First off, I know it's been a while since I posted. I've been working on a post which goes into some detail, but it's on my computer at work so that'll have to wait. Suffice to say, it's been an interesting couple of weeks.

The reason I was so moved to write today is that I got hit with a big dose of missing my father today. My friend, Bruce, is in town for the weekend and he invited me to go fishing with him. My father tried taking me fishing once when I was little and I am sure it rated as one of the most disappointing moments of his life.

We lived just a stone's throw from the Warwick Cove, which is an inlet of Narragansett Bay in Rhode Island. Like many in New England, the ocean was a part of your life. I was either 5 or 6 the first and last time my father took me fishing and it is a memory which is etched clearly in my mind.

You first have to understand where my father was in his life. He was in his late 30's when I was born and he had already raised a family of three girls. I am what I like to call "the missed trip to the drug store". Finally, he had a son! While my sisters did lots of things with my father it was still different having a son. Then, I came along. I developed asthma at age two and any possible inclinations I might have had to boosting the testosterone level dropped considerably. Because of my health I did not get involved in sports and spent much of my youth house bound if not in and out of the hospital.

That, however, did not deter my father as we headed down to a dock at the end of the street one summer day. I can still clearly see every move we made. Father and son walking side my side carrying reels and tackle in some Norman Rockwell painting. We got to the end of the pier and I watched carefully as he baited my hook and showed me how to cast. He threw his line in and we waited for the fish to bite.

"Is this all we do?" I asked after only about 45 seconds.

My father sighed heavily as he added fishing to the list of things his only son was not interested in. Baseball, football, card games, car racing and now fishing. He informed me that it did take some time and you had to be patient. When one of our lines did hook something it got even worse.

I don't know what kind of fish it was, all I remember was a large grey flopping and writhing scaled and slimy creature was dropped on the deck at my feet. My father wanted me to help him take the hook out of its mouth. I don't know if the look of horror on his face was due to how loud I screamed or the fact of that scream was the final nail in the coffin of my being the ideal son he had envisioned.

My final memory of that day was the long walk back to our house. I was aware enough to know I had let my father down and I apologized all the way back. He kept telling me it was OK and maybe we would try some other time.

We never did.

I realize now I was only a child at the time and did not understand the concept of male bonding. That the majority of the enjoyment in fishing is just being there doing nothing. Of having the time to just sit and talk with the other person or to simply enjoy their company. And I certainly was too young to know the significance beer can play in the enjoyment of a fishing afternoon.

I'm sure my father is happy that I finally do get it and in some romanticized notion he was there with me on the pier tonight. I didn't catch a single fish. I spent time with a good friend; we talked business, family, friends and bullshit. We also just sat there and spent time with each other.

I think I'll buy some tackle for my son and I.