Men and Their Mighty Rods

Fishing used to be the pastime of kings. Not the sport of kings, nor the breakfast of champions, mainly because fishing isn’t a breakfast or –perhaps less obviously- a sport. It used to be either hard work, if you had to cast your nets to make a living, or a pastime. The pastime of kings. Or the pastime of men in general that made them feel like kings (not generals).

But nowadays, it’s just hard work. Once, fishing was all about sitting lazily by the water with your feet in the cool liquid stuff, or floating on it in a little boat, preferably all by yourself, with a couple of sandwiches and a beer and, above all, your Fishing Rod and Reel. The Rod provided exciting swooshing and endless extending and collapsing; the Reel soothing whirring and harmonious oscillating.

It used to be the perfect form of meditation or therapy for angry men who wanted to smack their wives and children or start a mass shooting, but instead chose to go fishing until they were ready to face the world again without having to resort to physical violence.

Until some fool decided to add a hook, line and sinker, as well as lures and bait, and it all went haywire. Suddenly, fishing had a quantifiable purpose (catching fish) and men -being men- started to bring their measuring sticks on their fishing trips. Fishing became a competition, with few winners and multitudes of losers, all of whom had to take out their frustration on others. Since then, fishing is bad news for fish, wives and children and other random victims of violence. Hardly the anything of kings.

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