Gone Fishing (Or Maybe Not Gone)

Dad loved to fish. He grew up in Biloxi where fishing is a way of life. It’s hard to understand for those who don’t fish, but it was in his blood. He was happiest when he was on the water.

So Scott, our cousin Craig, and a friend Steve and I went fishing last week. I debated going because I’m so dang busy right now, but something kept telling me that I needed to go. Maybe I’ve got some of my Dad in me because something kept pulling me to the water. At times it felt like he was sitting in the boat next to me. At other times I kept saying to myself,

“Dad would have loved this.”

“Dad would’ve thought this was fun.”

“I can’t wait to find that one spot I missed when applying sunscreen.”

“Man, I need a shower.”

“Dad would’ve caught that fish that I just lost.” And then I thought about how he would have come over after I lost a fish and given me pointers so I wouldn’t lose the next one. Based on the number of fish I caught during the trip, I definitely could’ve used his advice.

He’s been gone for six years, so you would think I would’ve adjusted by now, but I can’t count the number of times I reached for my phone to call my dad while we were on the water. And every time I would put the phone down and think about how much he would’ve loved being on that boat with us. He would’ve loved to hear how I caught my first flounder. (Note: I generally don’t enjoy stabbing things to death, but I did enjoy gigging for flounder).

And one point in the afternoon after a few failed attempts to call my Dad, I just couldn’t help thinking that this. And then Scott says, “Wow, look at that.” This boat was passing us on the Intercoastal Waterway, and I saw the name on the boat.

Anybody who has lost someone close to them probably has a story like this. I struggle with the fact that I have no idea what stories like this mean. Could he hear me? Was he there with us the whole time? This isn’t the only one I could tell about my Dad, and I ask myself those questions every time it happens.

I’m still fuzzy on the heaven/earth continuum. I used to look at heaven as this far-off place that I would only see at some point far in the future, but now I think maybe heaven is closer than I originally thought. I don’t know what Dad can see or hear or what he knows about what is going on with me.

It’s reassuring to think that a lost loved one can look down on you and see the joys in your life. But if heaven is a perfect place of eternal joy, then there are some things Dad shouldn’t see because I jack up stuff in my life all the time. There wouldn’t be much joy for him to watch me screw up.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe there are thousands of boats named Jackie that travel the Intercoastal Waterway every day, and we just happened to look up and catch one. I’ll be mentally working through this one for a long time probably up until the time when I see Dad again. All I know for now is that sometimes it feels like he is still here.