This is a column I originally wrote for the Reno Gazette-Journal GO FISH: Early one morning, my sister awoke to several nudges from my 3-year-old niece, who had a sudden urge to talk about one of the more memorable moments of her young life.
“What is it?” asked my bleary-eyed sister.
“Hey Mom, remember when we went fishing with Uncle Jason?” my niece asked. “He caught a vegetable.”
Quickly, my sister switched from sleepy zombie to hysterical banshee, simply because she’s evil.
“What’s so funny, Mom?” my No. 1 fan asked.
Somewhere out there, a school of groupers is probably chuckling at me, too.
For those of you who failed to witness my latest foray to cement my status as one of Northern Nevada’s greatest manly men, I recently took my visiting niece to a free fishing day at Rancho San Rafael. This was the first time I took part in this neat event, and only the fourth time I’ve fished in my life.
I’ve never been good at fishing. If I kept score based on the number of lines I’ve cast and bait I’ve lost, I’m guessing it’s Fish Community, 74, Dishonor to Hidalgo Males, 0, right about now. Trout, catfish, tilapia nilotica — there isn’t a single scaly denizen within phylum chordata from Southeast Asia to North America that hasn’t heard of “that Filipino guy who can’t catch squat.”
Which means the fish likely started holding an underwater luau upon my grand arrival at Rancho San Rafael. Given how a decade has passed since I filmed my last fishing comedy hit, “How to Catch a Rotting Old Shoe and Other Fishy Tales from the Silver State,” I needed a quick refresher course on fishing pole operation. A friendly parks and rec guy quickly gave me the 411 while my niece signed up for her free fishing packet.
Now, if someone like yours truly is ever going to catch anything, what better place than a generously stocked pond that’s rigged to allow little kids to reel fish in, right? It’s like running as a well-connected candidate in Florida.
I held my pole back, clicked the safety or whatever that thing is called, thrust forward and proudly surveyed ahead like Washington on the Delaware. Nine seconds later, I noticed my bait lying lifelessly on the dirt behind me. Doh!
With my line now hopelessly tangled, I literally cut my losses and re-outfitted the pole, remembering not to let go of that freaking switch before I cast forward. Soon, I was launching my line two to three times farther than the little whippersnappers around me. Take that, you little runts.
Given my past fishing history and the fact that we arrived late, my expectations were still much lower than a bottom-feeding flounder. Then it happened: My line sank, I felt a tug and my heart skipped as I reeled in my first … whopping tangle of weed. Based on my niece’s reaction, you’d think I just reeled in Moby Dick.
“You did it, Uncle Jason!” shrieked my niece, which I’m sure just killed the audience and fishies around us.
Two crossed lines and three dramatic seaweed reels later, a 10-year-old boy on my left reeled in a live, wiggling fish — I can’t tell a trout from a cuttlefish, so don’t ask me. My niece was delirious with joy. After three more weed reels for yours truly, another boy on my right reeled in a fish. I seriously started to consider dynamite fishing.
“I haven’t caught anything all day, and people are catching fish left and right,” an exasperated man told a friend. “I can’t believe it!”
Welcome to my world, sir.
Still, given how happy my niece was, maybe vegetable fishing isn’t so bad after all.
