Page 38 of Grown-Up Second Chance

Joe roared with laughter when he saw my face.

“It’s fishing,” he said. “Not execution at dawn.”

“Same thing,” I replied.

“C’mon. Let’s teach you how to cast.” He picked up a long thin rod. He started across the park road to a large field that had just been mowed.

I stood where I was.

He turned back. “Are you coming?”

“There’s no water over there.”

“I know.”

“So we’re going fishing where there’s no water … and presumably no fish.”

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“I’m teaching you to cast. You don’t need water for that.”

I plodded across the road and followed him into the weeds.

“Fly fishing is all about learning how to cast. Do it right, and it’s pure elegance. Wrong and it becomes a tangled mess.”

“I’m not coordinated at all,” I protested.

“That’s not true,” he said. “I danced with you at prom, remember? Not true at all.”

“Ha! That was a long time ago. I’ve got age-related clumsiness.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“If it isn’t, it should be. And I have it.”

“Just watch, Diane. Stop overthinking and watch.”

After pulling a section of line from the pole, he arced the pole back and the line unfurled in a soft wave before it flew forward with the same grace and drifted to the grass. Before he did it again, he explained what he was doing.

“You have to keep your wrist straight,” he said.

“No limp hands,” I said flopping my hand around like a headless dying chicken. “Got it.”

He chuckled.

“The back stroke is as important as going forward.”

“Learn to swim on my back. No drowning,” I deadpanned. Two could play at puns.

He shook his head.

“Point the tip of the rod down, pull it up slowly at first, accelerate, then come to a complete stop.”

“Got it,” I said. “Drive badly.”

The rod dropped in his hand. “Do you ever stop?”

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