Nearly two years earlier — on a Sunday afternoon, June 10, 2012 — I finished my last professional shift on a charter-boat deck. That spring I’d resisted the usual commitments to full-time party- and charter-fishing work. The disruption of my seasonal routine left me adrift, feeling like a man without a country, someone with no peg to hang his hat on.
I was writing and editing then, as I am now, but even now I still can’t say “I’m a writer” without a little sheepishness. The thing I couldn’t ignore, though, was a repeatedly battered left foot and ankle — the byproduct of years in the full-time grind. Pain worsened under prolonged strain and, combined with age and wear, pointed toward the inevitable: a professional deckhand becoming an ex-fisherman. Had stubbornness and financial pressure alone been at play, I might have kept going indefinitely.
What forced a reckoning was my youngest daughter, Kaya Mae, who at two years old asked the simplest, most disarming question: “When will your foot feel better, Daddy?” That one question changed everything. One week I was preparing for another season on deck; the next I was sitting across from a respected orthopedic surgeon, talking through the likely outcomes of a full reconstructive surgery on my injured foot.
The realization that my health affected not just me but my family — especially the smallest family members who depend on me most — broke through any lingering tough-guy logic that pain was merely personal and private. No one is an island; choices ripple through those you love.
* * *
On my final trip to Block Island — a place where I’ve spent thousands of hours fishing from many different boats, targeting a variety of species with an array of gear — I stuck to a strict mental plan: stay entirely in the present and avoid dwelling on the “big picture.” Letting my mind imagine the end of a long career felt like standing before a massive painting of a seasoned deckhand, kneeling over the smoldering ruins of his livelihood — a giant left foot on fire. Better to focus on what was directly at hand.
We caught bass that day, not a pile but a couple of solid fish in the high 20s and low 30s, jigging off the island’s famed Southwest Corner. When the tide eased, so did the fishing, and after a quick check of the North Rip we headed north, ticking off a few short fluke until time ran out.
Over eight hours on the water, I soaked in green June water, sky and breeze, the familiar flex of fiberglass underfoot, and the quiet satisfaction of small duties done well. After the charter ended, I convinced the captain to let me handle the dock chores alone. I wanted him out of the way just in case I lost it — if I needed a private moment to cry, I’d have it.
I was fine until I hauled my sea bag onto the dock. Adrenaline spiked; I moved quickly, threw the shore power switch, checked dock lines and pumps, and then, eyes fixed on my feet, I grabbed my bag and bolted for the car. I left town in under a minute.
* * *
The surgery, long overdue, finally happened. That first summer I relearned basic domestic logistics — wrestling with a half-dozen remote controls and relearning how to bathe — while friends called with tales of six-pound sea bass and other catches I couldn’t share. The worst part of convalescence was the constant need to monitor the fishing world from the sidelines. For months I replayed the surgeon’s phrases about a “long road” and “slow progress” until the words lost any comforts associated with optimism.
Progress was slow enough to make me prepare for a life without regular time at sea. Yet as the months passed and I worked through recovery, a needed perspective emerged. My initial professional-grade self-pity gradually gave way to a thoughtful re-evaluation of my long and complicated relationship with full-time fishing — and with writing about fishing.
* * *
I landed the editor’s chair at The Fisherman magazine in 2002 and published my first pieces of professional fish-writing that year. I was 23, recently back from winter work on a monkfish gillnetter, and had applied partly to appease parents uneasy about my winter fishing lifestyle. When the help-wanted ad asked for strong writing skills and thorough local fishing knowledge, it felt like a dream position and, to my surprise, one I could actually pursue.
At 23 I was eager and perhaps naive about how to balance two jealous pursuits: fishing and writing. To make it work, I layered a part-time fishing schedule — 40 to 60 hours — on top of a full-time editing role — another 40 to 50 hours — resulting in weeks that often reached triple digits from May through November. You survive that grind by slipping into a waking autopilot: conserve energy, optimize momentum, and avoid the inertia that keeps you from getting back on plane.
It has taken almost two years since the surgery to accept that fishing experience is cumulative. The wisdom gained over decades doesn’t expire. In fact, the urge to fish is easier to access when it comes from a place of missing it and loving it — not from fear that setting it aside will cause you to lose it. As winter yields to spring and I find surer footing in my deck boots again, the fish are calling in a way they haven’t in years.
Zach Harvey is fishing editor for Soundings.
May 2014 issue