My Old Man and the Inland Sea

I’d never seen Lake Michigan so calm, no wavier than antique window glass.

I’m on the deck of a 31-foot fishing boat, sitting on a bench, chin in palm, eyes glazed. We’re about three miles offshore from Holland on Lake Michigan. Mid-May. I’ve never seen the lake so calm, no wavier than antique window glass. We’ve been out here long enough that the station playing Today’s Country Hits through the boat’s speakers is beginning to repeat a playlist concerned with moonlit tailgates and specific brands of alcohol. 

I’ve been planning this day for nearly a year. The previous June, my dad and I were fly-fishing on the Au Sable River (skunked) when, over a beer at our campsite, he mentioned that charter-boat fishing for Great Lakes salmon seemed like fun. Seemed fun to me, too. His 70th birthday was coming up in February, so I made a mental note to pitch the idea to my brother and sister next time we were together.

It sounded like a great way to get us three kids and Dad all together for a weekend, something that hasn’t happened since I can’t remember when. Growing up, our family went camping every summer in northern Michigan and on occasional road trips around the West. But then it was off to college, to careers, to families of our own. And now, unbelievably, Dad’s 70. He’s active and in good health, but you’d have to be pretty thick not to realize that days spent together are becoming more and more valuable.

So, yes, this trip was about quality time and all that, but also: I thought maybe if we forked over enough dough we could shake the bad luck that has stalked him for all his angling days. Our fishing trips together are forever getting spoiled by cold snaps or rainstorms that park over us all weekend. On the rare occasion when the fish are biting, Dad is last to find out. I don’t remember ever seeing him catch anything you could, with a straight face, call big. 

By now he’s earned a little luck. God knows how many hours he spent stifling profanity while teaching us to fly-fish as kids, lessons that mostly involved unsnagging my brother’s fly from the streamside brush for the hundredth time that day, or sweating over my latest knot of near-Gordian complexity. Fixing our mistakes didn’t leave him much time to fish. (Let the record show, however, that the old man did himself no favors, teaching us to cast not on wide-open beginner’s water, but on beautiful little tributaries whose beautiful little trout rest safely in the shade of overhanging alders no fly will ever penetrate.) 

Getting Dad a big fish was the goal today, and for a while things looked promising. The rain that dogged us as we set up camp yesterday—my brother, Ben, and I are staying with him at a nearby state park; in the end my sister wasn’t able to make the trip—moved on overnight. Today is mostly sunny and mild. As the boat puttered into the mouth of the Macatawa River and began nosing out onto the big water, Nick, our captain, directed first mate Tyler to jig a bit with a lightweight rod. Alewives were spawning and aggressive, and in minutes our two guides pulled in around 10 frisky, twinkling, sardinish bait fish. Nick and Tyler said they’d bought alewives for bait before, but never caught their own fresh. Seemed like a good sign.

Out on the glassy lake, our guides hadn’t yet finished setting up all of the rods when one of them bent. Captain Nick set the hook and passed the rig to Dad. This was going to be easy, I thought, cracking a beer.

But it didn’t take long to recognize that whatever we’d hooked wasn’t alive. It had no wiggle, just dead weight. We took turns hauling it in, reeling up hundreds of feet of line and eventually landing a hulking knot of rusty fishing wire snagged from the lake bottom. 

Well hey, a little excitement anyway. It was a fine spring day. We had more beers in the cooler, more questions about fish and tackle to annoy Nick and Tyler with. We had six good hours of fishing ahead of us. 

Leaving Holland for the big water.

We’re down to two hours. The fish cooler is empty. The beer cooler is headed that way fast. Dad briefly hooked a small trout or salmon a couple of hours ago, but it wriggled free several yards from the boat. 

We’ve asked Nick and Tyler everything we can think to ask about the rods, the reels, the boat, the bait. There’s been a subtle shift in their behavior, perhaps related to the refund we’re owed if we don’t catch any fish. They’re changing lures somewhat frantically. They’re huddling with their backs to us to talk through the remaining options. 

I’m starting to get a feeling that we are the rare customers who get skunked. Some weird part of me finds this deeply funny. “My God, we’re really going to do it, aren’t we?” I say, when Ben catches me trying to stifle a wild-eyed laugh. “Many people said it couldn’t be done.” 

Then, in an instant, a fish is on. We tell Dad it’s his, but he insists it’s my turn since he lost the first one. No time for debate. I take the rod from Nick and feel something pulling with power orders of magnitude greater than the small trout I’m used to. The reel whines as the fish charges for the deep. Within a few minutes it wears out enough that I can start bringing it toward the boat, a few cranks at a time. After five minutes or so, Nick nets a beautiful Chinook salmon. Fresh, bright silver, it’s the biggest fish I’ve ever caught. 

An hour later my catch remains alone in the cooler. We’re further from town now, maybe four miles offshore. The radio cuts in and out. Dad bobs his head lightly to the crackling tune, trying to stay upbeat. 

What’s worse: catching nothing on your father’s big birthday fishing trip, or catching the only fish while the man himself strikes out? (And, my inner cheapskate can’t help but think, catching just enough to forfeit the refund and yield one lavishly expensive fish dinner.)

Nick asks if we’re up for staying out later than the trip’s planned eight o’clock end time. Sure, we tell him, grateful for his generosity even as we wonder how much of this Samuel Beckett style of fishing we can stand. 

A few minutes later, at last, there’s more commotion. Again we tell Dad it’s his fish. Again he refuses, saying it’s my brother’s turn. After a good fight, Ben brings in another Chinook that could be my fish’s twin. Fine—like a twin but bigger. 

And then, nothing. Eight o’clock comes and goes. We wait and wait, spirits sinking. Now it’s getting close to nine. What’s worse: catching nothing on your father’s big birthday fishing trip, or everyone but the man himself catching something? 

The old man in action.

The sun is setting. Against the orange and purple sky boats plane smoothly toward the harbor. Alright, Nick tells us, I’m going to use the head and then we’ll pull the rods and call it a day. 

So that’s it—no fish for Dad. We’ve got 15 lines in the water, raking all depths with fresh alewives and every kind of flash and jiggle imaginable. And still it’s not enough. You almost have to admire how stubbornly the skunk clings to the old man. Nick descends into the cabin. We hear the head door shut. A rod on the port side thrashes. 

Tyler reacts in an instant, pulling the rod from its holder and setting the hook. Line begins to scream from the reel. “This is a bigger fish,” he says, handing the rig over. 

Dad plants the cushioned rod butt in his belly and realizes that, for now, trying to reel is futile. The bow is facing Holland and the fish is late for Milwaukee. In a moment the salmon has stripped away 150 feet of line, doubling its distance from the boat. On the horizon we see the fish leap out of the water, the first jumper of the day. “Holy smokes,” Dad says, grinning and grunting against the tug.

The captain is back on deck and his competence gives me hope, but still I worry the fish will throw the hook. Please, I whisper. Please. Fifteen minutes later, Nick nets the big Chinook. It flops on the deck, fat and gleaming. It’s of a whole other class than the ones Ben and I caught. This is why people call them king salmon. Holding up the fish for the camera, Dad beams like a kid. 

It’s dark when we return to the marina. Captain Nick, with dazzling knifework, cleans the three fish, filling three plastic bags with fresh fillets. Back at our campsite we wrap a few in foil and cook them over the fire. For the first time we’ve caught more than we can eat. 

Phew.