Through Her Eyes – Part One

By Kelli Berry

For those of you who don’t know me or haven’t realized it yet, I am a woman…and I am married to a fisherman.

Merriam-Webster defines a fisherman as: one who engages in fishing as an occupation or for pleasure, but the definition doesn’t even begin to tell the story of the “man” within that simple compound word.  I’m still not so sure I understand, or will ever understand, the lifelong obsession my husband was born with.

After spending some time with half a dozen or so of the wives, fiancées, or moms of the Bassmaster Elite Pro anglers, I know for sure that I am not alone.

So guys, go get the woman in your life, sit her down to read this, and maybe—just maybe—she will try to understand you a little better—in the fishing realm anyway (you’re on your own beyond that).

First, let me give you a little background of how I came to be so interested in the sport of fishing.

“There’s a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot.”  ~Steven Wright

I grew up fishing.  I spent a lot of time on my hometown lake, Allatoona, and we also had a rec lot on the St. John’s River (I called it the ‘Snake’ John’s River) just outside of Palatka, Florida.  My dad fished; my brothers fished; heck, even I knew how to sit on the dock or walk a bank and “wet a line”.  But that, I learned, is nothing like the “fishing” I have lived for the past eight years.

I met my husband through my cousin who, you guessed it, is a fisherman.  I think my other half picks up new fishing buddies in the tackle department at Wal-Mart like some guys pick up women in bars. Thankfully my man would much rather be on the water throwing a jig than throwing back a few cold ones from a barstool.  I firmly believe, and he will not deny it, that he has acquired most of his best friends in some way, shape, form or fashion through his love of fishing.

Animals flock together according to their species; they instinctively know who belongs in their group… their gang…their clique.  But fisherman are a species entirely unto themselves; I think they put out a pheromone that only another fisherman can detect, like a secret feral fraternity.

Or it could just be the fact that, as I have witnessed many times myself, a man in a two-sided fishing aisle in any store just stands and stares for quite some time before actually purchasing anything, giving him plenty of time to talk to anyone else that comes along, and then there ends up being an aisle full of starers, trading tips, favorite stories and oftentimes cell numbers.

I use to try and figure out if my husband was looking for his particular bait or temporarily in a dazed euphoric state…a kid in a candy store cannot compare to a fisherman, or any man for that matter, in front of too many choices, especially manly colored things with eyes and hooks.  I can usually wheel my guy through the fishing section at Wal-Mart easy enough, but Lord help me if he ever drags me back to Bass Pro Shops; I’m fairly certain I would lose him, or rather, he would lose me—and probably on purpose.  Payback would include a long weekend of antiquing and no fishing!

“Fishing isn’t a matter of life and death….it’s much more important.”   - Unknown

Being human I can’t help but have a selfish side, and being a female I can’t help but want to be number one in my husband’s life, to be the light in his eyes. I want to be the one thing that can put a smile on his face when he sees or thinks of me – and I am, I’m more than sure of that.  If you are reading this because your husband made you, you should be sure of it too, because he wanted to try and help you understand this…this…fishing disease.

We are the light in our husbands’ eyes, but when the water calls–and it will, again and again–a fisherman pulls out his always-present polarized sunglasses.  These not only protect him from the glare of the sunlight against the water, but they also enable him to see where the fish are, what they are doing, what they’re eating, which in turn leads to thinking “what would I use to catch them?”

Just being near any lake, I can feel that strange metamorphosis begin to transform my husband…and the sunglasses go on.   I know then that the light I sparked will temporarily dim, and another light comes on.    I light his heart, but fishing lights his soul.  It’s his gift from God.    

We can just be sitting near the water—not fishing, just enjoying the peace and quiet, and he thinks he’s fooling me by acting like he’s listening to what I’m saying. I know him better than anyone, so when I casually mention that there is a pink camel with 4 humps giving kiddie rides in the middle of the lake, or something ridiculous, his nonchalance tells me his eyes have gone to that other light…a light inspired by the water.  In his mind, his lungs are replaced by gills, and he starts thinking like a fish.

I’ll admit, I do get mad about it sometimes, but I know he can’t help it.  This fishing disease is a blood disease…fishing is in his blood.  Not even a complete transfusion can cure it.  But I do know this; I love him, and he LOVES fishing, so as I long as I am breathing my air, I think it’s only fair that he get a chance to breathe his.  I will always prefer he be on the water than to be on the prowl.  The only female my husband tries to impress more than me is of the scaly variety, (and he’s pretty good at p!$$ing them off too!)

If we’ve had a busy week and he hasn’t had a fishing rod in his hand for a few days, he reminds me of an addict.  He gets antsy, wandering around the house or yard endlessly fidgeting; I guess hoping I’ll notice—it’s hard not to.  He’s a wonderful husband—loving, supportive, but if he doesn’t get his “fix”, his comfort from that translucent line screaming between his fingers, he can be pretty…well, let’s just say, unbearable.  He’s not totally appeased until he comes home with sore and bleeding, sand-papered thumbs.

Eventually, I let him think it’s my idea for him to go over to the American Legion…the one he joined, not only because we come from military families, but because it has a private 60 acre lake that he knows for sure has “good fish”, including a 10-pounder he caught a couple of years ago.

I kick him out so I can read or write in peace, and a few hours later, I get the “MC” call.  That’s a mood check call.  If I’m lost in my own world of words, as is quite often, and he can tell I’m in a good mood, he knows he’s not “in trouble” (yet), so he’ll stay out a few more hours.  If he gets the impression that I am “not happy”, his response is always the same, “I’m leaving the lake now”, which means, “Crap, I guess I better leave in a minute.”  Depending on the day (and what time it is), I may get two or three MC’s per fishing trip.

The way I see it is this.  I have always been a writer, a lover of words and thoughts, put together to make someone else laugh or cry with an emotion that I evoked.  That’s my high, my addiction.  It’s in my blood, literally, passed down to me through a family gene.  If I can disappear and shut the rest of the world out of my mind for a few hours, even if it’s 3 a.m., doesn’t he deserve the same privilege?  Don’t we all have something in our blood that we sometimes need to disappear into?

Long before I ever met my husband, I had many notebooks filled with written pages, and he had many plastic boxes filled with more fishing tackle than I had ever seen.  The point is that he would never ask me to stop writing; it would take away a part of me, a big part of who I am.  I knew he fished, or rather I knew he lived to fish, he was so devoted and enthusiastic that it intrigued me and endeared me to him.  If he can put up with a few hours of “Shhh, don’t talk, you’ll interrupt my train of thought”, then I can surely endure him asking to take advantage of “a few hours left of daylight”, 2 or 3 (or 6 or 7) times a week.

“Good things come to those who bait.”  ~ Unknown

Sometimes I do my best writing on the lake, fishing a little in between the thoughts I’ve completed on paper. My hubby loves for me to fish, although I make him turn away and not watch—he knows what he’s doing, but I’m just learning.  He’s a good teacher—I am not a good student.  I want to do things my way, and I have no patience; he’s calm and relaxed, even when I make him change my lure or beg him for the 100^th time to rescue my tangled line from the trees and grass we love to fish.

I often wonder if he really mutters obscenities under his breath when I close my notebook, cap my pen, and grab my rod—yep MY rod, the one he rigged up just for me ‘cause I like a Zebco 33 better than a spinning reel.  He tries everything to get me out there with him.  It’s important to him, so it’s important to me.

And when I’m fishing, I always have the radio on.  I can also talk non-stop, like the woman in the Evinrude E-TEC commercial.  I’m learning to love his love, so that’s all he cares about.  I see a different person when he’s fishing.  With a rod in his hand, he’s so peaceful, so confident, so happy that in a way I’m envious–it’s his world now, and he is allowing me to invade it.

Two of the best days of our lives involved a lake.  On a beautiful August evening, on a dock, at sunset, he proposed.  Afterwards, with a full moon rising (and the fish still biting), we rode off into the fading Georgia sun, in a Chevy pick-up, pulling a Ranger boat…that’s as romantic as it gets for a fisherman!

I had now pledged myself to be a fisherman’s wife.  Did I really know what I was getting myself into?

I knew he was a fisherman, would always be a fisherman, and fishing would always be in his blood, so I just decided, why not embrace it? It’s much easier to accept it than to fight it.

To no one’s surprise, we married by a lake, surrounded by our closest family and friends. It was a beautiful 70 degree fall afternoon.  The groom, dressed in a tux (his idea), appeared on a small point, and (my idea) as Brad Paisley’s “Fishing Song” played, he pulled out his Quantum and made a perfect cast, much to the delight of our guests.    

At the reception, along with “normal food”, there was anything from fish-shaped sandwiches to fish-shaped gummies.  The tables were covered in blue fish nets and the flower vases contained live beta fish.  The groom’s cake depicted a proud angler catching a big bass.  A mounted 30 pound striper was an honored invitee.  I won’t even tell you the joke we played when he removed my “garter”.

That was almost 6 years ago, and the only thing that has changed is that now I don’t HAVE to go fishing with him, I WANT to go fishing with him.  Although most can’t understand how I can so easily accept always competing with his other love, I am beginning to understand him better.  I thought I was the only person who lived this way; I had willingly embraced not being “normal”.

Why am I telling you all this?  Because I thought I was alone…until I met some very special women.

Come back for PART 2: Through Her Eyes and read what these ladies behind the Elite Pros shared with me.