Gone Fishing

Ramble on Fishing, Americana, and the World Cup

There are some things that feel so sincerely American that, I find myself blushing at the thought of my enjoyment of them. When thinking of what to write about this week, I found photos of my sibling and I on my camera roll, sitting at Kent Lake in Marin County, sipping Modelos and trying to bait fish with no success. We were only missing loud speakers and Marlboro reds.

It’s easy to see how this a purely American activity. Let alone the fact that the oldest fish hooks were found in East Timor, people all over the world enjoy sitting by bodies of water trying to catch fish. But there was a sense about it, the red dirt at our feet, a quiet reservoir lined with pines, the sun hot and the breeze cooling, and the beer quickly growing lukewarm that just reminded me of every bit of Americana that I’ve encountered up until this moment. It felt almost like we were in a country song, just shooting this shit, talking about love.

It was a beautiful moment, but just so fucking corny.

I think this aversion to anything that I see as culturally “American” for lack of a better word comes from the roots of my upbringing. Growing up in my family, our Canadian dad made certain that we held no major allegiance to the United States. Whenever the US was playing he’d mock the United States teams and root for the Canadians, if he could, or basically anyone else. As he put it, or at least as I remember it, the US always wins everything and so we shouldn’t root for them. Always root for the underdogs.

I don’t think this was in any way intentionally political. I think my Dad is just someone who loves sports and, like any true sports fan, gets sick of a dynasty after a time and wants someone else to do the winning for a change. But as my siblings and I all grew up it did, even without our knowing of colonial or imperial histories, paint any notion of anything American as idiotic. Any sort of pride in the United States, however justified, seemed inherently cocky and stupid—why would anyone gloat over the remains of their enemies?

Even today, looking at the Women’s World Cup knockout lineups, I just can’t wait to see what Sweden pulls against the US women’s team, one of the most dominant sports teams ever. I don’t want them to win. I want Colombia, Morocco, or South Africa, all teams who play beautifully and who, because they are underdogs, seem to play with a greater spirit and desire to win. They don’t expect what comes next, so they’ll give anything to get there, unlike the certainty of an ever talented US team.

I am honestly immensely grateful for this pointless hatred of US sports team my dad taught us, but at the same time, the way it seeped out and into other aspects of daily life, as an American, I wished I could have let go.

Sitting with Dyll, helping them learn how to cast, trying to re-teach myself, I remembered all the moments I had at my old job in Rhode Island as a park educator. I used to walk around the little pond, find earth worms, an invasive creature in New England forests, and sit at one small point, watching for the giant snapping turtles as I caught blue-gils and other sunfish in complete silence, before the droves of people came to swim in the water, fish, get drunk in the heat and blast music across the park. It all felt so fucking American, from the tranquility of the mornings on the pond, like our time at Kent Lake, to hearing people yelling at each other about nothing important after too many beers in the sun. And I loved those moments.

I still will be rooting for Sweden on the 6th when they take on the US. I still loath our health system, and most of how our government functions. But damn, do I love drinking a beer, sitting by a big body of water, throwing strings into it, hoping that something good sticks.