Coronavirus isolation is a perfect excuse to go fishing (and to talk about bombs)

In this (temporarily, folks) socially-distanced environment, one sport both requires and encourages minimal social contact, gets you outside in a healthy way and you don’t have to touch anything gross except bass slime.

That’s fishing, my friends.

I grew up in Minnesota, Land of Ten Thousand Lakes (actually 11,842, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue), so I am one of your fellow anglers. California has 3,000 lakes, but it’s not enough to turn into a state slogan. We have Hollywood, Land of Ten Thousand Flakes.

I know you are probably well past the stage of cleaning your tackle box, oiling your Shimanos, doing a quick Rapala count, and testing your 6-pound test Stren for line weakness.

See? I know this stuff. Don’t get me started on cheese hook preferences.

Mostly, I fly fish, which is even more socially distant than boat fishing. I do love boat fishing as well, and actually own the first boat I was ever in. My dad bought a 12-foot Penn Yan cartopper (olive drab, wooden strip interior) from Howie Larsen in Marquette, Michigan, in 1963 or so, and it hangs next to my pool to this day. I noted yesterday that it hasn’t been registered since 1999.

I should get on that boat registration, it being a generation ago and all.

My early fishing involved the usual Midwestern stuff, like bobbers for sunnies, crappies and bass. My first rod and reel was a Zebco. Fun fact: Zebco used to make electric bombs for oil exploration, and Zebco is actually an acronym:

Zero Hour Bomb Company.

Have a nice day.

Growing up in Minnesota, after a tragic walleye and northern pike period, I expanded my repertoire to include fly fishing, which is a commitment to a lifetime of feeding your obsessive compulsive disorder.

I loved to fish the Kinnickinnic River for brown trout in Wisconsin. Mostly they were small, in the 7-to-9-inch range, but I caught a few that were more like 14 inches. I saw a child pull one out of the river that was on the order of 3 pounds; certainly 18 to 20 inches.

“What did you catch him on?”

“Worms.”

Yet another object lesson in the life of the fly fisher.

The fishing in California is excellent. I live close to the Delta, and it’s a bass hotbed. I’ve hooked bass in irrigation ditches in Sacramento, fly fished the American, the Owens, and have caught golden trout in the Sierra.

I still don’t fish enough here, but I know that you’re all out there wanting even more social distancing than you already get from having Socratic dialogues with your cat. The beautiful part of fishing is that you can do it together, and yet apart. On a river, one would rarely address a fishing partner any closer than 100 feet away, and the vocabulary is very elemental:

“Nice!”, “Whoa!”, “Wooooooo!”, “Arggh!”, and “#@amp;????!!!” are common fishing terms that convey exact meanings to any fellow fisherperson, and can be communicated easily without any droplet spray.

Fishing is also a great time to engage in moments of solitude, and you can have many internal conversations with yourself about the many things you’ve grateful for in life, such as how you’re really glad you didn’t know that Zebco Stands for Zero Hour Bomb Company until moments ago.

As an extrovert, I love to fish, but I also find a day on the water can lead me to lose about 10,000 words of vocabulary. In a fishing camp, for example, one doesn’t really go overboard in describing the day you had anyway.

“Ketchin’ any?’

“25 or 30.” (Lie).

“Any size to ‘em?’

“Some.”

I also find that fishing conversation can really clear a room in most social situations if you want more space. Go to a party (soon, I hope), and try it.

“Yeah, I was using a Size 20 PMD emerger with a trailing nymphal husk, and they were sipping in the meniscus, so I decided to dab it instead of a roll cast.”

“My, look at the time. I need another drink.”

Works every time. Even better than a Zero Hour Bomb.

The best thing about fishing these days?

It’s really easy to wash your hands.