PATIENCE My Grandfather was one of the kindest men I can remember. He had the softest hands of anyone I have ever met, and the gentlest of watery blue eyes. He worked as an agricultural scientist and would spend hours in his greenhouse grafting new strains of plants together and tending them with his kindness and his soft hands, and watching over them with his watery blue eyes.
If the temperature reached thirty-five degrees, he might take off his tweed jacket, and only on exceptionally relaxed occasions would he ever remove his cravat. He was a quiet man, always more comfortable in silence than in social circles, and given the fact that it could take decades to see the fruits of his labour, he was seemingly infinitely patient.
It came as no surprise to me then, that he loved fly fishing.
He would teach me this art at Troutbeck Inn in Nyanga in the Eastern Highlands of then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, and I clearly remember him casting through the mist with his old split cane rod. He could stand there for hours trying different patterns, and he would quietly chuckle to himself if one of his self-tied flies found purchase in a lively trout. I never remember much about the conversations we had, primarily because there weren’t many, but I do remember his presence, and the significance of somebody comfortable in his own skin, albeit constantly covered by coat or cravat.
I went fishing with him last week.
Yes, over thirty years after his passing, his presence still stands on the edge of a mist tickled lake, or flowing weir, and I cast that same split cane rod with a slowness, and a deliberate mindfulness not to try and push the fly out too far. I wonder how he would feel about the modern graphite rods? Probably much like he thought of my generation, and much like we now think of our children and grandchildren. A bit over the top perhaps, or too focused on quantity over quality. Intent on instant gratification, and soon maybe they will expect the rod to fillet the fish as well as catch it automatically. I doubt he will have let these thoughts get in the way of his next cast, besides, as he would remind me, one needs to be fully present to lose oneself in the mindful practice of fly fishing.
I landed my first fish after six hours. Anyone other than my grandfather would have left long ago as fly fishing is not an easy spectator sport, but I swear he was still there, and although I never used a self-tied fly, I am sure I heard him chuckle through the enveloping clouds. It seemed quite conceivable that if I was fishing in the clouds, I would be quite close to Heaven, and that is where he lives. Right next to a trout lake.
If there has been one thing which has been tested more than anything else in my world during lockdown, it is patience.
Clients cancelling things at the last minute, some directionless political leaders, polarizing viewpoints, an abundance of fake news, irrational laws, mindless stupidity, connection issues, load shedding and the rise of the ineptocracy. It is enough to thrash the waters in despair and hurl the rod at the uncooperative fish, and patience runs thinner than the lead of tippet which rests lightly enough so as not to break the water’s surface.
Much like the last eight months, in those six hours I had bites of excitement and times spent untangling a birds nest of windblown fly line from the surrounding bush. I lost some good fish due to rusty technique or plain bad luck, and I had many moments thinking as to whether there would ever be another fish on the end of my line.
After six hours though, the fly held firm, and I played the fish all the way back to a perfect release. And in less than ten minutes, I landed two more.
Each time I could hear the words from my Grandfather:
“Tie your fly properly my boy, focus on placing your cast quietly and be patient.”
I left knowing a little more about what I have patience for in my life, and what I don’t.
Silent time with my Grandfather is always filled with wisdom.
Steve Hall
What and who will you have patience for this week?
