(Illustration by Mohamed Qovaizi)

Stephen stared high into the pine tree. The line from his new fly rod stretched from its tip to a branch. He jerked the rod but the fly was stuck.

“Stupid rod,” he muttered.

It was too high for him to reach, so Stephen grabbed the line with his right hand and gave one more sharp tug. The line came free. There was no fly on the end.

Stephen looked at his watch. He had been on the shore of the lake for about an hour and this was the third fly he’d lost to a tree. He hadn’t caught a single fish. His line had gotten tangled and knotted and broken and even looped around his shoes and jacket. He even managed to snag his bicycle twice. Why had he asked for one of these things?

He strapped his gear onto his bike and rode home.

“How’s the new rod?” his mother asked. “Catch anything?”

“Tons,” Stephen said, settling at the kitchen table.

“Really? What kind?”

“Oh, tree-fish, bicycle-fish, shirt-fish. Real fish? Like ones with fins and gills and lips like this?” Stephen puffed his lips out. “Nope! Not a one.” He ripped open a granola bar and took a huge bite. “I read the book. I watched the videos on YouTube. I don’t get it, Mom. I was horrible.”

“It was your first time trying,” Mom pointed out. “Remember how many lures you lost when you first used your spinning reel?”

Stephen’s eyes flashed to the refrigerator door at a picture of him smiling with a 5-pound largemouth bass. “That was a nice fish,” he admitted.

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Sampson across the street? He’s been fishing all over the country – caught salmon in Seattle, bass in Baton Rouge…”

“Carp in Kookamunga?”

“Funny, Stephen. He could probably help you.”

Stephen chewed on a bite longer than necessary. Not long ago, Mr. Sampson was usually out in his yard or doing some sort of project around his house. Or fishing, of course. He’d taken Stephen a couple times. But it had been awhile. Mrs. Sampson had died several months ago and Mr. Sampson just wasn’t outside as much. Stephen didn’t want to bother him.

”I haven’t really talked to him since…you know,” Stephen said. “I don’t want to bother him…” 

Stephen kept chewing. But maybe he needed to be bothered, he wondered. Hadn’t they talked about being of service in church the other night, being a friend to all. “All right,” he said. “I’ll ask.”

“Hello, Stephen.” Mr. Sampson stood in the doorway, shading his eyes from the sun. He looked tired.

“Hey, Mr. Sampson,” Stephen said. When he realized Mr. Sampson wasn’t going to say anything more, he added, “I got a new fly rod.”

For a moment, Mr. Sampson’s face brightened. Stephen handed the rod to him and Mr. Sampson whipped it back and forth as if he were alone on the banks of a mighty river hunting some trout. Stephen could see it, too: The yard transformed into a whirling mass of water and rocks. Mr. Sampson laid the rod forward, propelling the fly far out into their daydream. It landed with the softest touch. He leaned forward, ready to strike.

Quickly, Stephen asked, “Can you teach me how to do that?”

For a second longer, Mr. Sampson was still on that river, watching the fly, waiting, but then he straightened up, handed the rod back to Stephen and said, “I’ll get my stuff. We’ll go down to the lake.”

All the books Stephen had read and all the videos seemed like a waste of time when he stood next to Mr. Sampson on the lakeshore. Even though a single inch of line hadn’t touched the water yet, Stephen knew he was going to catch a fish. Finally.

“Just watch me a few times,” Mr. Sampson said. “I’ll do it with my line out. When you see the rhythm of it, go ahead and start following me with yours. We won’t worry about casting yet.”

Mr. Sampson began the smooth pull and cast motion, stripping line out with his left hand, while his right arm ticked and tocked back and forth. The more line that went out, the slower his right arm moved, but always with a rhythm to it, allowing the tip of the line to extend way out in front and then way out in back.

Stephen watched a while and then began to imitate him, imagining his line looping and extending just like Mr. Sampson’s. He ignored the nagging memory of his line tangling and collapsing like it had before.

“Good,” Mr. Sampson said. “The key is all in the backstroke. Let your fly sail all the way out behind you. Give it time to get there. Pull too early and you lose momentum. Pull too late and you’ve lost the power and you won’t cast as far. So watch your line as it goes in front…” The line looped in front of Mr. Sampson until it lay almost straight and then he pulled the rod tip back. “… and behind you.” The line stretched out overhead, the fly on the end zipping far in back of him. “See the timing? When the backstroke is complete bring it forward again.” A slight cast of the arm and the line was looping forward again.

Stephen nodded. Darn, he made it look so easy.

“By the time I’m ready,” Mr. Sampson continued, “I’ve got a nice bit of extra line here at my feet that my left hand pulled out. Watch this. When I release the line, I’ll let it fly,” he said and placed the fly perfectly on his target. “I know I got me a big one lying right beneath that branch,” he whispered.

Stephen laughed. He talked like that, too, when he was fishing.

On cue, Mr. Sampson let the rod complete its work, pointing it out to a branch half-submerged in the lake about twenty yards away. The line shot out of the rod; the fly looped through the air. It landed within inches of the branch.

Mr. Sampson twitched the fly twice once the ripples had quieted. Then he let it sit there. “Here he comes,” Mr. Sampson said. “Here he comes.”

Though Stephen couldn’t see anything in the dark water, he knew something was about to happen.

“Come here, Stephen,” Mr. Sampson whispered. “This one’s yours.”

Stephen accepted the fly rod.

“Put your right hand up like that,” Mr. Sampson instructed. “Let the line sit in your index finger, holding it against the rod. Left hand holding the extra line. You might need it.”

“Why?” Stephen asked.

“When the fish hits the fly,” Mr. Sampson answered, “and you lift the rod tip up, the little sucker’s going to run on you. You can use that line to fight him by hand, if you like, versus using the reel. I like doing it by hand. It’s more work but it’s also more …” Suddenly the water exploded around the fly. “…fun,” Mr. Sampson finished as the rod tip bent way over. Stephen thought the rod was going to snap.

“Lift the tip,” Mr. Sampson urged Stephen.

Stephen did and instantly the rod was swerving back and forth.

“Go ahead and bring him in,” Mr. Sampson said. “Pull the line in with your left hand. Pinch the line with your right if you need to hold the fish while you move your left hand up to pull in more line. If it feels like he’s going to take off on you, let him. We’ll tire him out.”

“He’s gotta be HUGE!” Stephen cheered. Mr. Sampson smiled.

The line dashed back and forth as Stephen pulled the fish in, feeling every tug and struggle in his fingers. It was like no other way he’d fished. Moments later, Stephen unhooked and puzzled over the small, tired bluegill in the palm of his hand. Where was the mighty fish he thought he’d caught? He returned it gently to the lake, watching it go. He felt a bit cheated until Mr. Sampson whispered, “Imagine what a BIG fish feels like with that rod.”

Stephen imagined.

“Ready to try?” Mr. Sampson asked.

Stephen was ready to try all day. He knew a huge bass was waiting for him by that branch….and not the branch on the tree. No more treefishing!

“Thanks,” Stephen said, picking up his rod.

“Thank you,” Mr. Sampson returned, grabbing his own rod. “Now let’s go get that monster.”

The two smiled and began fishing.