Many people have a passion for fishing. My stepfather was one of them. French Canadian, his English was rough but serviceable. I’d hear him whistling as he gathered his gear—poles, bucket, lures, bait, his baseball cap, and fishing vest. Oh yes, and a flask of his favorite whiskey. Happy for a day out on the canoe, skiff, or small motorboat. It didn’t matter whether it was sunny or raining. It didn’t matter whether he caught fish or not. He’d be outside. On the lake. Away from screaming kids or my mother’s chore list stuck to the refrigerator door.
The more remote the lake, the better. The deeper ones, especially—three hundred, four hundred feet—filled with great-tasting trout or walleye.
In my youth, he tried to pass this passion on to me. “It’ll be good for her,” he’d tell my mother.
One year, he decided that I needed to learn the joy of ice fishing. “Bundle up. We’re going to be gone all day.”
I put on my winter gear: puffy snow pants, extra warm socks, felt-lined boots, my Cowichan sweater, and a wool balaclava. “Won’t there be a hut on the ice?”
“Yes. There’s a hut. But it’s still cold.”
The sun provided little warmth that day. My stepfather was in his element. Loving it. I, on the other hand, hated it. I couldn’t get past the smells—fish guts, whiskey, damp wool smelling like wet dog. The wind cut through my mittens, stinging my fingers. I didn’t know where to pee.
My stomach growled. “When’s lunch?”
“When you catch a fish,” he answered.
What? No peanut butter and jam sandwiches?
I sulked. I didn’t catch a fish.
My stepfather was quiet on the way home. Then, he said, “Fishing…not always skill. Is the lure. Right thing, right time—the fish take it.”
I shrugged. At the time, I only wanted a hot bath –and the hope that I’d never have to fish again.
Last week, I had another fishing experience. This time with a ph.
An email landed in my inbox from the publishing house HarperCollins. Yep, one of the big Five. An editor’s assistant wrote a polished introduction, “… we’ve noticed your writings …” and asked what projects I was working on. It looked professional. Well-written. She signed it with the Harper-Collins logo and all the right details.
I’m suspicious of any emails like this. Editors usually don’t contact writers. It’s almost always the other way around. They don’t need to. There are too many fish in the water.
Still, I thought, maybe…it’s legitimate.
So, I replied.
She answered back. It was friendly. Encouraging. I even asked ChatGPT if it could be authentic. The answer was yes.
Wow. Little old me.
But something didn’t sit right. I emailed HarperCollins directly, asking them to verify the identity and attached messages.
They replied quickly. Yes, there was an editor by that name. But no—she hadn’t sent that email.
It was phishing.
“Please delete these emails from your inbox. Do not click on any links. Thank you for contacting us.”
Sigh …
I’m thinking about that day on the lake, fishing with my stepfather, and what he said about the lure. At the time, I didn’t think much about it. His words were simple and easy to dismiss. But I understand them better now. It was about making something appealing enough for the fish to bite—hunger, curiosity, temptation.
Some lures are made of feathers and hooks.
Others are made of flattery and possibility.
Either way, someone is hoping you won’t look too closely before you bite.
Enjoy the Passage of Time.
Sharon
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