Call in sick. Today’s your day.

“Are those fishing poles?!” I hear someone exclaim from behind me in the Chili’s to Go restaurant in O’Hare. Before I could answer, the middle aged woman came back at me, rapid fire. “What are you fishing for?” And in quick order, “I love to fish. I fish with my dad, my husband…I  fish for bass. I like the FIGHT!!” With a twinkle in her eye, she slides back into the Chili’s kitchen almost as fast as she appeared.

 

The poles I’m carrying once belonged to my dad. It’s been just weeks since his passing. My two brothers and I found them tucked into the attic of a workshop that defined his retirement years. Though grainy photos captured happy moments of him holding a king salmon on an Alaskan river bank and leaning back shirtless in a tall chair cranking one in, in the Caribbean, my dad wasn’t an every weekend fisherman. His collection of paraphernalia includes a half dozen rods with Zebco reels and two rods, no reels, dry rotting cork handles, and a rigid temperament that threatened to snap if dropped. It’s those two rods that my brother zip ties together for my trip south, along with a small aluminum tackle box.

 

As I walk through the airport, I notice inquiring eyes daring to ask, “Why in the world does the lady in an Old Navy sundress have those contraptions?” Although as my brother noted, the looks probably aren’t nearly as inquisitive as they would have been had I strapped a hatchet to my waist. The hatchets are safely in my checked bag awaiting another story.

 

These rods won’t ever see water and that’s ok. To me, they speak to life. They were once in dad’s hands. Was he alone, casting and reeling while his mind cleared the hectic pace of the week? Or was he with my brothers and me while we continuously snagged more trees and people than fish? Or was he with a friend solving world problems or catching a belly laugh about the one that got away? Whatever the moment was, I’m certain that as he fished, there was much more going on than just trying to catch a fish.

 

As I continued on to my gate, another woman stops me – “Those are cool rods!” And yet another, “Are you going to South Carolina to fish? I’m from Sumter, South Carolina and I love to eat fish. Saltwater or freshwater – it makes no difference to me.” It occurs to me that fishing strikes a chord with many folks: fish fries with extended family and friends, outdoor moments with unofficial mentors,  solitary times on the water. It’s a timeless tradition that both spans and connects generations.

 

We’re blessed in coastal South Carolina to have clean, publicly accessible water that any day of the year invites us to simmer down and wet a line. Whether you’re a “bream buster and cricket bucket” kind of person or need to hear the exhilarating whine of the spinning reel under the pressure of a redfish, it’s the season of making memories. Call in sick. Today’s your day.

Jennifer Howard