Dear Whoopi,

Have you ever gone fly fishing? I’d never gone before, and a friend asked me if I wanted to go. Out of boredom I agreed. We had to wake up exceptionally early, apparently because that particular type of fish can only be caught by sleep-deprived, sunburned individuals like myself that lack the necessary fine motor skills and attention span to use the hooks safely and effectively. After a three-hour drive to the middle of nowhere and debating whether or not my friend Steve was the kill-and-bury kind of guy, I arrived to the river.

Complete with those industrial strength condom pants and a hat that shielded me from harmful UV rays but not public humiliation, I left my dignity with the truck and tried to harness my inner Neanderthal. What I didn’t know was fly-fishing isn’t as much fishing, as it is a series of events designed to push you closer and closer to violent outbursts and misplaced racial slurs at inanimate objects.

After a well-intentioned presentation complete with demonstrations and riverbed diagrams, I felt confident enough to make my first cast. It didn’t go well. I spent the next three hours sitting on the riverbed in tears, untying a knot unparalleled in both size and complexity. In between sobs, I called my mom to make sure I was up to date on my tetanus booster shot.

With that problem behind me, I caught up to Steve and discovered he was having a slightly different experience. While I was gone, Steve was crowned King of the River, with all of its inhabitants fighting over who gets the honor of meeting their new leader. An attempt to cross the river was seen as a threatening gesture to the King, and the submerged river rocks came to his defense, detaining the apparent insurgent mid stream. The leg rubbers that were designed to keep water out got confused and decided to contain the water rushing in.

I spend the rest of the afternoon limping along with a clubfoot from the two gallons of river water in my boot, getting my hook caught in every available plant that lined the river. Now, when you get a hook caught a bush, you are supposed to walk up to it and gently pull it out. After a while though, I started behaving like one of those bad parents at the mall that put their kids on leashes. Do you know the kind I’m talking about Whoopi? You know, the ones that yank them, shouting, “get over here!” when their kids ones linger a little too long at the Build-A-Bear window? Other than that, it was a good time.

Yours truly,
Nathan