A Fishing Story

“It’s really, really hard to turn a moving ship.  If you think about a big ole’ ship… it takes a while for it to turn.” – Jordan Lee Dooley

Maybe you recall me mentioning last week that my husband and I had embarked on another summertime adventure.  I quipped, “Depending on how it goes, I might have a story to tell you next week…”

In writing about a similar recent adventure, I titled it Rough Waters.  Applying the same logic and simply telling the story of this most recent trip, “Smooth Sailing” might have made a more appropriate name. 

We didn’t know what to expect when we loaded our boat and headed for Lake Erie.  

We qualify as seasoned river boaters for sure.  We also have some experience on a few minor lakes, and now also the Chesapeake Bay.  Until this past week, though, we had never independently taken on any of the Great Lakes. 

We approached the idea like-mindedly:  With anticipation.  Without fear, but with abundant respect. 

Less than a week before our trip, NOAA reports had indicated 10-foot waves on Lake Erie.  We understand that, out there, conditions can shift from normal to truly dangerous within 15-minutes.  We went into this new experience fully aware that a lot could go wrong.  Also, truthfully?  Expecting that some of it probably would. 

Yet, for the couple of days we spent there, none of it did. 

From the weather and water conditions, to a hotel desk clerk’s recommendation that led us to a hidden gem of a restaurant, to having such a good time all the way around – I felt like so much just went right.

Idling out of the channel from the marina; throttling up as incoming waves increase with every turn of the prop; all at once bracing against - yet settling into - the rhythmic smack of the hull against the water in between cresting one wave and ascending the next; clearing the channel markers and seeing that huge expanse of open water - the newly-risen sun painting a glimmering work of art off our starboard side… I actually felt the catch in my throat that I know means I could cry.  Not only in awe of the beauty of it all, but especially at my gratitude for the opportunity to experience it. 

This feels like living to me.

So right, in fact, that I probably wouldn’t have even written about it here this week.  Because having done so from that perspective would probably have just felt to you like reading my diary. 

That’s never why I’m here, and I’m pretty sure it’s also not why you’re here.

But then: 

This past Monday, as I listened to my favorite podcast just like I do every week, I heard guest Jordan Lee Dooley say those words about turning a ship.  She used that analogy during a great conversation (go listen to it for yourself!) about making needed adjustments in life. 

Hearing her say it felt like an epiphany:   

How had I not, until that very moment, recognized the significant connection between the experience I had just lived, and… well… LIFE!?  

In addition to the potential challenge of unfamiliar and intimidating waters, we had another reason for not knowing what to expect of this trip:  We also planned to fish.  Something we had never before done, on our own, on this scale (no pun intended…)

I did know not to expect a boat outing where we’d cruise along leisurely; listen to music; enjoy cold drinks; stop, float, and take in the sights.  I knew that to fish the Lake Erie way would require some work. 

Important side note: 

I am not by nature (or by any other means) an angler - in any sense of the word. 

I am, however, always up for spending time on the water – especially new and bigger water. 

I am learning that I love saying “yes” to new adventures. 

And I do love to cook and eat Lake Erie walleye. 

The sum of those factors equaled my motivation to do whatever this adventure required of me!

I guess I did have an inkling that I might end up driving the boat.  I didn’t know how to work reels or planer boards.  The idea of baiting a hook didn’t (still doesn’t!) exactly excite me.  I didn’t even know yet what a Dipsy Diver was.  Driving the boat felt like a fine assignment for me, because I do know how to do that. 

Or so I thought.

That first morning, we skimmed across the choppy water until we reached a spot on the same general line with dozens of boats visible to our east. 

“Why are they all so close together?” I asked my husband, who explained, “Because that’s where the fish are!” Recognizing ourselves as still way too green to enter that fray, we decided to consider our current location close enough.  Leaving ample leeway to prevent our lack of experience from interfering with anyone else’s day, we started rigging up our fishing gear - as if we actually had a clue…

How many other times, in how many other ways, have we just had to start somewhere…?    

Having slowed to a speed hovering just slightly above 2-miles per hour, my husband commented that he hoped we could keep it that slow.  (That mattered when it came to making our bait look natural to the fish, evidently.)  As he moved to the stern, I slid over to take the helm. 

“I think if you can keep it right here, between 240-250, we should be good,” he said. 

240-250 degrees.  On a compass.  Also, on the “Course Over Ground” reading on the electronics. 

Well.  I’d never had to do that before.  But how hard could it be? 

Turns out?  Pretty Darn Hard. 

Just like that:  I began to feel like I had never driven a boat before!  I certainly never had tried to hold one on a course that fixed.  Much less with waves, wind, and the distant yet relevant wake from other boats. 

I know, like the back of my hand, the first two things I ever learned about driving a boat:

1.)    You can’t steer a vessel unless it’s under power.

2.)    Don’t oversteer. 

So, guess what I did first?  I oversteered! 

At 2.3’ish miles per hour, we technically were under power.  Just not much power.  Especially in relation to all those external factors.  Turning the wheel seemed to do nothing at all.

Until it did.

Then, instead of pointing south-west as that ideal 240-250 degrees would indicate, we were suddenly pointing north.  I’d try to correct that.  Then 30-seconds and a few waves later, we were pointing south. 

That mattered.  Not only because fishing etiquette dictates that one should pick a point and hold a course, but also because of the lines we now had in the water off the stern:  Four abreast at varying depths.  Each drastic pivot in direction risked tangling them all together, winding them around the spinning propellor, or tripping the devices set to hold them in place. 

One sudden, poorly calculated move focused only on correcting one thing could ruin countless others. 

I know enough to know what a bad job I was doing. 

With that out of the way, I also knew that I knew how to do a better job. 

I had to take a deep breath.  Think about my actual objective.  Make a minor correction toward it.  Wait patiently for it to take effect.  Notice how everything external influenced that moment.  Then choose my next minor correction. 

I often remind myself and others to take life “One Day at a Time”.  That sounds kind of similar, doesn’t it? 

I had underestimated the difficulty of my mission.  But in those first few minutes while I spun us in slow-moving, sideways-rocking, circles, I had also overthought the difficulty of my mission. 

Focusing on what I was actually trying to do made all the difference. 

I still had to watch the instruments, but I also widened my gaze to take in the whole vista.  I saw what I think was a lighthouse on the distant horizon, in line with my intended course.  I pointed my bow toward it.  Aiming for something changed everything.  I still needed the numbers as my guide.  Not to clutch rigidly in pursuit an abstract target. 

When we stay focused on what, and Who, we want to aim toward; when we rely on Truth to guide us and provide correction when we need it; the why and the how of holding our course become so much clearer.   

Even after I figured this out, nautically speaking, I still went ten or twenty degrees off course here and there.  Upon checking the trusted instruments and realizing it, though, I could make small corrections and stay on course.  Had I simply relied on my own perception and not seen proof that I’d drifted slightly off course - one degree at a time, I might have ended up landing us in Canada.  (Or at least pulled over in Canadian waters – because COVID travel restrictions…)

Just like in life:  Even when we know how we want to live, and that we have access to Who and what we can trust to show us the way, it doesn’t mean we don’t still make mistakes. Faithfully seeking guidance helps us correct our course - before we end up someplace we never intended to be. 

Once I figured things out that day, we stayed on course for six-hours.  If you had told me in the first two-minutes that I would say that a week later, I couldn’t have pictured it.  

Here’s another thing, though:  Even after we got comfortable in understanding what we each needed to do to have the day we had hoped for, it still wasn’t entirely in our control.  Many times, as we smoothly navigated our course, another boat would cross it – forcing us to adjust.  It felt frustrating to have to change something that was working for us, but it also didn’t mean that anyone else had done anything wrong.  It’s just part of learning what it really means to navigate.    

How many times in life, just when it feels like smooth sailing, does something unexpected cross our path and potentially throw us completely off course?  Sometimes we have no choice but to learn to navigate around things, keeping our eyes fixed on where we mean to go.      

Just as Jordan Lee Dooley said about a big ship, it can often take a while to see the results of the minor adjustments we make.  Often, it is “really, really hard.”  Unless we stay patient and remember what we know and trust - we can force ourselves way off course.  (When I say “we”, I mean “me”.)  

Looking back, we remember this trip as wonderful.  Even though we brought home zero fish. 

We caught six, all just shy of the 15-inch length required to legally keep them.  We came an inch away from bringing home dinner.  Both on the tape measure, and in…

“The Big One That Got Away”. 

(Is any fish story really complete without one of those?)

It really happened, though.

The second catch of the second day brought us both out of our seats.  It was a big one.  My husband reeled him in.  I reached out with the net.  We had him completely out of the water.  It was then that my husband realized we had a little too much lead on the line, grabbed the net, handed me the rod, and said to walk backwards.  In the split-second that decision took – he got away. 

A slightly bigger net… Line tied a fraction shorter… Not having switched places… Any of those things, and we probably would have had him.     

Disappointing.  Frustrating. 

But by no means did that one loss ruin the experience.  We learned so much.  We will definitely never make any of those mistakes again. 

We will make plenty of others, though.  In fishing, and in life.  Both will continue to throw us things to remind us that we will never really have either totally figured out. 

I’m sure I will probably underestimate, overthink, and oversteer again. 

Having done it before, though, at least I’ll have a better idea of how to get back on course. 

On the water, I’ll remember what I’ve learned, and I’ll watch my compass. 

ln every part of my life, I’ll remember what I’ve learned.  Most importantly, that God, in all His grace and mercy will always show me the way.  I can trust the anchor of His hope in my soul.