“If we believe our happiness comes from “out there”, we have to give our power away to whatever is out there.” ~ Brooke Castillo
For weeks I was telling fellow anglers about this whale of a trout that had been coming up to take a look at my fly but just turned its nose up at it and swam away every time. He was in this small hole I came across in Boulder Creek near 30th Street. I hooked a nice brown the first time I ever cast in there. Since then, I baptized it my honey hole and fished it every day after that.
On this particular day, on my way to my secret spot I came across fisherman and asked him if he had any luck. “Nah, just getting started,” he said. I told him about my honey hole and that I was heading over there. I let him know about the big one that was in there. “Good luck,” he said as turned and headed downstream.
Before I could reach my hole, I ran into another guy fishing. “Hey, your good luck,” he said as he brought in a nice size brown trout on his Tenkara pole.
“Dang it,” I said. “I should be happy for you, but I’m hatting instead.” A little frustrated, I said, “Nice fish! I’m running out of daylight. I got to go catch a fish.” I hurried off to my honey hole as he told me, “Good luck.
Within minutes, I had him. Moby Dick, Walter, whatever you want to call him, I had him. I could see my fly on the end of my taught line fighting against the current. I was just about to give it slack and let the current take it down stream when he struck. The whole thing looked like something in slow motion from shark week on the Discovery Channel. I set the hook. This was the biggest fish I’ve ever had on my Tenkara pole and maybe one of the biggest trout I’ve ever caught. My rod bent in half. It never had this much tension on it. Not sure what to do, I reached into my back pocket and got my phone out. Even if he got away, I was going to be sure to capture the moment. I recorded about 8 seconds of video of him making a commotion, slapping creek water into the air tearing his guts ups in the process. I put my phone back in my pocket and decided it was time to get serious. Time to bring this guy in. I chose to let him get tired in the deeper water before I drug him over the shallow rocks of the shore where I was standing. I didn’t have a net though after losing that nice sized brown the first time I cast in this hole, I had considered getting one. Luckily for me, he was tired and let me get a hold of him. I tried not to squeeze too hard, but I was not going to let him slip through my hands once I had him.
I was ecstatic. I took some pics and looked upstream to show the last angler I spoke to my catch. He gave me a thumbs up and yelled back, “Nice one. Bro!” I made another video of me releasing the fish and then packed my gear up. I was done fishing for the day. A lesson learned from George Costanza.
I stopped to show both of the guys I had spoken to earlier the pictures. I was seriously on cloud nine. I felt like a million bucks! Then I saw her. She pulled her bike off the path onto the grass and sat down. Even from a distance, I recognized her figure. I had been admiring it for a couple of weeks by now. She was a barista at one of the coffee shops I frequented. Out of all the hot baristas at all the coffee shops I go to, she was the one I thought about when I wasn’t there. She was the reason I went to this particular coffee shop so often (Well, her and the gluten free chocolate chip cookies) with hopes of maybe being able to chat with her.
It seemed like this was my chance. Ahh, I thought, maybe I shouldn’t. Then all of a sudden, all at once, every good buddy I ever had in all of my 42 years on this earth said in unison, “You better not pass this up, you pussy!” I even responded to them aloud, “Alright fine!!”
When I walked up to her I made and audible gasp as I saw that her top was revealing a good portion of her breasts. Most of the tops she wore were like this. Luckily for me, she didn’t hear me, and I was able to break the ice with, “Hey do you work at The Cup?”
(And yes, I know. Not another pretty barista story. If I collected everything I ever wrote about every pretty barista that I was in love with, I would have enough to have publish a book entitled, Every Pretty Barista I Ever Loved.)
So she had a boyfriend, so we didn’t go to bed and try and make a baby. I was just glad to chat with her. I was in a great mood. I felt the happiest I been in months. I was smiling at people. I was dancing in my seat. I was singing. I was petting Rusty and saying, “We caught a big fish today buddy. We caught a big fish.” I was feeling great.
Being that it had been a while, a long while since I felt this way, I had to ask myself, “Am I happy because of a fucking fish or did I choose to feel this way?”
Are feelings a choice?