Circle of life and all that (or: Some "owies" are okay)

Hey kids,

I never even suspected the cold-blooded killer that lurks within you, Jake.

I took you to the Kids Fishing Derby this morning, an event that I've read about for years since moving here, and have dreaded as inevitable since the day you were born. Not because I don't love fishing, but because -- on paper -- it sounds like a complete clusterf*ck.

It's an insanely popular two-day event in which thousands of kids vie for 7,000 fish that have been specially dumped into the tiny stream that runs through the local park. Each day, three hour-and-a-half fishing sessions take place, maximum 400 kids each session, divvied up into age groups. At the appointed time, the 400 kids line up on the banks of the stream, cast their poles, catch their limit of two fish, then move out of the way to make room for more hopeful little fisher guys and gals.

What I envisioned: a horde of screaming, jostling children crowding the banks, hooks flying, parents barking orders, more hooks, medical personnel, heavy loss of life and limb, absolutely no fish.

The reality: a well-organized event with significantly less than 400 kids per session (at least today), a minimum of hooks flying through the air, well-behaved children, and almost every child participating quickly dispatched his or her limit of two fish.



Not once did either one of us ever have to touch a hook, the bait, or an actual fish. Volunteers were on hand to attach the hook to your line, another cadre of volunteers walked up and down the shore and baited your hooks, still more took your catch off the hooks and re-baited them, and at the end of it all, there were even more volunteers ready to clean and gut your fish. All in all, very clinical and efficient.

It took you a total of about 17 minutes to bag your limit. I didn't know what to expect from you as the first fish struck your line. Would you drop the pole and run amok, as I saw at least one kid do? No, you calmly reeled it in, plopped it on the shore and began a cold and impartial examination of your first kill. As you watched the volunteer remove the hook with a pair of bloody pliers, you asked if the fish had an "owie." I said yes, that the fish most definitely had an owie, but some owies are okay, and you should thank him before you slip him into the plastic shopping bag and go hunting for his buddy.

You somberly told him 'thank you' then repeated the whole process with fish No. 2. And you didn't even flinch when the fish-gutting volunteer ... gutted your fish. I was so proud of you.

Here's you and your friend Sami celebrating with a nut-free dessert afterwards.



Sami and his mom are even thinking about going to another fishing derby up in Tahoe next weekend, and asked if we wanted to go. I dunno, maybe! You did have an awful lot of fun, and talked about it all the rest of the day. Your last words as you went to sleep tonight were about fish and fishing, so I suspect that this is something that you would like to do again.

But I will have you know, I draw the line at the Tiny Tots Deer Hunt-O-Rama (limit one buck or two does, and bring yer own Fisher Price My First Firearms and kiddie cammies) scheduled for the first weekend in October. That's just WRONG.

Love you, my darling little fisherman.

PS: Sorry daddy gave you such a crappy haircut last week. We'll fix it soon, I promise. I'll have my people call your people.