I had the worst time getting to sleep last night. We’ve been having strange weather with wild swings between cool and hot. This night was warm, so I flipped on my ceiling fan to cool off.

I tossed and turned in the twilight between sleep and wake. The rhythmic slapping of the fan spinning round and round put me in something of a hypnotic trance. I’d read some of William Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury” earlier to wind down. The last thing I read before going to bed was a small section in the book about fishing, so I guess it stuck in my head.

I tossed and turned, looking for peace, trying to get the sound of the fan off my mind. I have a weird way of remembering events. At least I think it is weird. Almost exactly like you see in the movies and television, it is as if clouds part as my memories slowly come into view.

It felt like a dream, but it was a vivid memory of the first time I remember going fishing. I must have been around five or six years old. My dad had taken my older brother, Billy, and me to go fishing along the riverbank. The memory started just as our car pulled in to park.

We got out as Dad retrieved the fishing poles, tackle box, and bait. Billy is four years older than me, so Dad let him carry the bait. I remember noticing it looked a lot like the small tubs mom used to make green onion dip. Instead of the delicious concoction I loved to dip corn chips in, this container had earthworms – nowhere near as appetizing.

I was having a grand old time sliding down the hillside like a surfer riding a nice wave until Dad hollered out to us, “Watch out for snakes!” Now, that was some sound advice, but I am not good at clearing the thought of a snake encounter from my mind. This was when I first discovered I suffer from snake paranoia. I spent a fair portion of my day watching the entire circle around me as if I were on guard duty.

We were fishing where an old dam used to be. It was quite a hotspot for fishermen, and we encountered several along the way. Only one of these folks stood out to me, some old coot in overalls that had just given up on his day at the river. He was headed up the hill as we were headed down. His body language told the story of dejection at not catching any fish. His face was a bright red and sweaty, and he squinted his beady eyes from the sun. Dad called him by name, a name that now escapes me, and asked how his luck had been. The old fella reached up to his well-worn fishing cap, which he tugged up and down as he shook his head from side to side in defeat. He muttered with a big chaw of tobacco planted in his jaw, “Not a d@mn bite, Bill.” Well, I’m no fan of random cussing even these days, but back then you rarely heard men let a swear loose around women or children. I was a little thrown off by this crusty old codger. He went on his way, so we continued down the hill.

We finally set up in a spot that must have been popular with folks fishing. It was a bare mound of earth from all the foot traffic trampling it. A crushed tub of bait and a couple of empty bottles of Coke were lying around the area. We set up camp and prepared for the big day.

Finally, it was time to get down to the business of fishing. Dad worked up the poles. He put on the sinkers and hooks. I was curiously taking it all in. Then it was time to bait the hooks. He opened up the tub of earthworms and yanked out a wiggly worm. He stuck it on the hook as the thing started squirming every which way. Dad arched back with the pole, then snapped his wrist forward as the worm sailed through the air halfway across the river before plunging into the water with a small splash. The whole process didn’t look too hard so I was anxious for my turn.

Billy went next. He wasn’t quite as good as Dad but he still managed to get off a decent cast.

Finally, it was my turn. Dad put on the hook and sinker. He then said, “Grab a worm.” This command threw me off, “Uh, you want me to grab the worm? Uh, ok, I guess.” I gingerly stuck a couple of fingers in the tub slowly fishing around (no pun intended) for one of the buried worms. I finally got a hold of one and yanked it out. It quickly wiggled out of my hand and fell to the ground. I scooped it back up and handed it to Dad. In hindsight, I think he intended for me to bait my own hook, but I am guessing he saw my struggles with getting the worm out and figured there was a pretty fair chance I’d stab myself with the hook.

I didn’t fare much better with casting. Dad showed me the technique of pushing the button on my fishing pole and letting it go at just the right time. It sounded simple and he made it look easy. Unfortunately, it was not so for me. My first attempt went about as poor as it could go. I let go of the button late so the fishing line just snapped like a whip. It made a clanging sound, then swung back and forth in the air. I bet the poor worm was just hoping to be put out of its misery at this point. It was an embarrassing failure, to say the least.

The second cast wasn’t much better. I let go closer to the right time but the worm just dropped straight down at my feet. I guess the worm probably died from the abuse long before it ever hit the water. It was a humbling experience as a child. Seeing that I had a long way to go in my casting, Dad held my hand and pushed the button on the third attempt. Thankfully for my flagging self-esteem, this time worked.

Here is where I learned another valuable lesson about fishing: patience. Being a rookie, I thought the fish would jump right on the hook for me, quick and easy. That was not the case. Nothing happened for a longggggg time. For a little boy, it was painfully boring. Excruciatingly boring. I held the pole as long as I could stand it, but I eventually laid it down and moved on to other activities.

I picked up the tub of worms and shook it to watch them move around for entertainment. I poked the worms with a stick to get some more action going. I lured an ant into walking on the stick. It was like a lumberjack navigating a log. As you can imagine, that got old real quick.

My mind wandered off every which way. Five minutes felt like five hours to me. I eventually forgot to even check my pole for action.

After I’d long since given up on catching any fish, I heard Dad quietly say, “Shane, I think you got a bite.” Sure enough, I saw my line move a tiny bit in the water. Dad picked up the pole and slowly pulled out a bit of the line to check the tension. He said, “Yeah, one is nibbling on it.” He let me hold the line so I could feel it. Sure enough, I felt a small jerk on it. He told me to wait, so I sat there with my little heart racing a mile a minute with excitement. Finally, the fish made its run, and Dad helped me give the pole a big yank. Then he started reeling it in as fast as he could make that lever spin. It got to the edge of the riverbank before he handed the pole to me to finish reeling it in.

I could barely hold the pole up, but I kept up the fight. I finally got it up to where we were standing and marveled at the creature frantically flopping back and forth before my eyes. It was my very first fish. I quickly grew an affection for him. Nothing could ever replace it.

It felt like a Great White Shark to me but ended up just being one of the infamous Redeyes that are so aplenty around the area. I was actually happy to hear that they weren’t good for eating. Dad took the hook out and released it back into the water as it swam merrily away. I was glad my new friend was going to live to see another day.

It was about that time that I snapped out of my dreamlike state. I felt a lot more at peace than I had earlier. I rolled over with a little smile on my face and a warm heart, then quickly found that sleep I’d been searching for.

There is just something about reliving those good days from time to time. You never really know what your best days are until they become memories.