I have the social skills of a mole, an affliction occasionally misinterpreted as rudeness. Nothing could be further from the truth. I strive to be polite, kind and helpful to friends, acquaintances and strangers alike. It’s just that crowds generally trigger a ridiculous level of uneasiness, and public speaking gives me the willies. So, when a message popped up on my computer with an invitation to speak to a fly-fishing group, I stared at the screen as though it were a viper.
I do fly fish, generally enjoy the company of other fly fishermen, and can speak the language (fly fishing has its own quirky lingo). I am an adequate caster but no more than that. An expert, I am not.
I was self-taught with a heavy, unweildly fiberglass rod, and the results were predictable. But you didn’t have to cast like Joan Wulff, the “First Lady of Fly Fishing,” to catch oxbow lake and farm pond bluegill.
I muddled along for several years, improving by trial and error, catching a few fish and expanding my pursuits to include bass and trout. My work occasionally afforded me the opportunity to fish in places that otherwise would have been inaccessible to me. Seasoned guides, who must have been either amused or enraged by my ragged casting, were nearly always gracious and kind. They helped me catch fish. A Wyoming guide once displayed enormous patience trying to teach me the roll cast.
Then, at a meeting in upstate New York a few years later, I met John Merwin. If you don’t recognize the name, look him up. Merwin authored several books, including New American Trout Fishing; founded Rod & Reel (later Fly Rod & Reel) magazine; started Fly Tackle Dealer magazine; and from 2003 to ’10 served as fishing editor for Field & Stream magazine. He was one of the most skilled and knowledgeable fly fishermen of the past half-century, but he wasn’t showy about it. Although we’d never met before, I had worked for Merwin in a long-distance sort of way.
On the final morning of the New York meeting, I was having coffee with a friend when Merwin walked in and, to our surprise, sat down with us. We were in the presence of fishing greatness and were somewhat awed by it.
Merwin, who died in 2013, could also be a bit intimidating, although not with intent. His New York Times obituary described him as being, at times, “gruff and critical and warm and patient.” It’s a near perfect description.
The small talk was brief. Then, with uncharacteristic bluntness, I asked Merwin if he would give me some casting tips. I needed help.
He said yes and stood up. My friend, who was as stunned as I was, quickly asked if he could come along.
Merwin shook his head. “You can’t afford me,” he said with a slight grin that could have denoted New England humor.
We walked outside. Merwin picked up a rod, and I followed him through trees to a grassy area away from and out of sight of the building. He spoke quietly, turning the rod, turning my wrist; his hand on my shoulder; his foot nudging my feet into a better position. He taught by example and experience, his words as soothing as a song. It was masterful schooling.
I thanked him profusely, which he quickly dismissed with a wave.
“The best thing to do is practice,” he said. “Keep a rod strung up at the back door and practice, even if it’s just for a few minutes.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “It’s not that hard.”
At a friend’s urging, I accepted the invitation from the fly-fishing group. It was a Saturday afternoon meeting followed by a picnic and fishing at a member’s pond. My part of the program was brief. The crowd was welcoming and polite.
Later, at the picnic, a young man with a slight build and sporting a ponytail was standing near the deep end of the pond, beating the water into froth. A couple of members walked over and offered some unsolicited advice. I later learned he wasn’t a group member but had come with a friend. He’d never fly fished but said it looked like fun and wanted to learn something about it.
“I liked your talk,” he said, then gestured toward the rod in his right hand. “Got any advice?”
We walked to the water’s edge. He handed me the rod. I handed it back. We talked briefly about letting the rod do the work and how to let it do the work.
“It’s a tool,” I offered, “not a weapon.” He made a few casts, hooked and lost, then hooked and landed a fish. He seemed pleased.
“The best thing to do is practice,” I heard myself saying. “String up a rod and keep it by the back door, and practice a few minutes each day if you can. It’s really not that hard.”