Back at the dock after a morning fishing trip, it’s the first question I get from my daughter, Lily: “Papa, did you catch anything?”
On a good day — and there are lots of good days on the Maine coast in summer — the answer is yes. But since I’m usually empty-handed, it’s hard to pull the reply off with a straight face, even with a 3-year-old.
She asks for proof. I offer none.
I tell her that I let nearly all the striped bass I catch swim free. Then comes the inevitable: “Why?” I tell her that I want them to be with their friends and families. She gazes at me, pondering the thought. Does a fish really have a family? Then she moves on. She wants to see what lures I’m using, inspect the handle on my spinning reel.
In truth, releasing the fish I catch — even those that reach keeper size on the measuring tape I’ve affixed to the gunwale of my 18-foot Maritime Skiff— isn’t just an act of kindness or a nod to a fish’s emotional or physical wellbeing. In my case, it’s purely selfish. Fishing is my favorite sport. It keeps me going when work drags me down, when responsibility grinds, when bad news strikes or when the doldrums set in. My relationship to the fish is far more than just predator-prey, more than a fillet on my plate or a trendy way to “eat local” and circumvent the evils of overfishing in far-off seas. Releasing fish is simply one practical way to contribute to good fishing in my own backyard.
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Esta historia es de la edición January 2018 de Soundings.
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