Matthew 4, verse 19: “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men”.
The last time I took the day before Thanksgiving off was twenty-six years ago. I took that day off for a good reason. It allowed me to travel to West Hartford, Connecticut, and on the Saturday of that Thanksgiving weekend I married the best lady in the whole world.
Twenty-six years later, I was driving our oldest daughter to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Lauren, a freshman at Virginia Tech, was home for her fall break.
For several years, my wife’s parents have been renting an ocean front beach house during the Thanksgiving week. My family and I had the good fortune of being invited each year to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with them.
Since Lauren wanted to be back in Richmond on Saturday, we thought we would go down to the Outer Banks a day earlier. Selfishly, I liked going a day earlier because that would give me an extra day of surf fishing.
I awakened our sleepy college student before dawn, and shortly after 6:00 a.m. we were on the road. Our drive down through the peanut and cotton farms was uneventful.
We were both anxious to reach the twin span bridges that would carry us across the Currituck Sound. Once across the sound, we pulled off a not so crowded Highway 168, and made the left turn on to Highway 12. Southern Shores, Duck, and five streets passed the Sanderling sign we made the turn that took us to this year’s beach house.
Hugs and greetings were exchanged with my in-laws, and my wife’s brother and his family. Then Lauren and I started to unload the car. After this, we made a quick trip to the grocery story, ate a little late morning snack, and we charted out our plans for the afternoon. My plans were to put on the old waders, grab the gear and the bait, and head for the beach.
Surf rod, tackle box, tubular sand spikes, and a bucket, were in my hands as I waddled in my waders down the wooden stairs to the shoreline. I found a spot to park my gear, located an old piece of two by four to use as a cutting board for my bait, and I started getting everything ready.
That afternoon a good breeze was rolling in off the ocean. The waves pounded the sandy shore. I alternated back and forth between cut bait, and those magical lures.
Periodically, I would check my watch and remind myself about where I would normally be at this time of day. I fished for over two hours, and while I had no nibbles, I did have fun.
The next four days brought the same disappointment. Whether it was morning or afternoon, my luck did not change. The fish weren’t taking what I had to offer. I was beginning to doubt whether any fish were in the ocean at all. That changed a little on Friday morning.
It was low tide. I had found a place on the beach where I could walk out a few yards without a sharp drop off from the shore line. This allowed me to cast our further into the almost calm waters.
In doing this, I started to feel the slightest nibble on my line. Those nibbles aroused my curiosity and hope. Maybe I might get lucky.
My bait on the hook was even stripped away a couple of times. I figured it must be a hungry crab, but I was wrong.
Once, I responded to the tug of the line in just the right manner. As I reeled the line in closer to me, I could still feel some resistance. Then just a few yards from me I finally saw what was teasing me— a small bluefish.
Bluefish known as ferocious feeders obviously start chomping on bait at an early age. Not more than six inches, I would call this a “diaper blue”. These little fish were too small to bite the big hook, but armed with enough teeth to attach to the bait and munch all the way toward the shore.
When the fish are not tempted by the fisherman’s entrees, fishermen do a lot of pondering. During those five days, I had plenty of time to ponder about the world I could observe.
I calculated that it had been at least six years, since I had caught a real fish on this narrow ribbon of fragile land.
Despite that drought, I was hooked on watching the effortless glide of the brown pelicans. I was amazed as they flew within inches of the tops of cresting waves.
I observed the powerfully fast and efficient dive of the gannets trying like me to catch fish.
At different times, the surface of the water would be broken as a small group of porpoise worked their way south down the shoreline.
I wondered what it would be like to glide with the pellies or swim like the porpoise.
And there I was holding the rod, gazing out to the horizon when I saw a huge spray of water shoot up off the ocean’s surface. It reminded me of a cannonball hitting the water, but there was no sound. When I returned to the house for a break that day, my father-in-law asked me if I had seen the whale offshore. Now I know what caused that huge plume of spray.
Back on the shoreline, I heard the the occasional cry of the sea gulls, and the steady pounding of the breakers smacking the sand. But the sound that caught my attention most frequently was the tinkling of the crushed shells that clashed together in the retreating undertow.
And on those mornings when I hit the beach before sunrise, the mixed hues of brilliant colors in the sky could not be matched in a super box of Crayola crayons.
Despite this beauty, I was still disappointed. I had not caught any fish.
But the more I pondered my dissatisfaction, the more I realized that I should be ashamed of my self-proclaimed grumbling. Did I know why I should be ashamed of my grumbling? Yes, I figured it out. The reason was 9-11.
The losses from that terrible day went very deep. The further I thought, the more I realized that now there are children who will never have the opportunity to go fishing with their fathers.
Husbands and wives will no longer share their dreams in the rising sun of the new day. Gone for them is the glide of the pelican, the dive of the gannet, the frolics of the porpoise, the tinkling of the shells, and the spray from the whale.
And yet, hope is not gone. A fisherman always has hope.
Toward the end of December, we will celebrate the birth of the infant who became quite a fisherman. It is the birth of Jesus that brings us hope. Christmas is hope.
And as we prepare for His arrival, let it be hope that will push us to follow His lead to truly become “fishers of men” By doing this, we can deliver hope to those in need.
Prayer:
Father of us all, help us as we cast our lines to find hope in Christmas. Allow us to use this hope to meet the needs of those who are struggling. In your name we pray, Amen.
Note from author: Prior to the start of our blog, Might Be Baloney, I wrote many, many reflections about wobbling through life. Some were used as devotionals as a part of the Outreach Sunday school class at Trinity UMC in Richmond, Virginia. Between now and the end of December 2024, I hope to post a few of those pieces that are linked to Christmas. Fishing For Christmas(this piece has been edited) was written in late 2001. Thanks for reading our blog. Your comments and shares are appreciated. Be safe, love, Bill Pike
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