Vibrant Village ™

When I was pregnant, I read all of those “What to Expect When you are Expecting" books with their various descriptions of what the first movement of the baby within me would feel like.

- “Like a butterfly’s soft wings gently brushing your skin”
- “Like a tickle, a flutter”
- “Like the tug of a fish on the end of your line”

And when it came, it was just like the books said.  I will never forget that first movement, deep down, low in my belly, when I was lying in bed one night.  Like a tickle….like a butterfly’s wings—soft and gentle, but very determined.

And now that I am fishing with my son who once, some 13 plus years ago, kicked in my belly, I really do see why the books said those early flutters would be like a fish tugging on my line.

The first time I cast my rod into the salt water, I waited and wondered how I would know if I got a bite on my line.  Would I be pulled into the surf by a massive fish?  Or would the fish be so small that I wouldn’t even notice it nibbling: it would steal my bait, and I would sit for hours, waiting with empty hooks as the wee fish enjoyed its free meal at my expense.

But the first time a fish hooked itself on my line, it was just like my son’s first flutter kick of life. I knew at once that I had a fish on my line, just as those dozen-plus years ago, that tugging sensation proved to me that  I had a baby in my body. A tug in my belly, a tug on my line.  Not to be mistaken for anything else. How amazing the two are so similar.

With fishing, you practice and you improve your technique.  But still, no matter if you have the best gear that money can buy, no matter if you have honed your technique to that of a professional, you end up casting your line into the water and hoping for the best.

Just as it is with my child.

I try my best, I practice and improve my technique.  But still, in the end, my son makes his own way in the world and I have to hope for the best.  I see it now, so much, as he begins the sweet slide into his teenage years.

And he is still so very sweet.

But it’s now that real-world things begin to creep into our lives, his and mine—the tumultuous relationships with his peers, running hot one day and cold the next; the rumblings and rumors of drug use among the 7th and 8th graders; his struggles to fit in, to find has place in the world.

Up until this point, I have been the one guiding him and directing what he learns. As the adult, I have been the better-skilled half of our duo, thanks to a lifetime of practice.
But now that we are fishing together, his skill is overtaking mine. He has shown a quickly-gained confidence that I have never seen before, as we’ve stood side by side on the sand of Beaufort Inlet.  I have had to take a conscious step back, to let him take the lead in this shared endeavor.

For the first time, I am learning techniques from him.

He explains the nuances of different types of lures, and the reason for bell-shaped sinkers instead of pyramid sinkers.  How I should troll along the bottom if I really want to catch flounder instead of sea mullet.

We are about even right now with our casts.  Our baited hooks land at similar distances after we fling the rod and release the line.

But soon his casts will overtake mine. As I watch my son grow up and away from me, the tug on my line becomes the tug on my heart.

Me and my tug on my line