Recently in fly fishing Category
This is Teannaki. When I went to Christmas Island (Kiritimati in Gilbertese) last year, he was the first person I met. Top-notch fishing guides tend to be self-possessed, quietly confident people, but I've never met anyone who had that quality more than Teannaki. He was as burly as a stone god, and I thought to myself that he looked like he was carved from the trunk of an oak tree. He spoke little, and he radiated authority. He also seemed to have a thoughtful, preoccupied air, which might have been his nature or might have come from the tremendous complexity of guiding anglers in an environment with multiple variables—tide, weather, light, fish—that are always changing. He seemed to prefer thinking to talking, and it showed in his expression.
But as we bumped down the dirt road in a van heading to the fishing camp, I saw his lighter side for the first time. He said that after we got settled in and unpacked, we'd get together and talk about our daily routine for the coming week in a open-air meeting hall in the camp's center. "The maneaba," I said. I'd done some reading, and in the Gilbert Islands—now the republic of Kiribati), it was a tradition for each village to have a large palm-thatched structure by this name where people would meet and discuss things. It's a central part of their culture, still important today—the republic's parliament is called a maneaba, for example.
When I said that one word, Teannaki smiled for the first time since we'd met. He leaned forward and gave my arm a friendly poke with one of his stubby, strong fingers. "That's our word," he said. This was no great feat of linguistics on my part, but it really broke the ice. Teannaki was sitting in a van with four foreign strangers that he would be babysitting for a week, and I'm sure that in his thoughts was one big variable—what kind of people were we? Good guys? Jerks? And maybe my coming out with that one unexpected Gilbertese word, like a magician taking a dove out of a top hat, suggested to him that we were at least going to try to be good guys. Or maybe it was just a pleasant shock of recognition, like when you unexpectedly run into an old friend in a town full of strangers.
At any rate, it was a nice moment, and not the only one. Teannaki showed us the best week of fishing any of us had ever had, and he and his staff earned our respect and affection many times over. And now there's a god-damned tsunami spreading across the Pacific. I can tell you there's not a lot of high ground in Christmas Island, and probably not a lot of it anywhere in Micronesia—it's all coral atolls, and they just don't grow all that high. The people there must have some provision for tsunamis, because they've been there for thousands of years. I hope they do, at any rate. When you've been to a far-off place and met people there, it worries you when you hear that they're facing a potential disaster. That little girl who came and did traditional dances for us the last night, the band that sang popular songs, the other guides, the nice folks who made our food and straightened up our rooms, Teannaki who smiled and poked me with his finger—I hope they're going to be safe. I hope the same for everyone, of course, but those people are real for me now, even if they live literally on the other side of the world, and I hope it for them even more.
Finally I got out fishing in the fresh air today. Now, you understand that fly fishing on a small stream on the East Coast is not what you'd call an extreme sport. It's more a kind of understated, delicate activity, like playing croquet. There's some walking involved, and occasionally a clamber up and down a bank.
But somehow, buying food on the way home, it seemed right that there was ground bison on the supermarket shelf. Bison! The wide open spaces! Mountains on the horizon! And of course, there's the attractive idea that eating a particular animal will give you that animal's characteristics. But I got to thinking: What if eating animals doesn't necessarily give you the most desirable of that animal's qualities? What if eating bison doesn't actually give you the strength of the bison? What if it gives you, say, the grace and agility of the bison? Or just the smell of the bison? All the label said was to keep refrigerated and to use or freeze before April 2. I think there's more to know.
But somehow, buying food on the way home, it seemed right that there was ground bison on the supermarket shelf. Bison! The wide open spaces! Mountains on the horizon! And of course, there's the attractive idea that eating a particular animal will give you that animal's characteristics. But I got to thinking: What if eating animals doesn't necessarily give you the most desirable of that animal's qualities? What if eating bison doesn't actually give you the strength of the bison? What if it gives you, say, the grace and agility of the bison? Or just the smell of the bison? All the label said was to keep refrigerated and to use or freeze before April 2. I think there's more to know.
I'm a U.S. guy but I'm not much of a football fan, and I can prove it. I was on the phone with a U.S. female yesterday and the subject of Super Bowl parties came up. She gave me a pop quiz: Which teams are playing this year? I'm not sure how important the actual game is in the whole Super Bowl experience but I wanted to do my best, so I thought about it. Like anything where you don't just know the answer, you have to work it out by logic. Now, in looking at some news stories there are others that come into your peripheral vision. And then there's the radio, where there's no choice. I'd heard that this New England Patriots team was very very good, so I felt that I was on solid ground here. I'm a good test-taker, actually.
"The Patriots?" I asked.
Yes, it turns out the Patriots are one of the teams. She took pity on my ignorance and said the other was the Giants. Huh! Whaddaya know. That's the kind of football fan I am.
I have another friend who distinguishes carefully between sports and games. He insists that football and other team sports are in fact games—formal rules, played with balls and bats and such. Hunting and fishing are sports. Which makes me a sports fan after all. I've been busy lately, with one thing and another, so I haven't done the winter trout fishing thing. But I think about it, and will soon, if I can.
I also think about spring, summer, and fall trout fishing, casting a long line quietly under the tree limbs to the fish rising in the shadowy banks. And there's the saltwater, casting heavier tackle out beyond the breakers, and coming tight to the heavier fish you catch there. And there's the Rockies, with the faster, bigger streams and the mountains as a backdrop. And the tropics, with blues and greens and viscous sunlight and frigate birds wheeling slowly overhead. Lately it's been buildings and parking lots and desks and staplers pretty exclusively, but I haven't forgotten that according to some definitions I'm a sports fan. Nothing against games, plenty of fine folks get a kick out of them. But you act according to your nature. Fish gotta swim, bird gotta fly, and all. I have nothing against eating chicken wings and potato chips and drinking beer with a TV in the corner of the room showing a series of extra-edgy commercials interspersed with occasional snippets of a football game between the—wait a minute—Patriots and Giants, right, nothing against that sort of thing. But personally I'd rather fish. And will soon, if the fates allow. Cold, tramping around in the outdoors, a few trout brought to hand and released. That's my idea of a super Sunday. Soon, like I say.
"The Patriots?" I asked.
Yes, it turns out the Patriots are one of the teams. She took pity on my ignorance and said the other was the Giants. Huh! Whaddaya know. That's the kind of football fan I am.
I have another friend who distinguishes carefully between sports and games. He insists that football and other team sports are in fact games—formal rules, played with balls and bats and such. Hunting and fishing are sports. Which makes me a sports fan after all. I've been busy lately, with one thing and another, so I haven't done the winter trout fishing thing. But I think about it, and will soon, if I can.
I also think about spring, summer, and fall trout fishing, casting a long line quietly under the tree limbs to the fish rising in the shadowy banks. And there's the saltwater, casting heavier tackle out beyond the breakers, and coming tight to the heavier fish you catch there. And there's the Rockies, with the faster, bigger streams and the mountains as a backdrop. And the tropics, with blues and greens and viscous sunlight and frigate birds wheeling slowly overhead. Lately it's been buildings and parking lots and desks and staplers pretty exclusively, but I haven't forgotten that according to some definitions I'm a sports fan. Nothing against games, plenty of fine folks get a kick out of them. But you act according to your nature. Fish gotta swim, bird gotta fly, and all. I have nothing against eating chicken wings and potato chips and drinking beer with a TV in the corner of the room showing a series of extra-edgy commercials interspersed with occasional snippets of a football game between the—wait a minute—Patriots and Giants, right, nothing against that sort of thing. But personally I'd rather fish. And will soon, if the fates allow. Cold, tramping around in the outdoors, a few trout brought to hand and released. That's my idea of a super Sunday. Soon, like I say.
