Caveat: Fishing Report #(n+20)

Well, we went out fishing this morning.

In a way, I’m surprised I went along. A part of me wanted to just tell Arthur to go ahead and go out on his own – I’m not sure that he would have, but it seems possible.

In the end, some weird welling-up of a vague, Confucian-like sense of obligation made me agree to go. The Koreans call it 효 [hyo: 孝], which is translated as “filial piety.” I don’t know where I came by it – I suppose through some kind of cultural osmosis, having lived there all those years.

We had a serious talk about trying to communicate better, first, before going out – but the talk itself was fraught with the kind of issues that have been bothering me. He denies not paying attention, if that makes any sense. He doesn’t recall ever having used sarcasm inappropriately or dismissing my concerns. To conclude: “Anyway. Whatever.”

But we went out. It went better than last time, at least. He was making a sincere effort, within the constraints of his personality. I had told him quite explicitly, I’m not angry that he’s not showing gratitude – he does, in fact, show gratitude and generosity with me regularly. But that isn’t the same as giving a damn about what I have to say, or bothering to pay attention to find out what I’m trying to communicate.

Well, we went over to San Ignacio and ran into Art’s friend and sometime fishing companion, Jeff (in another boat, trolling the other way). We had a shouted conversation with him, boat to boat. And after a while, roughly at the southeast corner of San Ignacio Island, we caught exactly one (1) fish. So we’re not skunked for the season.

There’s some terrible irony – not to say outright tragedy – that “going fishing” is the single most stressful, dreaded aspect of my life here in Alaska. For most people, including Arthur, going fishing is fun, if not the actual goal of life. I’ve always been a bit neutral with respect to the practice of going fishing – it’s never been a strong pleasure for me. But there was a time when I did enjoy going out in the boat. I enjoy boating around, I enjoy the scenery, I enjoy being out “in the world.” But at this point, the emotional and interactive aspects of the venture, functioning in my role as Arthur’s wheelman and protege, overwhelm any pleasure I could take from it.

Actually, I sometimes very much wonder what exactly Arthur finds so fulfilling about going fishing. He doesn’t really seem, to the outside observer, to be enjoying himself. His mood tends to vacillate between long stretches of transparent boredom and brief explosions of frustration and anger when things aren’t going his way – which seems like so much of the time, these days.

I believe Arthur doesn’t actually enjoy the act of fishing, but rather, he yearns for some Platonic “state of having caught fish.” Which is to say, he enjoys it only after the fact, and only if the venture has been successful. And he’s not generous with his definition of success – today, for example, was not in any way successful.

I once said that my feeling toward fishing is similar to my feeling toward gambling: it seems like putting one’s mood in hands of random fate, which is not quite the way to achieve any kind of consistent happiness. On Arthur’s approach, that is certainly true.

Year-to-date totals:

• Coho: 1
• Kings: 0
• Halibut: 0
• Other: 0
• Too-small fish sent home to mama: 10
• Downrigger weights left on the bottom of the sea: 1