Kissing a Fish

The last time I went fishing was when I was about 18 years old. My father and stepmother had taken my girlfriend and I to Corpus Christi for a mini beach vacation. That was the official position, but really, it was because my father wanted to go fishing. I had never enjoyed fishing, mostly because I lacked the patience and ability to sit still long enough to wait for a fish to commit suicide on my hook. I got restless, and I wanted to move. I got bored sitting alone, not talking or doing anything for hours on end…which is why I convinced them to let me take my girlfriend.

The morning we were suppose to go fishing, we got up at 4:00 a.m., so we could be at the pier by 5:00 a.m. and grab a “primo” spot. I forgot to mention that I’m also not a morning person or getting up before the sun. It was pitch black when we trudged out on the pier to claim our spots, my dad and stepmother on one side, and my girlfriend and I on the other. We had to use flashlights to see what we were doing. When we were all set, I cast off into the murky darkness and waited…and waited…and waited. The first rays of sunlight started to creep up over the horizon, and still we waited. I watched the sunrise, and my girlfriend slept in her chair.

Finally, I felt a tug on my line. I set the hook and reeled in my prize. Which ended up being a very angry crab. After fighting him off the hook and dropping him back in the water, I cast off again. I didn’t have to wait as long before I snagged something else, but it was only a giant glob of seaweed. Then I cast a third time, and this time, I hit gold…well, sort of a gold and blue with black cross stripes.

I had caught a small pinfish. Too small to keep, but large enough to fill my hand. And as I looked into the scared eyes of that fish, I was overcome by a strange emotion. To this day, I can’t explain it or what possessed me to do what I did next.

I kissed that fish right on his puckered lips…and he kissed me back.