The Greatest Gift: A Father's Day Fishing Tale

There’s something magical about the sun rising above the horizon, especially when you're 10 years old and out on the ocean with your dad. My father believed life's greatest gifts weren’t wrapped in paper but shared in moments. One of those gifts was fishing.

Every Father's Day, we’d rise before the sun, sneaking out of the house like secret agents on a mission. My mother would wave us off sleepily, mumbling, “Be careful and have a good time.” Dad would chuckle and promise to bring back a cooler full of fish.

The boat was our playground and classroom. Dad had an old tackle box that smelled of salt and stories. Each lure had its own tale – the one that got away, the one that didn’t, and the one that danced just right to fool the cleverest of fish. He’d hand me a rod, and with a patience I now marvel at, teach me the art of casting into the deep blue.

“Flick your wrist, like this,” he’d say, demonstrating the perfect cast. “Pull on your rod, like this.” “Feel the tug. Hook the fish.” Dad would be serious about his fishing game and I would sit there watching him out of the corner of my eye, feeling proud and hoping we both would catch a big one. Bringing home the fish wasn’t the point though. It was the life lessons being taught on the water.

Fishing wasn’t just about the catch; it was about the wait. We’d sit in silence, the kind that’s comfortable and rare. Dad would tell stories – not the ones from books, but the kind spun from real life, filled with adventure, Dad wisdom and a dash of humor. Like the time he and Uncle Jake almost put the family’s old station wagon into the water while trying to load up at the boat ramp.

“Your uncle insisted he knew what he was doing,” Dad would say, shaking his head. “Turns out, he didn’t. We had to scramble to stop the wagon from rolling in. And of course, we had a good laugh about it afterward.”

The lessons weren’t always spoken. From Dad, I learned patience – waiting for the tug on the line, the feel of a fish testing its limits. I learned respect – for the ocean, for the process, for the simple joy of being present. And I learned resilience – not every day was a good catch, but every day was a good day.

Now, I take my own sons out on the ocean. This time, I pack the gear, make the plans, and wake them up before dawn. They grumble about the early hour, but their eyes sparkle with the same excitement I remember from childhood.

Out on the ocean, I find myself teaching them the finer points of new lures and techniques. Sometimes they listen, sometimes they don’t. I feel proud, frustrated and amused on most days. I’m reminded that I have to have patience, too. We don’t always catch a trophy fish, but we catch something far more precious – time, connection, and the unspoken bond between father and son.

As we pack up to head back to shore, my youngest looks at me and says, “Dad, today was fun. Thanks.”

I smile, feeling the warmth of the moment. “I had a good teacher,” I reply, thinking of my father sitting on our little boat off the shore of Barnegat Light, NJ, with a cold beer in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.

This Father's Day, remember that the greatest gifts aren’t the ones we hold but the ones we share. Take a moment to create a memory, tell a story or teach a lesson. And if you’re lucky enough to do it on a boat in the ocean, you might just catch something unforgettable.

In loving memory of Ernest “Ernie” Thomas Holcombe Sr. (1928-2001)