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Dad’s Last Fish
By Ken Horn | June 15, 2008
For Father’s Day, I offer this short article I wrote about my dad shortly after his death, 17 years ago.
A broad tailfin slapped the water and sent spray skyward. I watched as my dad held on desperately, a mixture of excitement and fatigue evident on his face. His gnarled, arthritic hands all but ignored his commands to raise the rod tip and take in line. This would be the fight of his life. He’d caught bigger fish—but that was when he was much younger and healthier. If he could land this fish it would be his first salmon in fresh water. And it would be the last fish of his life.
Dad and I were close. Times outdoors together were treasured experiences. He had instilled in me a love of God’s creation. We would squeeze every moment of enjoyment out of watching a river otter, a mule deer, or a covey of quail.
Now, near the end of his fight with cancer, I watched this titanic struggle; and my mind returned to the beginning of the day. It was a gorgeous, still autumn morning when we arrived at the river. Fall colors punctuated the shoreline and a gentle mist hovered above us. Dad’s hands would no longer let him tie a hook. I helped him rig and get into his waders with difficulty. We made our way carefully into the shallows. The salmon were running but I had selected an area accessible to him and, thus, less likely for fish.
Just a few casts into the day I felt my rod tip dip, lifted it, and knew I was into a fall Chinook. Then we repeated a scenario that had occurred in my childhood—but now we reversed the roles. “Dad, I’ve got one. Trade me rods.” Never before would he ever consider such a thing. But we both knew today was different.
Now I watched helplessly as his first flush of excitement turned to labored concern. The reel sang—zzzzzz—as the large hen peeled off line. Time after time he laboriously drew the fish near only to see the large form shrink once again as it stripped line from the spool and raced across stream.
And now his rod tip dropped dangerously low. Weak from age, illness, and fatigue, he just didn’t have the strength to finish the fight.
A group of onlookers had gathered and I asked two to help him to shore while I held the rod. With his back turned, I quickly raised the rod tip and pumped the exhausted fish in. When Dad turned around, I handed him the rod, and tailed the fish—a 17-pound king salmon.
He never made another cast. He sat on a folding stool and regaled passing admirers with details of the battle.
Not long after, I stood at Dad’s casket. He won this fight, I thought. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Timothy 4:7, NKJV). Dad left me a legacy of godliness. And God left me the memory of that special day on the river.
When the funeral was over, we returned to the house. His rod stood against the wall of the garage, still rigged for action. Where’s Roy? it seemed to say.
I still have that rod; it’s still rigged; some day I’ll take it fishing. But for now I’ll just look at it and remember that God gave us that one last day. And He gave Dad one last fish.
Topics: Christian living |
