I’ve met all types of people while fishing: fanatics, dabblers, uberwealthy, independently poor, loudmouths, quiet-and-reserved, drunks, adrenaline junkies, gearheads, attention seekers and a long list of solid, good-natured men and women who have become my lifelong friends (and in some cases de facto life coaches).

No matter where I fish, I have one simple rule whenever I step aboard a boat with someone for the first time: Learn something new, even if that one thing is, I don’t ever want to go fishing with this person ever again.

Watching how someone reacts to losing a fish can be a solid indicator of who they are at their core. Do they pout and stomp their feet like a child? Do they shrug it off with a smile and rebait the hook? Do they learn from it and vow to never make that mistake again? Do they beat themselves up and sulk for hours?

I’ve graduated from one reaction to another. Now that I’m wading into the midstream of my life, I try my best to shrug off a lost fish, retie and get back out there. I’ve learned that time on the water is precious and that it’s a waste of a valuable resource to glower for hours if a fish breaks you off. But overcoming such emotion is easier said than done. When I was a young boy fishing on my father’s boat, I often cried when a fish shook free. The disappointment was too much for me. The sway from the highest of highs with Dad cheering me on to the deep hollows of despair snapped me into pieces. Dad would say something nice like, “It’s OK buddy, there’s plenty more out there,” as he patted my shoulders. But I couldn’t turn it around, and I’d let the one that got away ruin my entire day.

I’ve cussed, screamed and destroyed good gear. And what did it get me? High blood pressure and an expensive trip to the tackle shop. No one likes to lose fish, but watching an adult act like an insane person because a barracuda bit through the leader of a prized bonefish catch will destroy the vibe for everyone else on the trip. Negative energy is as contagious as Covid. I no longer fish with those people. I fish to get away from them. I no longer fish in high-pressure tournaments, either — it’s just not my bag.

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Loss is something we cannot escape, and as we get older, it happens with more regularity. Comparing the loss of someone you love to losing a fish is ridiculous, but the stages you wade through are similar. It’s OK to react with anger. It’s OK to be overcome with grief. There are no rules. But the sooner you can reach acceptance and rest on fond memories and good times, the sooner you can toss that lure back out and start enjoying yourself again.

No matter where you stand on the economic ladder, time is the currency of which we are shortest. For me, grieving is best done with a fishing rod in hand and memories flooding my mind. Fishing is my happy place. I don’t want to pollute it with hostile anglers who are hopped up on ego. If I lose a trophy fish, I’ll try not to sulk. I will be brokenhearted, for sure, but I’ll retie and try again. You never know what’s going to happen — the next fish might even be bigger.  

To my mom: Rhonda Levine, 1948-2022