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Saturday, May 25, 2013

By Tracy McArdle
Published: July 9, 2009

My husband has a DVD called "Stripers Gone Wild." If you weren't familiar with fishing on the Vineyard, you might think that is a typo. It isn't. "Stripers Gone Wild" is like "best of" fishing porn. It follows the trail of the stripers along the East Coast, and includes stops at Gay Head, Wasque Point, and the island of Cuttyhunk.

When my husband and I met over twenty years ago, I knew he was an outdoorsman. He will spend half a day clawing up a mountain to ski down in thirty minutes, and bike over terrain that intimidates mountain goats. I also knew he liked to fish the Vineyard. Now I realize that is like saying Bernie Madoff was overdrawn.

I remember the first Memorial Day weekend I joined him on the Vineyard. I had taken the redeye from L.A. and a few hours later was waist deep in a place called Tashmoo, negotiating a bright pink pipe cleaner at the end of a fly rod. He'd bought me waders and boots.

At the time, I remember thinking that was sweet and nothing to be alarmed about. I was exhausted but did my best to interest the fish in my pipe cleaners, which were supposed to mimic the seasonal worm hatch, but I kept losing them to the tide and the bottom and my general lack of ability. This was my first experience with a "worm hatch," and I had no idea how exciting a worm hatch is.

Sunset came and went, and finally I suggested we eat dinner. I was dying to sample one of the Island restaurants That was the first time I heard my husband utter those three words that would become the foundation of our relationship: "One more cast."

The next day I was introduced to two important people in my husband's life: Coop and Larry, as in Coop's tackle shop and Larry's tackle shop. Then he showed me the Island, from Oak Bluffs to the Gay Head Cliffs. We had romantic walks and talks - at big bridge, the herring run, and my favorite - Memorial Wharf in Edgartown Harbor, where we jigged for squid until midnight, when I finally admitted I wasn't having fun.

It's not like I was jealous of his fishing. I had my own hobby: horses. For most of my life my hobby had been supported by other people's horses, but now I was an adult with a good job and no dependents and my disposable income went to the local barn. My husband was about as interested in horses as I was in fish, but he didn't even pretend to care about Gogo, my leased thoroughbred, when he visited California. But then, I hadn't bought him any britches or boots, either.

We were dating long distance, and it became a game of Who Was Going to Move, although we both knew and pretended we didn't that it was going to be me. Fishing isn't the same in L.A. If you've been there, you know what I mean. To my husband it was one big, "parking lot beach."

To close the deal, he took me to Patagonia for a week of fly fishing and camping on horseback. The horseback riding was limited to the daylight, and to the fact that horses actually have to stop to eat, rest and pee. The fish had no such limitations. He would set me up at daybreak along a stretch of river with my boots and waders and say, "Here's a wooly booger. I'm just going to fish that pool over there for a while. Call if you need me."

When I think back to those moments I wonder why I didn't spend that time writing my novel.

At about dusk I suggested dinner. He and the guide looked at me like the helpless, crazed junkies they were. "We're going to catch dinner," he reasoned. If you are reading this column, you probably know, this is the universal defense against any fishing intrusion. When I asked how long it might be, he explained, "They don't call it catching, hon."

Some time later we were stationed in a cozy stone house on the island of Naushon for a writer's workshop. I was getting a few hours of work done while he "caught dinner" for the entire group (about 20 people).

At about 4:30 a.m. he crept into my room, fishless and stinking of fish. I was fuchsia with rage. "I can't believe I have been up all night waiting for you!" I seethed, and the look on his face suggested that he couldn't believe it either. The next night, everyone had pasta. That same week I was introduced to Robinson's Hole and Middle Ground (locations), the white Mushie and the olive Windcheater (flies). I competed with these things for my husband's attention. And still do.

When we married, I moved East and in return, he agreed to buy a house on two acres so I could keep a horse. Then two horses. Then a couple of goats. Slowly the two acres filled with boats and trailers. "This one is for hauling manure," he lied. The book on my night table was "Training the Young Horse." The book on his night table was, "Cod." He would go to bed at two after tying flies, get up at three-thirty, and drive two hours for "Dawn Patrol." Yet, I admired his wing-nut devotion. I loved that he could be so passionate about something. Even if it was fish and not me.

After children arrived, the fishing would recede peacefully like a waning tide, I thought. The gifts for our son ranged from an Orvis fishing vest in size 0-6 months, and many tiny, cartoon-emblazoned life jackets. The first rod appeared on the first birthday and though it was wooden, ten inches long with a magnet instead of a hook, the message was clear. I fought his urge to buy a squid mobile for the crib, and Coop helped.

Sixteen months later, I had another boy. I tortured my husband with a due date of May 30 - meaning he basically missed the first two months of the season. But now, a year later, I have begun to understand the value of what his hobby is teaching our children. About discipline. About commitment. About respect for nature. About unplugging. And most importantly, about having something to do that doesn't involve cars, drugs, or girls. Yet, anyway. And I can't wait until my men can all go out fishing together. Oh, the places I'll go!

Now, I ride Other People's Horses when I can. My husband fishes when he can get away with it. The book on my night table is "Solving Your Child's Sleep Problems." The book on his night table is "Tuna: A Love Story."

My husband's addiction, like all addictions, will always live with us. There are still multiple boats in our yard and fishhooks in our house. But hey, I know where my husband is. And he always comes home. Eventually.

Tracy McArdle is a writer who lives in Carlisle, MA and spends time in Oak Bluffs with her husband and two children.  She is the author of Confessions of a Nervous Shiksa and Real Women Eat Beef, and also writes for momlogic.com.