Stir Crazy
Fatherhood: the end of fishing as we know it
June, 2003

The instant the baby-sitter shows up, all you're going to see of me is taillights. I've got an accomplice, Jim, idling at the nearest ramp in a bass boat with a new sonar unit. I've got six rods ready and stashed in my car, along with some heavy bass ordnance from the new Cabela's catalog: Recoil Grubs made of a miracle plastic that stretches to 15 times its original size so that a 4-inch bait doubles as a cargo tie-down in emergencies. Yamamoto Senkos, those pricey little jerkbaits packed with so much salt that you're tempted to snack on them yourself when the fishing's slow. The Yo-Zuri Hardcore Shad with the tungsten weight that slides to the tail of the lure for long casts and then falls into the belly, where it is secured by a tiny trapdoor during the retrieve.

This stuff is burning a hole in my tackle bag. I have not been fishing for an entire week, ever since my wife went to Chicago on a business trip. But today the dry spell ends. Faith, the high school girl up the street, has agreed to baby-sit. Sensing my desperation, she has also jacked her rate up to six bucks an hour. Fine. If I ignore the speed limit, I can be waterborne in 16 minutes. But the green flag doesn't drop until Faith shows.

Meanwhile, Emma and I are watching The Lion King on video for the 6,000th time. At 3, Emma lives in a blissfully simple world. The first thing she wants upon waking is a bottle of milk. The second is The Lion King. Right now, we're at Emma's absolute favorite part. Timon, the fast-talking meerkat, and Pumbaa, his dim-witted but lovable sidekick (a warthog with a flatulence problem), have just encountered Simba, the runaway lion cub who wrongly believes he is responsible for his father's death. Meerkat and warthog welcome lion into their carefree outcast existence with the insanely catchy song that (after much repetition) winds up: It's our problem-free phi-los-o-phy.

Hakuna Matata!

Emma squeals, "Kuna Tata!-¿ and I check my watch. Faith is now 11 minutes overdue. I look around the room for something to place between my jaws in case I start to scream involuntarily.

Things were not always thus. There was a time just a few years ago when I fished whenever I wanted. I generally chose those times by the positions of the moon and sun, and by relative barometric pressure. I liked dawn or dusk, a low (or at least falling) barometer, and the moon either directly underfoot or overhead. As much as possible, I avoided weekends, which is when people who work for a living fish. I was, to put it bluntly, an unbearably smug bass fisherman. Fatherhood has taken me down a few pegs. These days, I take my fishing whenever I can get it, and I take it humbly.

The phone rings. It's Faith. She says she has a sore throat and can't make it. End of story. I call Jim on his cell.

"I got nuked,-¿ I tell him. "Baby-sitter's sick.-¿

In the background I hear the sounds of truck doors slamming, the eager voices of anglers loading up their gear, the bittersweet Doppler whine of a boat engine as it heads off into the distance toward fish. Meanwhile, Emma is rewinding the tape so she can watch her favorite scene again.

"I feel your pain, bud,-¿ Jim says, and I know it's not just a Bill Clinton imitation. He's a father, too. His daughter is now 16. He once again fishes at will.

"Next time,-¿ he tells me.

"Yeah,-¿ I say. "Hakuna matata.-¿

He laughs. "Oh, man. The Lion King. That sure takes me back. You know what? I actually got to where I liked that movie.-¿

I quietly hang up the phone without saying another word. Jim and I are no longer friends.