Fishing Buddies

 Day 145: I don't have very many photos of my fishing buddy Sande, and even fewer of the two of us together. We were always too busy pulling in fish to take time out to pose. For almost a decade, we fished the local waters at least one day per week, year-'round and despite the weather. Then as his health began to fail, the trips grew more and more infrequent, and ceased altogether after this photo was taken in 2013 shortly after his admittance to a care center.

We met under unusual circumstances. I was fishing in one of my accustomed spots and saw a man working his way toward me along a stretch of closed water. I mistook him for a poacher, just as he mistook me for a small Asian man until he got within speaking distance. I'd been ready to read him the riot act, but instead, invited him to fish beside me. The fish were being reluctant that morning (a cold, windy March day), but eventually I hooked what promised to be a whopper. As I was reeling it in, playing it carefully so that it wouldn't break my light line, my new acquaintance edged toward me. Worried that he was going to try to be "helpful" with the landing, I horsed my fish, got it stuck in the rocks at my feet, and -ping!- the line parted. It was then that I made a foolish move and tried to grab it. My foot hit a slick, round rock and I plunged face-first into the lake, emerging with nothing dry but one small spot on the back of my head which had been protected by my hat.

Since I lived nearby, I told my companion I was going to go home and change clothes, but before I could leave, he hooked and landed a nice trout. No fisherman walks away when the Bite is on, so I stayed, shivering and wet. Sande, gentleman that he was, gave me his jacket, and the two of us fished until we had our limits. On the way back to our cars, he said, "Would you consider going fishing with me again some time?" I replied, "I think I'd like that, yes." Thus began our friendship.

On another occasion during a telephone conversation, he revealed to me that he'd gone fishing without me, and had landed two nice salmon in one of our favourite spots. I was feeling rather put out that he hadn't invited me along, but even moreso when he added, "...and then I thought, 'What do I need her for?'" Now totally wounded, I was so deeply steeped in self-pity that it took several minutes for his next sentence to register: "...and then I woke up." He had been relating a dream!

Such was his sense of humour, filled with "gotchas" where you least expected them. He could lead you on for hours before dropping the bomb which let you know your leg had been pulled halfway to the moon. He was notorious for his jokes wherever he went, whether it was at a fishing hole or in the grocery store, but he was never unkind and seldom spoke harshly of anyone or anything.

Several years ago, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Yesterday morning, I received a call from one of his daughters saying that he was failing. I drove down to be at his bedside, holding his hand as he slipped quietly from life.