Fruitless Fishing with my Father: A lesson in setting low expectations for some things.

Whitney M.

March 27, 2010 - 5:33 PM

I thought to myself, "Isn't it bad to set your expectations low? I thought that was a coping mechanism that is logical but eventually leads to lacking motivation."

While contemplating this, the chilly Columbia river whisked past me as our former boat carried us to another spot that would eventually prove unlucky along with all the others.

My dad, Collin, and I had planned a fishing trip for the end of our spring break. I expected that we wouldn't be catching anything, which was an accurate prediction, and I suppose that was why I was able to keep a sense of humor when even more problems arose on our excursion.

For as long as I can remember, my dad has not been a successful fisherman. Not that it is his fault, really. Unless you have been doing it for a lifetime and unless you have sunk thousands of dollars into the hobby, it's kind of a craps-shoot.

Nevertheless, the night before we went fishing, I dreamed that it didn't take but thirty seconds from the time we dropped our lines in before we were up to our eyes in salmon. I had a similar dream about getting into Stanford. Hell, if I could use "The Secret" to get into one of the world's best universities, it could work for catching fish....or so I thought.

The day, however, went as these trips typically go for my dad and I. This boat, which now belongs to my dad's lawyer, was the one that we owned during my childhood, and approximately 1 in 5 trips ended without a hitch-so to speak. Somehow, we managed to stall the boat, break the propeller, take on water, you name it, we did it, almost as though we were trying to sabotage our boating trip.

So on this occasion, I was not surprised to find that we were facing some of the same old problems.

We broke a fishing pole that my dad's friend loaned to us, the anchor we borrowed from this fellow ripped a hole in a seat at the bow (Mr. Lawyer's seat), we tangled our lines, we lost our bait, Collin cut his finger, we scraped and dented the propeller on some rocks, and finally, out of nowhere, the boat started blasting a high-pitched horn whenever we turned the engine on-not very conducive to a fishing environment.

It was when I looked down to see my dad, looking downtrodden across the river at other, more successful boats, with his boot caught in a bright pink water ski rope that I knew this was blog material.

Nothing more accident-prone and obnoxious could represent our voyage better. But by the time my dad was examining the damage done to the propeller after we had the boat back in the trailer, slamming his knee into the boat as he tried to maneuver around it was nothing but hilarious.

It was just too disastrous to take seriously. It was costly, and it was slightly irritating, but in the end, all we could do was laugh. It was either that or kill ourselves-so we opted to look on the bright side, which that day, stemmed from a set of very low expectations.