and confidence, both about fishing, but mainly about how Ethan sees the world. 

He later asked if I wanted a salt rod of my own for future adventures. Maybe. I think what I really want, not to be greedy, would be if all three boys could go next time. To me, that would be the ideal day, whether we caught anything or not. I would surely benefit.