Fishng with Dad

When we were children my mom and dad frequently took my sisters and me camping and fishing to a lake in South Georgia. The campground was just beautiful with large oak and pine trees showing off their greenery and massive trunks. There were several campsites set up near the crystal clear lake and the surrounding area. We set our tent up to air out the musky smell. Eventually, the owners of the campsite would come to greet us and set up a fire pit. This fire pit ring was just a big old tire rim with the rubber part taken off, but it served its purpose. The campground also had a pool for those campers that didn’t care to swim in the lake, and a small convenience store built like a log cabin that sold everything from bait to stamps. When you went in the store you couldn’t help but smell the strong scent of pine sol they apparently used to mask the smell of the stinky crickets. While camping with my family was fun, I looked forward to fishing with my dad the most.

My dad loved to fish and he loved taking me with him. Fishing also guaranteed me one on one time that I will always treasure. My dad could constantly depend on me to jump up and go with fishing with him no matter what time he left. I was extremely proud to be his fishing buddy. When he thought I was old enough my dad made a rule that I couldn’t go fishing with him unless I could bait my own hook and help clean the fish. You bet I learned to do all that real fast. I think that is one of the main reasons my sisters didn’t care to go fishing. They also didn’t care too much about getting worm dirt under their nails, getting bit by mosquitoes or having the smell of fish on their clothes. My sisters don’t know what they missed by not going on these fishing trips with my dad.

Dad and I would get up way before the sun was up. We would quietly get dressed so as not to wake anyone. He would sometimes even let me drink coffee, which I thought was a great. He would put it in a coffee cup with a lid and make a big deal out of it. We would walk to the bait store to get our drinks, snacks, bait and anything else we might think of. Then we would launch the boat.

There was nothing more refreshing then feeling the cool morning breeze whipping through my hair as we sped towards the fishing spot. My dad was a great fisherman who had the knack of finding the holes where there were fish. He had just the right mixture of talent, luck and experience. Sometimes daddy would try to talk while we were headed to the spot, but that was almost impossible. We would normally end up yelling over the sound of the motor and constantly having to repeat ourselves, and it would become extremely frustrating. The best time to talk was while we were floating around waiting for the fish to bite. We both would take our shoes off to feel the warmth of the sun on the carpeted bottom of the boat, until we drifted on an active fishing hole.

Dad’s favorite fishing hole on this lake was easy to spot by the landmarks. There was a willow tree that gracefully drooped over the water in its magnificent beauty and swung with the gentle breeze. Right beneath this tree you could spot part of a log that was