I have family in Louisiana who I visit at least once a year. My sister Jo fell in love with Frank, a sailor on leave visiting a friend in California. Jo married this southern boy when she was only 19 years old. She and Frank had four boys. These boys bleed gulf water and love their fisherman’s paradise state. So when Frank, the eldest of the boys, now a man, invited me on a fishing venture, I knew it would be an unforgettable experience. This story is about one day in late June, 2003.
Frank
Frank owns his own fishing boat, and though that speaks volumes of his love of the sport, to him it is a passion.
The night before our adventure, Frank called me to inform me that he would pick me up at 4:00 A.M. The day before, my mind was running wild with thoughts of having to use the bathroom while on a small boat. What if I had to use the bathroom in the middle of nowhere? I tossed and turned all night worrying about this bathroom issue. It was not until 6:30 A.M. that Frank finally pulled up.
Jo reminded me that this was going to be an all-day ordeal and asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this. I did have second thoughts, but only because of the bathroom situation. However, I reluctantly said yes. My other nephew, Nick, was going with us as well, and they invited Resio, a friend of theirs.
Lesson One
The seatbelt had not yet been buckled when Frank turned to deliver his first official lesson in a voice of grave solemnity: “Now look, Aunt Lynda — one thing you have to remember is that a hook can take your eye out. You must be very careful when casting.” Duly noted.
It was seven o’clock by the time we stopped to gas up the boat. Frank announced, with the authority of a man who had made this mistake before, that this was the last call for a public restroom. Then we were back on the highway, rolling through the deep green Louisiana countryside.
By the time we pulled into Port Sulphur, nature had opinions again. Frank’s solution was immediate and unbothered: “Go in the bushes, Aunt Lynda.”
Absolutely not.
A quiet survey of the situation revealed that the truck, strategically positioned, could serve as adequate cover. “I can do this,” came the silent resolution — and it was done.
Meanwhile, Resio and Nick managed to accomplish something that seemed almost impossible: they let the boat get away from them. One moment of distraction, a brief panic, and the boat was drifting free. Fortunately, a quick lunge brought it back under control before the adventure ended before it began.
Lesson Two
Wind in the face, the boat skipping across the water, marsh grass threading through the horizon in every direction — this was the middle of nowhere, and it was exactly right. Frank knew precisely where he was going, and as the boat settled into its destination, he took up his second role of the morning: fishing instructor.
The first lesson was the cast. Getting the line to go where it was supposed to go proved harder than it looked. Time and again the cast fell short, landing closer to the boat than to any fish with self-respect. Frank walked through it patiently, again and again — each time closing with the same line, delivered with the same straight face: “This is the last time, Aunt Lynda.”
The bait was shrimp, and Frank’s instructions were precise: cut each shrimp into three pieces. What followed was one of the finer exercises in personal fortitude of the entire trip. A deeply unpleasant yellow substance oozed from the shrimp and worked its way under the fingernails, where it had no business being. Frank was not looking every moment, and when he was not, the whole shrimp went on the hook. When he caught this, he was direct: using that much bait would guarantee catching nothing. He was probably right.
Resio, for his part, used whole shrimp from the beginning and considered himself excused from the rule entirely — being, by his own account, a serious fisherman. What the day actually revealed was a man who spent more time adjusting his line and rummaging through the tackle box than fishing, offered no shortage of enormous fishing stories that strained credulity, and managed to insert himself into nearly every mishap of the afternoon. Frank tripped over Resio’s pole. Nick lost the big one because Resio’s line crossed with his at the worst possible moment. And when a tangle between Resio’s line and another nearly produced — according to Resio — a shark, blame was assigned without hesitation and without much basis in fact. The man was a big talker and a know-it-all, and nothing about the day changed that impression.
Through all of it, the sand flies were making their own contributions. Small, relentless, and apparently equipped with teeth, they found every exposed inch of skin and used it. Frank identified them without sympathy: sand flies. As if that explained everything, and perhaps it did.
Nick
Nick caught the most fish — and he did it quietly. There is no other explanation for it. His stillness on the water had a quality that seemed almost hypnotic, as though the redfish simply chose to cooperate with a man that calm.
Resio, by contrast, announced his catch to the entire Gulf. He had hooked a stingray — loudly — and in the process of bringing it in, nearly succeeded in flipping the boat. Frank’s warning cut through the chaos without hesitation: “Man, be careful of that tail — it will really sting you!” Both Resio and Nick wanted nothing to do with the creature once it was aboard, and Frank, unsurprised, stepped in to free it. A quiet prayer went up that the stingray would make it.
Frank soon announced a change of location, and the three of us — Frank, Nick, and their aunt — wedged ourselves into the boat side by side in a configuration that could only be described as human canned sardines. Butt puzzles. Not even the largest wave could have separated us. It was, in its own way, perfect.
The new spot produced hardhead catfish — at least three dozen of them. Three came to this side of the boat. The hardhead is not an edible fish, which makes the catching of them a matter of sport rather than supper. Frank wrestled one particularly large specimen that refused to cooperate and, in a moment of pragmatic Gulf Coast justice, dealt with it against the side of the boat. Nick followed suit. Another quiet prayer went up — this time for the fish, and their hook wounds, and whatever peace awaits a hardhead catfish on the other side of a very bad afternoon.
By the last stretch of the trip, a quiet desperation had set in. Everyone on the boat had caught something — even Resio had landed a sizable trout — and I had not caught a single fish. Not one. Desperation has a way of producing prayer, and so I prayed, right out loud, without a trace of embarrassment.
When I opened my eyes, something was moving near the side of the boat. It had many arms and no business being that close. Frank identified it immediately: an octopus. His instructions followed just as fast — do not cast anywhere near it. I was fascinated by its long, reaching arms, but I’ll be honest — it looked far less like something from a nature documentary and far more like a giant tarantula. Unsettling and captivating all at once. I watched its every move.
The real turning point came not from prayer alone, but from a moment of clear-eyed observation. Nick had been catching fish all day, and when I finally looked closely at his situation, the reason was obvious. Nick had the best spot. Nick had the best pole. And Nick had the best excuse: from the moment we boarded, he had needed to use the bathroom, and his brother Frank had shown absolutely no mercy — never once pulling the boat over. Nick refused to take care of matters with me on board, and so he suffered in silence. Apparently, God took notice. Nick had been so abundantly blessed with fish that by this point he was too uncomfortable to even hold a pole.
His spot was now open. So was his pole. I claimed both without hesitation. The only adjustment was casting to the opposite side of the boat — because that octopus was still loitering right where the trout should have been.
The difference was immediate. My line cut through the thick, humid Gulf air with a clean, singing sound — the sound of a real fisherman’s cast. It seemed to reach the far edge of the sea. It was a perfect cast.
There were no fish.
“No more bait!” Frank called out. Time to pack it up.
The Patrol
The Fish and Wildlife patrol boats were docked as we pulled in. Frank, true to form, had one final lesson ready before the truck even stopped. “Remember, Aunt Lynda — you and Resio don’t have fishing licenses, so don’t talk to them.”
Really?
I talk to abandoned cats. There was no possible version of this moment where I was going to walk past uniformed officers without checking whether they needed Jesus in their lives. While the guys busied themselves hooking the boat up to the truck, I wandered over and made small talk.
One of the officers asked what we had caught. I wanted to tell him about all the hardheads and their hook wounds, but I held my tongue. Instead, I asked what their work actually involved. They explained that they were out there to make sure any fish caught were the legal size. I mentioned, helpfully, that we had measured everything we caught. Then I told them about the octopus.
There was a pause.
They informed me, with the kind of patience reserved for tourists, that there are no octopuses inshore in the Gulf.
I looked over at Nick. He was already smirking. It had been seaweed.
The Ride Home
On the ride home, my mind drifted to the disciples. Simon, Andrew, James and John — fishermen, every one of them. And it struck me how much this one day had quietly taught: you need the right equipment, you need patience, you need to stay still and stay quiet, and if you do all of that, there is a reward waiting at the end of the line. That is how they caught fish. And through that same training, they became fishers of men.
“Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” — Mark 1:17
