Teach a Man to Fish They Said… It’ll Be Peaceful They Said.

I love to fish. I really do. It’s my therapy, my church, my one consistent source of sanity in an otherwise noisy world.

But sometimes I think the “peaceful” part is the biggest lie ever told with a straight face.

Because here’s how it really goes:
I wake up at 4:30 a.m. to chase serenity. The air’s cool, the sunrise is perfect — I’m convinced the universe has finally aligned. And within ten minutes, I’ve managed to:

• Step in a fire ant mound.

• Snap off a lure on a submerged log.

• Snag my line in a tree that I swear leaned closer just to get involved.

Somewhere between untangling knots and swatting mosquitos, I find myself mumbling the same thing every angler eventually does:

“Peaceful, my ass.”

The truth is, fishing isn’t always a tranquil communion with nature. Sometimes it’s chaos with a rod and a prayer. You sweat, you swear, you lose lures and dignity — and yet, for some reason, you keep coming back.

Because every now and then, right between the frustration and the bug bites, something perfect happens. A smooth cast. A strike. A fish that actually stays hooked. And in that fleeting second, all the aggravation melts away.

It’s not peace that keeps us fishing — it’s hope.
And maybe a little bit of stubbornness.

So yeah — teach a man to fish. Just don’t promise him peace and quiet.