Fishing: A Painful Catharsis

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt so jagged when they came out of my mouth. It took me twelve years to say it, and after saying those two words, I feel empty. For those years, I had been planning and thinking of this moment–now that it’s here, how has it gone so soon?

Hours before, I had decided to go fishing. It wasn’t a big event, but it wasn’t a small one either. Fishing to me is like vacationing for other people. Most people do it often, but it’s always something that requires everyone’s attention. The only difference with my fishing is that it only required one person’s attention. Mine.

There’s a spot I like by the river. The sunlight blankets the river, and the shore is nice and shady. It’s also a secret spot, which is good when you’re trying to get the best catch. If a lot of fishermen knew of this spot, I feel like it would be swarmed. I’ve never seen anyone down there, though. It’s surprising, because it isn’t extremely hard to get to or anything–it’s just a bit off the beaten path, a little bit into the forest.

However, today was different. I had gathered my things, and ironically, I left my back porch feeling a sense of excitement and joy for my trip. I usually fish to get my mind off of things, but this time, I did it for the hell of it.

I took my usual stroll along the road, and then onto the trail. It was a nice morning, with the birds singing their lullabies and the bees adding the harmonies for them. The sun was bright, but the breeze made up for any excess warmth. To put it in less words, it was perfect.

That was when I got to my fishing spot. I saw another man, though his back was turned to me. I was initially shocked, but not alarmed. After all, like I said, it isn’t hard to get to. I just thought I was the only one smart enough to look past the trees. But then I noticed the tackle box–dark red and bright orange, with worn stickers depicting different fishing competitions from years past. The box is well used, with a lot of scratches and dents. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had seen that tackle box before, and not in a good context, either.

Walking towards the man, I called out to him. I would rather not startle him, especially if he was in deep thought like many fishermen. He turned around, and I saw his face–that’s when the panic set in. I knew that face, and I knew it well. It was Eric, my old fishing buddy.

Eric and I hadn’t seen each other in over a decade. However, I’ve been thinking about him for that same length of time. I always have conversations in my head about how I would apologize to him, how I would overcome his angry yet inevitable outburst, or how I might handle it if he decided to punch him. Not that he would, but you never know. Anything can happen.

“Look who it is,” he chuckles, an obvious snark masking any kind of welcoming undertones. My confidence immediately dissolves, and I can’t help myself from feeling like I’ve shrunk into the ground.

“Eric.” He may have taken that as a greeting, but I honestly meant it as a reminder to myself about what I was facing. The guilt is overriding any preparation I had, even if I had been planning this for as long as I have.

He looks at me with a suspicious look, and then silently turns back to the river. I take a moment to hesitate, but ultimately decide to join him. I might as well have the moment I came to have.

We sit in pure disengagement for longer than anyone would be comfortable with. The only sounds around us are the plopping of the stream, the rustle of the grass behind us, and the birds singing to us from the trees. I try to find my own peace within it, but any solace I find is overshadowed by the anxiety of the man sitting next to me. It’s like I can feel his hatred, and it’s seeping through his pores into mine. It’s exhausting. I need to say something.

“So, Eric… what have you been up to recently?” I try to come across as nonchalant as possible, but I don’t think it worked.

“You know, Sam, you can just sit here,” he responds, not looking up from the water. “That’s what fishing is for. Sitting. Preferably, in silence.”

“Well, I just…”

“I don’t care, Sam. Please. Just… be quiet.”

I choose to listen to him. His words become more exasperated with each breath, and I feel like there’s more happening than his anger. I don’t know what it is, but something feels… off.

After sitting in more silence, I realize I can’t take it anymore. “Eric, please. Can I just say one thing?”

He sighs deeply. “Go ahead. But if it’s sorry, I won’t accept it.”

“That’s what I was going to say, but if you won’t accept it, let me try something else.”

I take a deep breath. “I know that you don’t forgive me. I know that you won’t forgive me. But I need you to know, I feel guilty. So, so guilty. I should never have done what I did to you.” I feel tears sting the edges of my eyes. “Looking back now, if anyone had done that to me, I would’ve wanted them to be in so much pain. I don’t know if you’re the same, but if you are, just know that I have been in pain. But right now, I just want you to be okay.”

He looks straight ahead, with only his eyes changing in his expression. He’s confused, but furious as well. I guess he didn’t agree with my poor attempt at a shrouded apology.

“What are you talking about? I never wanted you to be in pain, who said that?” He raises his voice enough to cover the sounds of the grass. “I just… I lost my trust in you, that’s all. I don’t hate you. I just realized you aren’t trustworthy anymore.”

His anger morphs into a certain type of sadness. He looks down at his feet, hiding his eyes from mine. “I mean, how could I? You told my mom about us. I was kicked out.” He shuffles his feet. “I was seventeen.”

“I know, I know. I’ve been reminding myself of it for years. I know I hurt you, in more ways than one.”

He looks forward again. “I was in love with you, you know.”

“I know. I loved you too. I think it could’ve been something, if I had done the right thing.” I sigh deeply and put my head into my hands. “It just felt… right. I know now that it was wrong. So, so wrong. I should’ve never outed you to your mom.” I raise my head and look in his direction. “And for that, I’m sorry.”

His eyes meet mine for once, and I start to feel mine fill with tears. He doesn’t cry, but he looks weary enough to compensate for it.

“I don’t accept your apology.”

The tears get worse, and I look away. I feel so bad, so guilty, so monstrous. I know it had been twelve years, but he was kicked out of his home. I didn’t take him in. I barely talked with him again. I am a monster.

“But… maybe we can start again.”

I look up into his eyes. He’s crying a bit, too. I’ve never seen him cry, even after the day he left. I wipe my eyes and smile at him.

“I would like that.” I laugh and look towards the stream. “Where should we start?”

“How about what you’ve been doing these past years?” His voice is shaky as he tries to gather himself. “You have a wife? A husband? Kids?”

“I have a wife, yeah. Sandra. Sweetest woman alive.”

“I would love to meet her sometime. She has to be a good person if she married you.” We both laugh together.

There’s a peace that folds over us, almost like a warm and fuzzy blanket. His words blend into the rustling, plopping, and chirping of the world around us. And I have never thought I would be so happy that someone found my secret fishing spot.