My grandfather’s hands, weathered and spotted from decades of sun and water, wrapped around mine as he helped me cast for the first time. I was five years old. He was seventy-three. And on that quiet morning on the same lake where his father had taught him, a tradition passed to its third generation.
Now I’m teaching my own daughter on that same water, and some things – the important things – haven’t changed at all.
The Lake That Raised Us
It’s not a famous lake. You won’t find it in any fishing magazine or tournament schedule. Just a 200-acre impoundment in rural Ohio that my great-grandfather discovered in 1952. He fished it almost every weekend until he couldn’t anymore, then my grandfather took over, then my father, then me.
The bass population has risen and fallen. The lily pads that used to line the eastern shore are mostly gone now. The old wooden dock where I caught my first bluegill collapsed in a storm fifteen years ago. But the lake is still there, still producing fish, still holding memories that span four generations.
What My Grandfather Taught Me
Grandpa Ed wasn’t what you’d call a technical fisherman. He didn’t own fancy electronics or keep up with the latest lures. His tackle box contained the same basic assortment of baits he’d been using since the 1960s – Rapala minnows, rubber worms, a few spinnerbaits, and hand-tied jigs that he made in his basement during winter.
But he understood fish behavior at an intuitive level that no fish finder could match. He knew where bass would be based on the wind direction, cloud cover, and time of year. He could read the water’s surface like a book, spotting feeding activity from subtle disturbances that I’d have completely missed.
More than technique, though, Grandpa taught me the philosophy of fishing:
- “The catching is a bonus. The fishing is the point.” He said this every single trip, and I didn’t truly understand it until I was an adult.
- “Take care of the lake, and the lake takes care of you.” He picked up trash, released most of what he caught, and never kept more than we could eat.
- “Pay attention. The water tells you everything.” Before he made a single cast, he’d spend ten minutes just watching the lake, observing, thinking.
The Day Everything Changed
In the summer of 2003, Grandpa had a stroke. He survived, but his fishing days were over. He couldn’t grip a rod, couldn’t maintain balance in a boat. For a man who’d spent seventy years on the water, it was devastating.
But he could still sit on the bank. And every Saturday that summer, I’d wheel him down to his favorite spot on the north shore and fish while he watched, offering advice, telling stories, reliving catches from decades past.
“You’re letting them take it too long,” he’d say. “Set that hook, boy.”
Or: “Cast to the left of that stump. Trust me.”
He was right, every time.
Grandpa Ed passed in November of that year. At his funeral, half the stories people told involved that lake. It wasn’t just where he fished – it was where he became who he was, and where he shared that person with everyone he loved.
Passing It Forward
My daughter Emma had no interest in fishing for the first eight years of her life. She preferred soccer, video games, anything that didn’t involve sitting still and waiting. I didn’t push it – the worst thing you can do is force a kid into a hobby they’re not ready for.
But one summer morning when she was nine, she wandered down to the dock while I was preparing my gear. “Can I come?” she asked.
I like to think Grandpa Ed was smiling somewhere.
That first trip was mostly tangles and frustration. Emma didn’t catch anything, got bored after an hour, and spent most of the time asking when we could leave. But she came back the next weekend. And the next.
Her first fish was a bluegill so small it barely fit on the hook. She screamed so loud I thought she’d hurt herself. Then she demanded to know when we could catch a bigger one.
Now she’s fourteen, and she’s better at reading the water than I was at twice her age. She’s developed her own techniques, her own favorite spots on the lake, her own relationship with the water. And sometimes, when she makes an observation about fish behavior that I hadn’t considered, I hear Grandpa Ed’s voice in her words.
Creating Your Own Traditions
Not everyone has a family fishing lake. Not everyone has a grandfather who taught them to cast. But the beautiful thing about fishing traditions is that they can start anywhere, at any time.
If you’re thinking about starting a fishing tradition with your family, here’s what I’ve learned:
Start Small
First trips should be short – an hour or two at most. Focus on fun, not catching fish. Pack snacks, bring comfortable chairs, and be ready to leave before boredom sets in.
Match the Experience to the Age
Young kids need action – bluegill and crappie in shallow water are perfect because bites are frequent. Save the patience-testing trophy hunting for when they’re older and hooked on the sport.
Tell Stories
The fishing itself is only part of the tradition. Share stories about previous catches, about family history, about what fishing has meant to you. These stories become part of the shared memory that defines a tradition.
Let Them Own It
As kids grow, let them pick the spots, choose the baits, make the decisions. A tradition that’s imposed from above won’t last. One that’s shared and evolved together becomes unbreakable.
Document Everything
Take photos. Keep a fishing journal. Note the date, the weather, what was caught. Decades from now, these records become treasures – proof that the tradition existed, evidence of its evolution.
The Lake Abides
Last fall, I took Emma back to Grandpa Ed’s favorite spot on the north shore. It had been years since I’d fished there – too many memories, maybe, or just the natural drift toward new discoveries.
But that morning felt right. The fog lifted the same way it always had. The bass were holding in the same structure. And for a few hours, three generations felt present on that water – my grandfather’s wisdom, my experience, and my daughter’s fresh enthusiasm.
Emma caught a beautiful three-pound largemouth using a technique Grandpa Ed had shown me forty years earlier. As she held it up for a photo, grinning the same grin I’d grinned in the same spot, I understood something I hadn’t before:
Fishing traditions aren’t really about fishing. They’re about the invisible threads that connect generations, the shared experiences that become shared identity, the simple act of being present together in a place that holds meaning.
The fish are just the bonus. The tradition is the point.
