On Saturday at midnight, I turned 31 while relieving myself in a hydrangea bush on Fishers Island, NY. Man, what a sentence. I was on an annual pilgrimage to fish for largemouth bass, but this year the trip landed squarely on my birthday, and I was fighting back a sea of mixed emotions.
I’ve always hated my birthday. I don’t mean that in a coy, “give me attention” way, I mean it in a “I’ve recently upped my dosage of Zoloft” way (shout out Big Pharma). I can’t remember how it started; I just remember sobbing into birthday apple pies until about age 10. Yes, I prefer a birthday pie over cake, and no, that is not the source of my depression.
As I got into my teens and early twenties, birthdays became more bearable, even fun. Each year was a milestone, something to look forward to. All of a sudden, I could drive a car, vote, go to war, drink a beer (legally). Then you hit 25, and the last rite of passage is the ability to rent a car. Yippee.
The year between 30 and 31 felt cavernous. I quit my old job and started a new one, wrote things that were tolerable and others that deserved the shredder. I made mistakes and traveled, ate well, got sick, read, drank too much, and tried to exercise (sort of). My wife and I even adopted a second cat, this one from Egypt, but that story requires a piece of its own.
What I am trying to say is, despite all the growth, all the joy and anxiety, all the change, I didn’t feel there was cause for celebration on this particular birthday. I was going to be officially in my 30s, and all I wanted to do was lick my wounds in private.
On Friday night, I met my fishing companion, Will, at the ferry in New London, CT. A storm had just passed through, and the sun bloomed behind the rainclouds, filling the harbor with shafts of splintered light. We sat on the deck of the boat and drank IPAs. We talked about our wives, how many fish we were going to catch, and the past. It was good to be in the presence of an old friend.
The island was quiet when we arrived. Weather on Fishers can be schizophrenic in the spring, with punishing winds one day followed by warm, glassy lees the next. Thankfully, that evening was breathless. The streets were slick with rain and the houses dark, their silhouettes black against the emerging stars.
Will and I prepped our gear in the driveway of my parents’ house, passing rods and spools of line back and forth in silence. This particular year, I was determined to catch all my bass on a fly rod. I have been fly fishing since I graduated college nearly a decade ago (Jesus Christ), and have since rekindled a romance with the sport. On paper, it is elegant, refined even, but in practice I end up spending more time cursing and getting tangled in my own line than actually catching fish. “Joy through suffering,” as my dad would say.
Speaking of which, he was due on the island later that evening, so we decided to light out for the ponds before he could arrive and grill us for leaving the yard a mess. I may be in my 30s, but my insides are still 16, doomed to forever spiritually sneak beer from the basement fridge.
With the clock winding down closer to my birthday, I rushed Will into his waders, and we drove to the pond with the windows down, listening to the night as it shivered with spring peepers.
Will and I have always loved the night bite on Fishers. Largemouth are notoriously aggressive—wide-mouthed little darts that terrorize anything dragged across the surface of the water once the sun goes down. Their takes can be explosive, a discharge in the dark followed by a rush of water and the sound of line peeling from your reel.
We caught a handful that night, and I even got one on a mouse-patterned fly. A first for me, and a worthwhile birthday present given the circumstances. When we got home, my dad was waiting for us on the porch in the dark, a glass of wine beside him and a soft song bleeding out from the speakers in the living room. We joined him for a drink and talked for a while. Eventually, he was spent and gathered himself for bed. As he reached for the porch door, he placed a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder. “Happy birthday, kid,” he said.
Will and I stayed up a bit longer, shooting pool in the basement, picking at Medallas and Bud Lights in the fridge. Around midnight, Will retreated to bed, and I stumbled into the yard to answer nature’s call. For a while, I stood there in the dark, watching the lawn spill into the Sound. The air had grown cool, and for a moment, I could smell summer somewhere high over the sea.
I may never get used to growing older or learn how to celebrate myself, but there, with the mainland winking under a cacophony of stars and cold beer sitting comfortably in my stomach, my 30s started to look pretty good.
Now I just need to get a third cat.
