Life’s simplest pleasures ought to remain that way

So what do I do when I get tired of it all?

Tired of the campaigns. Tired of listening to half or no-truth sound bytes. Tired of waiting for our elected betters to do anything about the problems we face. Tired of rising prices. Tired of being tired of everything.

I go fishing. My kind of fishing. The kind with a lake, a rowboat, some worms and bobbers, and an entire day with nothing to do but bait hooks, eat cheese crackers and ignore all of the above.

It puts everything back into its proper place and allows me to become nearly normal again.

The problem, such as it is, is that my daughter — who accompanies me on such trips — likes to fish and is a card-carrying member of that group of humans who seem to attract fish. The ones who never get skunked. The ones who can pull a 2-pound trout out of a rain puddle in a parking lot.

The trouble with such individuals, however, is that instead of being content, they begin wondering if there are other ways to fish. They start looking beyond plastic bobbers and worms and afternoons spent floating around in a boat. They start looking past napping. All of which pretty much define my highest levels of fishing expertise.

Anyway, my daughter recently said that she wanted to learn how to fly fish. Unfortunately, my knowledge of fly-fishing is limited. Limited meaning that it’s on a par with my understanding of plasma physics, differential equations and why seemingly normal people eat Brussels sprouts.

Still, I guess it had to happen because she’s more refined than I (it comes, as you might surmise, from her mother) and fly fishing appeals to her.

It appeals to her because it requires subtlety and finesse. I possess neither. It requires dexterity and skill. Never heard of ‘em. It requires grace and elegance. That cupboard’s empty too.

But she’s my daughter and so, when she asked, I called an old friend who knows about rod lengths, line weights, leaders and tapered tippets (or tippered tappets, I may have misunderstood that one). I called him because he can speak knowledgeably of “Wooly Buggers” (which apparently have nothing to do with nasal problems) and “Adams Parachutes” (I immediately think of someone in the 82nd Airborne). I called him because I figured he’d get us started down the right path.

I was right. He agreed to help and, shortly thereafter, we ended up at a small store wherein everyone looked like an extra from “A River Runs Through It.”

I was completely out of my element.

Example:

Another fishing method of mine is to climb aboard a 300-foot research vessel and take said vessel out to about mid-Pacific. Once there, grab about 200 yards of parachute cord (think 1500-pound test) and attach a lure about the size of your hand. Blend in about eight feet of bungee cord 30 or so feet back from the hook to serve as a shock absorber. Get the ship up to about 12 knots, trail everything astern, and then go read a book.

I’ve caught my share of fish this way, but this method in no way resembled what the folks in the store were demonstrating to my daughter.

There was no parachute cord and the hooks they had resembled the slivers of metal that get stuck in my fingers while I’m working in my garage. The fishing line was the nearest thing to invisible at its widest point and got smaller from there. It didn’t matter, though, because my only function was to fill in the appropriate numbers on the check.

We got home with everything a new fly-fishing enthusiast might need plus a video and several flyers on classes in the area. The knots she needs to know are nothing I ever learned at sea and most of the fishing techniques required have nothing to do with nodding off in canoes or reading books on the fantail of ships.

Now, whenever we go fishing, I guess I’ll have to stay awake and worry about “hatches” and “rises” and “Tan Elk Hair Caddises.”

One good thing, though, is my 3-year-old granddaughter. Last week, I took her out and she caught several trout on bobbers and worms and now thinks that there’s no better way to fish.

I think I’ll do everything I can to keep her thinking this way.

But only because I love her so.

Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. Send comments to larrysim@clearwire.net.