“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”
Soren Kierkegaard
It was the kind of morning that would’ve slipped into the pile of all the other forgettable Saturdays if not for one impulsive, mildly terrible idea.
The three of us—lifelong friends, shaped by countless adventures and ill-advised plans—decided to go fishing. I can’t remember why. None of us fished—or liked fish, really. Our plans were typically more aligned with marathon Sega sessions of Joe Montana Football or basketball games that left us gasping for breath and dignity.
Yet there we were, casting lines into murky water, fully expecting to reel in either a tangle of weeds or, if we were particularly unlucky, a hook stuck in someone’s finger and a long day at the ER.
Life’s like that sometimes. You’re fishing, hoping for something big, but more often than not, you hook yourself instead. That was our friendship that day: the kind that leaves you reeling with a barb through your finger, wondering if you’re better off cutting bait.
We used to be inseparable, the kind of friends who swore blood oaths in elementary school—mostly over things like who’d get the last slice of pizza or to defend each other’s honor during lunchtime sessions of “Fox Across the River.”
But then junior high happened, and with it, a tidal wave of acne, puberty, and popularity contests that left us scrambling for survival.
It’s like the whole world got flipped, and suddenly recess wasn’t about who could jump the highest on the swing, but who could successfully navigate the social pecking order without becoming lunchroom roadkill.
We took turns sinking each other, of course. Secrets were spilled, alliances shifted, and there were moments we’d swear we were better off without each other. One of us was dealing with his parents’ divorce, which back then felt less like an unfortunate event and more like an impossible balancing act—trying to keep it together at home while also trying to stay afloat in the chaos of school.
None of us were okay, and we had no idea what to do about it.
So, naturally, we went fishing. A terrible plan, hatched at the last minute, that none of us really understood. Maybe it was our awkward way of trying to mend the wounds. Or maybe we just couldn’t think of anything better to do.
Armed with rusty fishing rods and optimism that outstripped our skills, we sat in silence by the bay. Not because we were deep in thought or anything, but because teenage boys are notoriously bad at talking about feelings. Or anything, really. Instead, we listened to the birds, the water, the distant hum of cars.
And in that quiet, something shifted.
We weren’t catching any fish (obviously), but we were catching something else. A sense of calm, maybe, or the realization that even if we were all flailing in the same chaotic sea, we were still in the same boat. We were lifelong friends, bound by years of inside jokes and questionable decisions, now awkwardly navigating some rough waters, like we’d forgotten how to swim.
That trip became a silent truce, the kind where no one apologizes out loud, but somehow everyone knows the score has been settled. It was the day we realized, not in so many words, that whatever storms had come between us, we weren’t going to sink each other.
Looking back, it wasn’t the fishing that mattered, but the act of showing up. Sometimes friendships aren’t about constant laughter or avoiding the rough patches—they’re about being there when the lines get tangled.
Now, fast forward a few decades. We’re older, and arguably no wiser. The world has spun on, but we’re still as close as ever. And every now and then, when we gather—usually for weddings or just because—someone brings up the fishing trip. No one remembers who suggested it, or how long we stayed. But we all remember the silence, the camaraderie, and the unspoken truth that we’d walked away with something far more valuable than a few fish.
And that’s the thing about life: it rarely makes sense while you’re in the thick of it. The meaning comes later, in those quiet moments when you’re left holding memories instead of fish. If you’re lucky, every once in a while, you reel in something that endures—like friends who stick around, through every snag and storm—long after the lines have drifted and disappeared.
