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Passion hasn’t faded at the end of an extended absense

Eight weeks. Two months. Sixty days. Doesn’t seem like a long time, but it can be an eternity when it comes to certain things – like waiting for the day when I would cast a line with hopes of hooking a fish.

I knew before the surgical team at Cleveland Clinic anesthetized me June 20 that it would be a while until I returned to doing anything resembling “normal.” The surgeons and nurses did a great job and gradually I resumed walking, showering, cooking, writing this column and sleeping in any position other than flat on my back.

Who knew I’d be pushing a grocery buggy through Giant Eagle before I got back around to the activity that more or less defines who I am to many in my various circles. It is, after all, why you are reading this piece today.

The Big Day – the start of the next chapter in my angler vita – was Thursday. It was fulfillment of a promise longtime fishing buddy Steve Zarbaugh of Poland made during a phone call while I was recuperating at home.

“As soon as you are ready, let me know and I’ll take you fishing,” Steve promised.

With that promise in mind, I scratched my angling itch watching TV fishing shows and pulling up memories of great trips from the past. Then it was time. I was ready and Steve delivered on his promise.

We decided on a short trip Thursday afternoon. The sun was warm, the breeze was easy and cotton-puff clouds drifted over the lake.

Do fishing days get any better than that?

In fact, I said I didn’t care whether I caught anything. I wondered whether I could make more than a few feeble casts. Would my legs keep me upright longer than 10 minutes. I was rationalizing.

I’d followed orders and had progressed to the point where I received clearance by the medical people and Barb herself. The doctor said my sternum was mended, so I wasn’t too concerned that lobbing lures for the bass in the weed beds would set me back.

Steve, as always, kept it light. A world-class wisecracker, Steve always has a comment that puts the world in perspective and brings a laugh.

Both of us swung and missed on several bass each before we actually pulled one into the boat. The fish were swiping at our lures but not making the commitment necessary to get the hook into their jaw.

After perhaps 20 minutes of casting, I stuck a chunky bass that raced laterally along the starboard side and bulldogged under the boat. I maneuvered into the driver’s seat of Steve’s boat and reached for the bass’ lower jaw. Secure in my grip, the bass stopped resisting and I swung it aboard.

It was a moment two months in the making. That’s a long time for a guy who feels he’s missing opportunities when he only gets to the lake twice a week.

And that first fish? It was special. But not because of its size or any other remarkable feature other than it was my first bass after a 60-day sabbatical from the sport that gives me great joy and satisfaction.

I had missed having the opportunity that I had taken for granted. So when I swung the largemouth over the gunwale of Steve’s boat, I felt the emotion that needed to be released after being pent up for eight weeks.

Steve summed it up: “That’s a therapy fish.”

Indeed!

Jack Wollitz’s book, “The Common Angler,” explores the fun stuff that makes fishing a passion for so many people. He appreciates emails from readers. Send a note to jackbbaass@gmail.com.

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