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Not fishing anytime soon

Sunday, August 6, 2006

The Chaser has a similar article on the negative effects of taking a child fishing

The author keeps an eye on his son’s Peter fishing “progress.”

My son was barely six when first I heard those dreaded words: “Dad please take me fishing.”

He had just addressed a fishing dunce who lived by the rule “spare the fishing rod and buy your own fish.”

Experience had shown me that the best way to put fish on the table was to take wifey to the football and buy some fish on the return journey.

Sunburn and tangled lines

Dedicated fishermen, whether professional or otherwise, never baulk at the challenge of bait, tangled lines, sinkers, lures, sandflies, gadflies, sunburn, backache and mosquitoes.

However I took pride in the fact that buying fish was a boost to the economy.

But was my offspring just a seemingly innocent child, inadvertedly torturing his Dad who had not so much as read him a fishy story or even mentioned the dreaded F word.

The two “tomboy” daughters I raised had once or twice mentioned this word however a trip to the park and a game of touch football with blokes and girls taught them there was much better fun to be had.

Was it a genetic thing? Has anyone researched the matter?

When I was aged ten I had watched my sister catch her only fish. Mother and child looked at it closely as it eyeballed them both.

“I think this fish was waiting for a friend” said my perceptive mum. The fish was returned to the water. My family was overly-sensitive and fishing dunce material.

As providence would have it, a back operation intervened. “Sorry Pete, can’t go fishing now.” “That’s ok Dad.”

Brain surgeon had tangled lines

The neurosurgeon, at Rockhampton’s Base Hospital, Dr Baker, enquired about my allergies? “Fishing I replied.” Then he went on to recount how his children took him fishing and most of the time he spent untangling their lines. This brain specialist had confirmed my worst fears.

Hard-working, lowly paid nurses at Rockhampton’s Base Hospital were singing as they went about their Florence Nightingale tasks. What cheerful souls. I asked what they did to unwind. A couple mentioned fishing.

Evidence that I should take my lad fishing was building. A quick phone call to Grandpa who lived on the Burnett River ascertained that he would love to take the lad fishing as he hadn’t been for years. In that time we’d bought a lot of fish.

Now this Burnett River had fish, so wily, that old timers I knew had to use explosives to bring them in. This was also the home of the prehistoric ceratodus or lung fish. These fish had been ignoring lures for millions of years. It was the right place to turn the lad off fishing.

After an hour I was well into my Readers Digest and the back pain had eased considerably. Peter was chatting happily with Grandpa. Why hadn’t he given up and begun his tree climbing.

They reminisced, spoke of their hopes and dreams while swans and pelicans swam lazily in the distance. It was like a mateship session and no one mentioned that the fish never bite in the Burnett.

Finally the Pete summed it up: “Dad lets get some good bait and proper hooks and find a better fishing spot.”

I was gripped by guilt as we drove home. Grandma already had some bought fish cooked to perfection. She was into job creation.

call in the experts

Back home it was time to call in reinforcements. The army included Bruce, a painter who owns a fising boat, Clint, a lures expert and Sean a former soldier who has fished most of Australia.

If fishing was in the boy’s genes then they would find it.

Surely at Rosslyn Bay on the Tropic of Capricorn, I could reasonably be expected to read the weekend papers under a palm tree while keeping a caring eye on young Peter and his genetic progress but it wasn’t to be.

A death defying climb around a cliff face had to be undertaken as the fishermen selected the best rocky outcrop on which to perch.

Facing the Pacific Ocean, they sliced their bait, cast their lines and hauled in the fish with grunts that only a tennis player would understand.

Fishing fulfilment

Peter’s puffer fish was the first one landed. Being inedible didn’t lessen his moment of glory or the cheers from his tutors.

Trainee fisherman, Peter Sanderson, pictured below, with his professional tutors, Bruce Fitzgerald and Clint Koekmoer.

Two hours later it was a relieved and less guilty Dad who crept over to the palm trees to take a look at his weekend papers.

It was then that I recalled, the only time they made progress with the Israeli-Palestinian crisis was when President Bush went trout fishing with whats-his-name.

Couldn’t the whole world go fishing and try a little self examination.
Leave me out of course.

(Sanderson Media's breezy writing style and great images can get your message out to the world) contact john@sanderson-media.com

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