Fishing with Dad

April 21, 2024 – Medicine Hat, Alberta

As my father lay in his hospital bed dying, more than a few thoughts ran through my mind.Was he in pain? Was he scared? Was he relieved?

It turns out I won’t get the answers to any of those questions. My dad passed early that morning without waking again, surrounded by his boys and all the love we could give him. It had been a long night filled with every emotion imaginable — sorrow, joy, relief, anger — and finally, with the daylight, peace.

Two years have passed since that day. Two years without my dad. I try every day to infuse a little bit of Percy into everything I do. What would Dad say about this? What would Dad do about that? Some days it’s hard. Some days it comes easy.

The easiest days are the days I’m fishing.

Now, anyone who knows me knows a couple things:I’m not good at math, andI love to fish.

Love doesn’t even cover what fishing means in my life. It isn’t a strong enough word. Fondness, devotion, passion… maybe even worship. It almost feels sacrilegious the way I talk about fishing. But hey — it’s the truth.

My love for the sport comes from one man and one man only: my dad, Percy.

When I think back forty years or so, my favourite memories with my dad all revolve around fishing. I can still see us walking along small creeks in New Brunswick, carrying a mess of trout on a stick that Dad had shown us boys how to whittle to hold our catch. I remember watching him patiently retie a line I had snapped — again — after casting into a tree at four years old. The patience he must have had makes me want to be a better man.

I remember going to an unnamed lake… Lake Thirteen, it was called, so I guess it had a name after all. Somewhere in the middle of the prairie, this magical puddle in the middle of nowhere. I was absolutely amazed watching my dad pull pike after pike out of that water.

But it wasn’t just that he could fish.

The whole experience was pure childhood joy. He’d let us drive down backroads, or stand on the running boards of the old Suburban pretending we were soldiers being inserted into some hostile region.

That was fishing for me. Not just the catching part. It was joy. It was laughter. It was a bond I thought could only be broken by death.

Or so I thought.

Every time I go fishing, I hear my dad. Every single damn time. Not in some weird or creepy way — in words of encouragement, words of patience, words that bring me peace. Words I now get to say to my own son when I take him fishing.

I like to imagine my dad sitting somewhere at the edge of a beautiful lake, watching his line, hoping a monster trout will take the hook and the chase will be on.

I miss my dad. I really miss my dad.

But every time I go fishing, I get to see him.

So is it sad that Dad is gone? Of course. But he’s never truly gone. He’s with me on every riverbank, in every boat, in every quiet moment where the world slows down just enough to remember what matters.

Dad used to say, “Keep your line tight, son.”

That’s exactly what I plan to do in this life.

Love you, Dad.

P.S.

Dad… I must have cost you thousands of dollars in fishing tackle over the years, and you never once said a word about it. Not a damn word.

We were never rich. Far from it. Now that I’m a dad myself, with bills and all the other adult realities that come with life, I understand what things cost. Replacing fishing gear every time your kid loses a lure or snaps a line adds up fast.

But you never made me feel bad. Not once.

I never got to properly thank you for that.

So I guess I’ll thank you next time I see you… on the lake.