Rough Draft: The Boy and the Fish

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

The Boy and the Fish

While we were in Tofino on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Jack and the Boy went fishing. The Boy is eleven years old and had never been fishing before -- not on a bank of a pond, creek, river or lake. One of the boys in his class and on his soccer team spends a few weeks in the summer in Alaska fishing with his grandfather. The Boy heard all about these grand adventures, and wanted to try it. He also heard Ron Swanson, a character from Parks and Rec, talk about fishing: "It's like yoga, except you get to kill something." Ron doesn't eat fish. He considers it a vegetable.

I would have tagged along, but the Big E wanted no part of it. I'd rather Jack and the Boy have a good father-son bonding time than have the Big E complain for five hours about how she hated the smell of fish. The Big E and I went stand-up paddle boarding instead, which was fun.

So Jack and the Boy went fishing. They hired a commercial fisher person (a woman about 30 years old) to take them out to fish. Tofino is right on the Pacific Ocean. From there, one can hop on a boat and catch coho salmon or halibut. For a first go out, salmon and halibut would be pretty sweet to catch. Those are real fish, the kind they sell at the grocery store and serve in restaurants. The first things I ever caught fishing was a turtle. My father and I were on an YMCA Indian Princess campout and fishing was part of the deal. The second thing I caught was a bluegill. If I taxed my brain, I probably could recall the place.* I can't remember catching anything other than bluegills. Ever. I've never seen a bluegill on a menu at a restaurant or for sale in a grocery store. Ever.

So the Boy and Jack went on the boat. The Boy got a little woozy and they stuck to inlets and inner channels instead of going out on the ocean. They were out on the water for five hours and came home with one five pound coho. Fortunately, the fish landed on the Boy's line. The limit was two fish per person. We were hoping to come back with four fish, but no luck.

The Boy was all delighted, standing there with his fish on a hook. The fish had been flopping on the deck, so the fisherwoman bonked it on the head to make it stop moving. From there, the Boy began to pale. He vacillated between happy and sad, and then sad won. That night, back at the cabin, he cried over his fish. It turns out he was more into the yoga part of fishing rather than the killing something part.

"Why did it have to die? It was just swimming having a peaceful life," he said. "It wasn't hurting anyone." I patted him on the back during his existential angst. "I am never going to eat meat or fish again."

I let him ponder. While I am a big fan of a rare steak, I understand that something had to die in order for me to enjoy this meal. I try not to dwell on it or think about it all of the time, but I am careful not to waste food. If he were to become vegetarian or vegan, so be it. But the fish was already dead. It was filleted and flash frozen, ready to be cooked in lemon, butter and wine in a few days.

"The fish had a good life," I told him. "You went with a professional fisherwoman who knows which fish to take and how many. She knows what is sustainable. It was going to die anyway at sometime."

"So I just cut its life short?"

"Yes," I said, wary of this line of conversation. While it is not unreasonable that a fish's life is cut short for dinner, I don't want the Boy to use this as a rationale for the death penalty or to think that if someone's young mother dies of a brain tumor that this would be okay. Now that I think about it, the same kid who cries over a fish would likely be beyond consolation if one of his friends died or something equal tragic occurred in his sphere.

"If you want, we can have a little ceremony before we eat it thanking it for giving us this delicious meal that is full of protein and Omega-3 acids," I said. "The First Nations people do that before they have their meals."

"I don't think they used to know about Omega-3 acids."

"Whatever. They are thankful for the fish."

The Boy settled down. When we returned to Seattle, we had half of the fish for dinner. I used the leftovers in a risotto the next night. Before we ate, I asked him if he wanted to have a ceremony for the fish.

He said no. He did it in his head.

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The interesting thing about this is how much the Boy reminds me of my brother when he was a kid. My brother used to take care of wounded animals, and was sickened when he saw a bullfight in Spain. It is strange to see these intangible characteristics cross generations, especially when the Boy and my brother have only met a handful of times. I don't think the Boy remembers meeting Michael even. Yet, they both have similar sensitivities. My brother has schizophrenia, but I don't think sharing common feelings indicated that the Boy will have mental illness. Rather, it makes me wonder more about Michael, and if he hadn't been afflicted.