NINE LESSONS FROM THE LINE: What Fishing Taught Me About Patience, Loss, and What Really Matters

Hoochies. Turds. Spoons. Cop cars. Buzz bombs.

If those words speak to you, then you probably know a thing or two about fishing—king salmon fishing, specifically. The best lures for hauling in the big ones on the open sea have some zany names. They’ve been part of my lexicon for decades, ever since my dad took me on my first annual trip as a pimply teenager who’d rather be chasing boys than bait. But the thrill of the sport soon hooked me. Quite literally.

One lure inevitably steals the show in any given year. Last summer, it was the turd that produced the most bites. As its name suggests, the turd is the tannish color of, well, poop, and is technically a hoochie—a soft, plasticky artificial bait that mimics a squid. Cop cars are hoochies, too, black and white to mirror their namesake. There’s even a Michael Jackson hoochie that sparkles in silvery, glittery delight. But enough about that.

My fishing trips are nonnegotiable. I leave my two sons at home with their father (my husband knows the drill), and I go completely off the grid to a remote part of British Columbia on the west coast of Vancouver Island. Rugged but rich in history, this is where the fabled British explorer Captain James Cook first landed on the Pacific Coast in 1778 and befriended Chief Maquinna of the Mowachaht people. Although the Revolutionary War raged in America at the time, Captain Cook was oblivious to it in this far-off, unchartered territory where he sought the Northwest Passage. The area remains as wild and isolated today as it was then; getting to this destination is no small feat. Without cellular, Wi-Fi, or an internet connection, my smartphone becomes simply a camera. Of course, we have GPS, radio, detailed nautical charts, and a depth surveyor. And if a true emergency arises, there’s a button to press for the Coast Guard, along with access to a satellite phone at the tiny floating marina where we moor at night, tucked into a quiet cove.

By “we,” I mean me, my cousin Eric, and my late father’s longtime friend Pete who is all of eighty-six now and still runs his boat—a twenty-two-foot vintage Boston Whaler Revenge—like a covert military operation. It’s only fitting: Pete was an indomitable physicist for aerospace and defense contracts during the height of the Cold War. He’s precise, picky, and one of the most cantankerous people I know. But I adore him immensely and am well inured to his personality. Everything about our fishing expedition is a science, down to the hundredth decimal (I’m convinced Pete even tallies the blueberries in our morning bowl of cereal when he divvies up the stash and carefully dispenses the ration of milk).

When my dad died unexpectedly in 2016, I canceled his flights for the trip that year and I went to keep up both the tradition and mission. “C’mon, you and me,” Pete said emphatically at the memorial. “We’ve got to go fishing. It’s going to be good this year.” The loss of my father was as crushing for him as it was for me; they had been friends and confidants for nearly fifty years. On the eve of his death, Pete stood by me at my father’s bedside as if he might reel his friend back from the edge of some great current. The current won; it was a rip tide, really. Pete and I fished together that first year without my dad, sprinkling some of his ashes into his favorite spots, and then I recruited my fishing-savvy cousin to come join us. Three people on this boat is just right: someone navigates and drives, another watches and works the lines, and somebody deals with ongoing “housekeeping” matters that maintain all the moving parts of this endeavor.

Fishing from a small boat at the whim of the weather and wind is demanding, but for me it’s magically restorative—a balm for the craziness, busyness, and stress of everyday life. Stitched into my memory after years of trolling the same waters and coves of the mazelike Nootka Sound is an intimate map: the contours of the seabed; the locations of monstrous eagles’ nests perched high in the Sitka spruce trees amid cedar and fir; the meaning of a sudden cold wind from the north whipping down an inlet; the places where the giant underwater kelp forests sway and serve as nurseries and feeding grounds for seals, otter, and whales alike; and the instinctive sense of exactly where to drop a line when the tides shift. Here, the ebb and flood of the tides rule everything, dictating where, when, and how you fish. Again, it’s all a science.

I turned fifty recently. As one tends to do at such a milestone, I reflected on the past half century and wondered what the next one might look like (hopefully, not a turd). I couldn’t help but realize that everything I need to know about life—and its hardest moments—I learned through fishing. Thanks, Dad.

As I ease my way into my second act, I find myself returning to the lessons that fishing has taught me. You, too, may want to add some of these ideas to your proverbial tackle box for life:

1.    Get Up Early

The early bird does win the worm. You don’t have to set an alarm for 4:00 a.m. to claim the morning bite, but carving out time before the day’s obligations and distractions encroach is golden. I love watching the sun rise over the mountains as we cruise out to the fishing grounds and think about what the day might bring. Early light recalibrates the body’s clock. Engaging in a ritual, such as meditation, exercise, or writing in a journal creates space for clarity and creativity before the noise begins.

2.    Be Patient, Wait for It

One of fishing’s great challenges is resisting the urge to rush the moment you see and feel a nibble. Life, too, is full of things that take time to acquire or achieve. Invest in pursuits that demand patience and perseverance. Do the hard things that demand endurance. Don’t give up. 

3.     Let ‘Em Run

This dictum dovetails with the previous one. Rookie anglers lose fish when they try to force fish in before they are ready to relent. In life, let things play out as they should, even when they’re not going your way. Forcing and pushing a situation can backfire. And be okay with losing once in a while. We all lose fish too. Often, the ones that fight the longest are the most prized. Your poised persistence paired with restraint and prudence will pay off. (As an aside, a guide once told me that this is why women often make better anglers: they listen to directions and don’t muscle the fish.)

4.    Tell Stories and Jokes

What else is there to do while you’re waiting for that elusive bite? It can take hours, sometimes days, before the fish start eating. The conditions must be just right, many of which are not under your control. We fill the time with stories, jokes, and epic reminiscing (which inevitably turns into retelling the same old stories). We also sit in long stretches of silence, inviting self-reflection and a commune with God. People fear boredom and can’t fathom several days without Wi-Fi or access to cell service. There’s no boredom on the boat. Savor solitude, even when it ushers in uncomfortable thoughts; solitude has something to teach us. I dare you to go twenty-four hours without your phone (or a whole weekend for extra credit). Host a phone-free dinner party. The guest with the best joke wins a prize.

5.    When the Fishing Gets Too Tight

An old fishing joke goes like this: if the fishing is “too tight,” meaning it’s not good despite working so hard at it, you take a swig of alcohol to cool your nerves no matter the hour. Confession: My cousin and I once had bourbon for breakfast. We’d been fishing since dawn without a single bite. The day felt done. On the boat, the usual guardrails of everyday life don’t apply. Eric had his flask in a pocket; I surrendered, and shortly thereafter so did a fish. I’m not endorsing drinking, but the underlying lesson holds: when life gets “too tight,” lean into healthy ways to lower stress—movement, deep breathing, a meal with friends (and maybe a glass of wine).

6.    Talk to the Guides

No amount of experience replaces current intel on how fish are being caught right now. Strategies change every year, every week, every tide shift. Which lures? How deep? What GPS coordinates for the hot spots? Any secret sauce? You need to chat up the guides or anyone cleaning fish. One year, we heard about a tactic that sounded toxically absurd: plug-cut herring doused with WD-40—the chemical spray for squeaky hinges. You soak a cotton ball, stuff it into the headless cavity of a herring, and let your line out. Ridiculous? Absolutely. Effective? For a few years, at least. In life, seek counsel from those in the know. Ask for help. Recruit mentors. Keep trusted confidantes. Be open to unconventional approaches. Try the unfamiliar absurd.

7.    Take Naps

Years ago, after a brutal, unproductive morning fishing on the angry open ocean where we were up against strong swells, wind, cold temps, and drizzle as we trolled, we retreated inside the sound where its calm waters and warming sun took over. Exhausted, the three of us nodded off seated upright as the boat headed toward a cluster of rocks. A nearby vessel yelled, “Hey, ghost boat! Wake up!” We snapped to attention and redirected in time. (The “Ghost Boat” story has since become a classic.)

Naps are essential to any fishing expedition. We typically return to the floating marina midday to recharge. Not everyone can nap, but for many it’s key to making it through the day. Eight hours after waking is said to be the ideal time for a thirty-minute power nap. If you can, close your eyes, drift into a microsleep, then get back at it.

8.    Try Different Things

Contrary to the stereotypical image of fishing—dropping a line and then sitting back and leisurely waiting for as long as it takes—that’s not how you catch fish. You must mix up how you’re fishing by trying various depths, times-of-day, lures, and locations. Sometimes we’ll have the max of four lines out, each line featuring a different lure and down at a different depth. Even when nothing works, we keep experimenting and testing out new strategies. (Don’t ask about the morning we got up to fish in the dark at 3:00 a.m.; if you can’t see anything, neither can the fish.) I’ve lost count of the times I dropped a line ten feet deeper and bam! I caught a fish. Life in general demands the same flexibility. When things stall, don’t get discouraged. Pivot. Get creative. Get resourceful.

9.    Don’t Cry Over Lost Fish

When a fish gets away, usually from an error on the fisherman’s part, we anglers have a saying about that: You farmed it! I don’t know where the phrase originated, but it’s a fun jab at anyone on the boat whose hooked fish suddenly pops off and swims away with a free meal. Losing fish is part of the deal. Sometimes the fish win. One year, I was completely skunked. (To be skunked means you don’t get a single bite.) We all lose things in life, from possessions to people. Turn losses into stories. Let go. Leave regrets behind. Learn, adjust, and cast another line. Try again. Experiment with a new bait; maybe the turd. There’s plenty of fish out there. And turds.

On my last trip with my dad, about six months before cancer took him, we had time to pass in the Vancouver airport as we made our way back home to L.A. We took a seat by our gate and I pulled out my laptop that hadn’t been opened in a week. I reluctantly got online and started riffling through pages of emails; I furiously typed away and buried my head back in reality (my reality). Tapping me on the shoulder, my dad looked at me funny and said so plainly, “You know that will be there tomorrow. It will always be there. Why don’t you put it away and enjoy this last leg of a great fishing trip with me?”

I wish I had. In the moment, I thought he didn’t understand. Now I know he indeed understood far more than I ever will. If success is knowing what truly matters, my dad had already caught the biggest fish.