Time Here It Passes So Slow

Most of you probably do not know this however today is my dad’s birthday. My father and I are intellectuals of such who communicate well through writing. In honor of his birthday I had prepared a piece which I want to share with him and you all, but what does this have to do with Philosophy? I had earlier talked about my problem with friendships of utility. My father according to Aristotle would be considered a friend, I wish well for my dad, this feeling is recognized and the feeling is reciprocal. However he would not just be any other friend, my father is a representation of “The Good” within friendship thus this “gift” is something very important to me as it helps me realize that I do indeed possess deep relationships with individuals and perhaps all relationship initially begin as Utility and evolve as time progresses.

To most people fishing can be described as the act of catching fish for food. To others fishing is an occupation, a tedious job that puts money on the table for one’s family. Some people even view fishing as a competition amongst peers to see who gets the biggest catch. While these definitions are true, fishing can be seen in a much different light. Fishing is an art form, a delicate art form that soothes ones body, mind and soul. Fishing slows down time, especially when fishing with another individual. Going fishing with my father is not just a family tradition, but also an important experience that slows down time. It is an activity that allows me to spend time with my father, making it essential to the growth of the father/son relationship.
As a child spending time with a parent is often taken for granted, the fact that they are always around is often seen as a burden. Parents would always want to plan special activities with their children, trying desperately to make their children conform to a parents own definition of fun. Sure the child often agrees to participate in the certain activity but to he or she it’s just another obstacle that hinders the child from playing outside with his or her friends.

This process continues into adolescence, thus a parent realizes his or her little baby doesn’t want to spend time with them anymore. However, some individuals, setting out on their adventure into young adulthood, realize the time spent with their parents seems to be narrowing. The parents that were once hovering over their child’s every move have now diverted their attention to something else. And the time that once burdened a child seems to flash right before their eyes. Alas, because we are young and will always act stubborn in regard to our parent’s wishes, some parents never allow their child to experience this “lack of time shock”. Some parents continue to persist and schedule activities with their child, hoping that one day their child will understand the significance of their efforts. Like the parent described above, my father never allowed for his son to experience a lack of time shock. Though he was a very busy man and didn’t live near home, my father always put time aside to retain a family tradition that was originally resented by his son. This tradition was fishing. It was the tradition that has plagued the Amaefule family for ten year and was finally accepted six years later. Fishing was the divine force that encouraged the two oldest males in the Amaefule family to put aside their work and spend time with each other.

The tradition of fishing never left the Amaefule family, though the exact location of where the father and his son would fish, the sights, and the smells changed. The song of the lake always remained the same. It was a routine; when it was time to go fishing, the events that would come to pass always played out in the same sequence.

A warm sensation would hit the face and with eyelids shut the oldest son felt the yellow and orange aura of the sun prompting him to fully awaken. Though his body missed its comforting surroundings, he removed himself from bed and peer out an open window. The sky was always clear; not a cloud in sight, the ground; always covered in greenery, provided protection for the sleeping princess. As the son’s eyes gaze from left to right he navigated through the trees and brush, to find the azure princess hidden within the endless greenery. This princess, the lake, would always sing her soothing song which resonated through the cool, brisk air. Though the location was different each year, and the trees, the air, and the lake may have change, the song was never different. The song of the lake always painted the same image of fishing within the oldest son’s mind. A beautiful image followed by a glorious hymn, the song and the vivid image it created was what kept the boy coming back to the lake each year.

It was the lake that commanded the boy to stay year after year, but it was his father’s voice that would lead him to their destination. As always the boy’s father would tell his son when it was the “right time” to head towards the lake. Every year the business man would let out a soft bellow from downstairs which signaled his son to gather his own equipment for the trip. The bellow would creep up the stair and the son would always reply, “Yes Sir”, as if his father was an Admiral in the Navy. The boy would then pack the necessary tool, meet his father downstairs, and the two [father and son] would exit the cabin as quickly as possible.

Like all family traditions there was a series of “rules” that pertained to fishing. My father was a man of law and order, thus he created a tradition within a tradition. Rather than driving from our cabin site to the lake, my father instructed his oldest son, that the two of them would journey to the lake on foot. Of all the rules that surrounded fishing with my father, the one that ticked me off the most was that of “The on Foot Rule”. My father and his oldest son would always complain amongst one another about this rule. Father always said, “Journeying to the lake on foot built character as well as strength”, while his son would argue, “You’re too old and I’m too young for this kind of stuff.” The argument always went on for a good five minutes but the outcome was always the same, “Father knows best.” Father, armed with his fanny pack, compass, map and his sailor’s cap, would always lead the way while his oldest son trailed behind carrying the “necessary equipment”. As they walked along the same path they followed every year father would tell of his own childhood experiences with his father. He would always mention about how his father would carry the necessary equipment while my father would navigate towards the lake. The never ending walk would cease once the lake was in sight. It was then that Father would help his son carry the equipment to the “necessary spot”. The “necessary spot” was the same as every spot that surrounded the shimmering lake. However, father for some reason, always picked the spot farthest away from the trees.

Once we reached our desired spot, my father and his oldest son unpacked the “necessary equipment”, which consisted of: a rod, a spinning reel, a set of lures, hooks, and fishing lines. These were tools father said, “God crafted to make life easy for us fishermen”. Father then proceeded to enter the shallow water of the lake and with delicate hands he attached a lure onto his hook. His oldest son followed close repeating the steps his father had preformed, and together with eyes fixed on the lake around them, they casted their lines. It was then; as the lures soared through the brisk air, and as the light of the sun skimmed across the top of the lake, that time slowed down.

It always seemed as if an eternity had past when my father and his oldest son went fishing. The burdens of the day, the tedious tasks that took place before we arrived at our “necessary spot”, everything that happened that day prior to fishing, had faded away. Only one memory would remain in my mind year after year. It was the smile on my father’s face as the two of us hooked our fish, the smile on his face as the clear water splashed in my face, and the smile on his face as he saw his oldest son grow up year after year. It was those memories of fishing that has allowed my fathers relationship with me to continue to grow, and stay intact. It was our memories of being together that truly defined my concept of fishing.