My father was always behind the wheel. Strapped into life jackets, my brothers and I always stood at the bow of the boat and clutched the railing as we made our way out to that day’s fishing spot. We used to scream at the top of our lungs when the boat would hit a large wave and spray salty water in our faces. Standing on the bow of the boat was a fishing trip tradition as much as munching on Lance cheddar cheese crackers, my brothers getting sea-sick, the frequent applications of sunscreen, and the inevitable pulling up of a Key West Grunt. A successful fishing trip meant that all of these things occurred. A truly exceptional fishing trip meant that we actually caught a large grouper, a beautiful red snapper, or a shiny Spanish mackerel.
While I no longer stand at the bow of the boat (the railing that I used to clutch only comes up to my knees now), I still sit at the front of the boat when my father and I go fishing. The unobstructed view, the rhythmic thud of the boat as it rises and falls, and the occasional spray of salty water makes it my preferred spot for the ride out to deepwater. I took up my perch this Father’s Day when I was lucky enough to get away to Florida for a couple of days and go on a fishing trip with my Dad.
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