Standing there next to the
big marble lions which flank the entrance, in the shade of London Plane Trees
(which, I believe, in London, are simply called Plane Trees), while tourists
from Denmark, Korea, the American Southeast, and sundry other earthly locales
snapped away with their digital cameras on their digital phones as a dozen of
us seemingly ordinary, eccentric locals stood there with eight foot fly rods,
casting thirty feet of line forward and backward and forward and backward and forward,
over and over and over again, all the while attempting to lay our fly line out
on the paving stones in practice casts, it must be assumed that these
uninitiates to our local weirdness were almost certainly saying to themselves,
“Only in New York City,” that age old cliché going through their minds as they
stood there on a Saturday afternoon when they’d expected to see merely the
Public Library, Bryant Park, Saks Fifth Avenue, and maybe even one or two drag
queen hookers.
Admittedly,
we must have looked at least a little odd, casting for fish with no water to be
seen, but this odd looking Paterfamilias was so excited to learn that he hadn’t
forgotten everything he’d ever known about fly fishing during his decade long
hiatus from the pastime, that he hardly noticed those people gawking and
pointing and capturing our strange urban moment for future anecdotal conversation
fodder.
I
somehow remembered how to cast. I
somehow remembered how to hold a rod.
I somehow remembered how to lay down the line and stay out of the trees
and feel really good about my fishing ability. It was only the knots that gave me some trouble, and even
with those, my sluggish memory managed to kick start itself after a half dozen
attempts. (But knots are hard and
you can’t be too tough on yourself at first.)
There’s
a reason the Recent Paterfamilias has decided to rekindle his fly fishing
enthusiasm. In fact, there are a
couple of reasons. Firstly, he
likes it. Secondly, the R.P. needs
a hobby (although, truth be told, fishing isn’t largely viewed, amongst the
fishing community, as a hobby, but,
instead, as a passion). Perhaps this behavior on the part of
the Recent Paterfamilias is exhibiting some sort of
stay-at-home-dad-like-mid-life-crisis, though I doubt that’s the case. (Buying a little red corvette and
bedding buxom blonde model-types is a far stretch from the likes of fly fishing
alone on a river somewhere. Or on
a lake. Or a saltwater bay. Or a pond in Central Park.)
And
that’s right. There’s fishing to
be had in Central Park. They (They being some sort of state or
federally funded fish conservation agency) even stock the ponds in Central Park
with fish, actual live fish, fish that just swim around,
fish that are eating and swimming and just waiting to be caught. (Naturally, per Their regulations, there is a catch-and-release policy.)
Plus,
if I ever move to Brooklyn, They (the conservationist overlords) also stock the
lake in Prospect Park, too.
With
fishing so close to home, it’s almost a sin for the R.P. not to take advantage of it.
So,
it should be noted, in the future, the R.P. should be considered not only as
the Recent Paterfamilias, but also as the No So Recent But Recently Invigorated
Fly Fisherman Paterfamilias, and, believe him, he will be sure to relate to his
loyal readers how his inaugural urban fly fishing adventure transpires when he
hits the water at the pond around West 104th Street this coming
weekend. (And there is no doubt in
the R.P.’s mind that this Recently Enthused Fly Fisherman—or R.E.F.F.—will be
heckled mercilessly from the shore—but sometimes you have to do what you have
to do when it comes to hooking some poor fish in the lip and dragging him out
of his natural habitat). 
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