An Open Letter to Angling Retirees

Those of us who work every day really hate are disgusted by are insanely jealous of those who ply the angle during the week. There you are, standing in our favorite haunt casting to fish that are out of our reach; living the dream.

You bastards!

Sure we skip out early once in a while and sometimes we tell the boss that we're at a client meeting and we steal some time on the water. But we lack the flexibility. A good hatch on the Farmington? You're there. Raining like the devil? You paint the bathroom.

And when we finally scratch a day on the water? Nothing keeps us off. Hell, we'll even fish if the tide is running in the wrong direction and the river is ten feet above flood stage. But more than our lack of quality fishing time, nothing bothers us more than to see someone out there when we're not.

Most of you stand there stoic. Plying the trade. It's as if you don't even care if you catch a fish. And you pretend that the rest of us don't exist. It's just you and the fish.

For the love of god, at least wave to us. We know it's the equivalent of you flipping us off, but when you just ignore us, it hurts. We can't live vicariously through you if we hate you. So, show some love. Turn the hate into something milder. Like insane jealousy.

But lest you think this turns us into pals, fear not because there are many reasons to harbor ill will. Those hours on the water allow you to develop encyclopedic knowledge of the river. You've waded it high, you've waded it low and even though your ancient legs are wobbly, you know the location of every stone and could wade it blind.

And you know where the fish live; perhaps the best reason for the deep resentment.

So fish away you bloody bastards. We'll gaze upon you longingly, hope to see a bent rod and pray that someday we'll join you down there on the water.