The greatest daddy-daughter fishing story ever told

Or at least the best that happened to me this week in Galveston

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The story I’m working on now will appear in Cowboys and Indians Magazine and fit under the headline “The looks on my daughter’s face tell the story of an epic adventure in Galveston,” (or something thereabouts).

My daughter and I spent a long weekend fishing, surfing, ziplining, ropes coursing and eating, eating, eating. I was a little surprised I was able to get her to go home after all that. She was glowing after catching a monster fish, shivering before, concentrating fiercely while surfing, dancing confidently ahead of me on the ropes course (the little brat!) and, um, grossed out after eating an oyster for the first and last time. “It tastes like saltwater and fish, only slimy,” she said.

Everyone at the table nodded.

She was baffled that people agreed with her assessment and liked them anyway.

I don’t want to give away the whole piece now. But I do want to tell part of it—to tell the story of that look on her face in the photo above because I think it also tells the story of parenting. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: I don’t want to give my kids things. I want to give them memories borne of experiences, and I’m grateful that sometimes my work allows me to do that.

The greatest daddy-daughter fishing story ever told

She cinched the zipper on her raincoat snug to her neck, pulled her hat down tight and drew her hood over top of that. She huddled against me to block the wind as the Out Cast Charters boat clipped toward epic memories we would soon create on the Gulf of Mexico.

We coasted to a stop, and fog engulfed us on every side. My 15-year-old daughter and I could see nothing but a lonely jetty and a few other boats. I had no idea what direction we were facing or where land was.

The boat rose and fell, not enough to make us sick, but enough to make us feel it hours later at dinner. Our captain, Shane Waldschmidt, cut a couple blue crabs in half, stuffed hooks through them, and cast them into the deep.

And then we waited and watched, waited and watched, waited and watched.

Suddenly the rod on the left twitched and bent. Shane grabbed it, set the hook and handed it to me. It whizzed as line ran out. I thought there was an elephant on the other end. I lifted the rod high, or as high as I could, and reeled as I lowered it, just as Shane taught me.

A few minutes later a 45-pound black drum flopped onto the floor of the boat—the biggest fish I had ever caught by more than 30 pounds, a record that would stand for about 15 minutes.

It’s called a drum because it makes a thumping sound. I could feel it in my feet through the floor of the boat and against my chest as I held it.

Also it peed on me.

When we hooked a second one, I asked my daughter if she wanted to bring this one in. She said no, but it was the kind of no that I knew to ask again, and soon.

Soon enough we hooked a third, and I thought I didn’t need to catch anymore … well, yes, I did, but I didn’t need to catch anymore until my daughter caught one.

This time I didn’t ask her if she wanted to do it, I told her it was her turn, and she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the rod and reel—whoops, it was a tick too much, a tick too soon, a tick too heavy.

Side by side, we caught it together.

She lifted.

I reeled.

She lifted.

I reeled.

A few minutes later, the floor drummed again.

On the next one, Shane called her over, and her reluctance had long since melted away. She pulled the rod out of its holster, yanked on it to set the hook, and then went to work.

She lifted, lowered, reeled, lifted, lowered reeled. This was another big fish — a third of her body weight. I girl-dadded all over the place, watching and encouraging and instructing and capturing it all on video. …

Until …

Shane called my name.

We had another one hooked.

I had to stop taking video of my daughter catching the biggest fish of her life to catch the biggest fish of mine. We were both hauling in #monstas, as they call them at Out Cast Charter. Hers weighed 35 pounds. Mine topped out at 50.

Even as it was happening, I thought, this is ridiculous—for #dadlife, for storytelling, for adventure, for blessings. In 15 minutes, we went from my daughter just watching because she was intimidated, to my daughter helping, to my daughter catching her own, to the two of us catching separate enormous fish simultaneously.

If you think the look on her face was expressive after that, you should have seen mine.