Expectations

Loops of fly line sailed from my stripping basket as the rod tip dipped and sprang with the coho’s turns and runs—followed by an all-too-familiar silence. The reel jerked to a halt, enabled by a backlash. I stripped in the dead line looking for my sand lance fly, but it had popped off along with the tippet. Retreating to the closest drift log to reset and tie on a new leader, I went over what happened. A failed blood knot? Really? One more in a series of losses during salmon season. 

As I mulled the play by play, an old salt in a blue flannel appeared out of nowhere. “You’ll always remember the ones you lose,” he called out. I laughed and shook my head. “Yeah, this one will hurt for a while.” Deep slashes marked the man’s face, like scars cut from salmon teeth marking battles in his life. His eyes were gray storms, odysseys on high seas. He stood silent for a minute, pecking the sand with his walking stick, then looked at the choppy water where the coho had made its stand. The glint of light in the corners of his eyes reflected years recorded in a nautical almanac. “Hell of a fish, but you’ll land the next one.” 

I laughed. I’ve chased salmon since I was a kid, and now that I’m breaking a half-century in age, I’m amazed how a strong coho still gets me fired up. A buddy once said, “Give a fighting fish a fighting chance,” which, as I get older, resonates more and more. It’s not about numbers or length and weight; it’s about letting the world be the fish—in that time—and nothing else. What else can you do? Maybe I shouldn’t expect things to turn out in a predictable way. Maybe the key word is “expectation.” Don’t expect. 

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