A Big Catch -2024- ... ((top)) - Divorced Angler Memories Of

Then the rod bent like a sentence finishing its thought. It was sudden and complete, a physical punctuation that sent a thrill from wrist to chest. I tightened my grip and let the reel sing. Whatever was on the other end was bigger than the stories I'd told myself about what I deserved. It drove and stalled, a living argument with every knot and eyelet between it and me.

As I reached for the net, the fear of losing it surged—a familiar fear of losing something precious. But I didn't lose it. I guided the fish into the net, lifting it into the boat.

The coffee in my thermos has gone cold. That’s the first thing I notice as I sit here on the weathered planks of the old Mill Creek dock. It’s 5:47 AM. The fog is burning off the glassy surface of the reservoir, and for the first time in 365 days, the silence doesn't feel like a threat. Divorced Angler Memories of a Big Catch -2024- ...

But standing there with the big catch of 2024, a different truth emerged. The angler realized that their core self—the resourceful, patient, and resilient individual who loved the outdoors—was still entirely intact. The divorce had taken a relationship, but it had not taken away this passion, this skill, or this connection to nature.

There is a profound metaphor in the struggle of a big catch. You feel the tension, the resistance, and the fear of the line snapping. It mirrors the friction of a life coming apart. But when that fish finally breaks the surface—shimmering, powerful, and real—it provides a singular focus. Then the rod bent like a sentence finishing its thought

For the next seven minutes, I fought that fish like it owed me alimony. It ran deep, wrapped around the log twice, and jumped once—a glorious, scale-flashing arc that caught the early light. I remember laughing. Actually laughing. A divorced angler alone on a reservoir, laughing at a fish.

Because out there, under the frozen surface, the big one is still swimming. And come May of 2025, I'll be in the jon boat, alone, throwing a Mepps spinner into the wind. Whatever was on the other end was bigger

There is a specific kind of silence that exists on the water at 5:47 AM. It isn’t the empty silence of a house after the kids have gone, or the hostile silence of a car ride to a mediation appointment. It is a living silence. And in the summer of 2024, that silence became the only voice I trusted.

The first cast of the morning was ugly. My thumb slipped off the spool. The spinnerbait landed with a splash that would have made my old fishing buddy, Mike, wince. But in 2024, there was no Mike. No wife handing me a thermos of coffee. No one to say, “Left side, look at the left side.”