We arrived at midnight, and this after “interfacing” with the airlines and security folks in that all-day clusterf**k known as air travel, the alternate reality where the journey isn’t the reward and you’re summarily separated from as much of your dignity as possible.

It’s even possible I’m turning into a Cranky Old Guy; I got tired of flight crews and airport workers cutting in front of us in the “families with kids” line at security, finally simply standing in the way until we got through.

(Coming soon to a post office wall near you: my face.)

The next morning — the hell that is your average airport terminal was replaced by aging pine shacks and little waves on the shore, and life seemed tenable again. In fact, I felt so good that I rigged my casting rod and wandered through the crowd of kids at the dock to unlimber the muscles with a few test casts, and on the first “test” the hcast I hooked a 12″ smallmouth bass.

The four little kids screamed.

Meski, I noticed, ran the length of the dock and stood by daddy in what I assumed was hero worship (in retrospect, I may have been wrong about that).

I promptly handed the rod to her, and she promptly dropped it as soon as she felt the fish pull, so I picked it up and landed the fish, holding the shiny green bass up for all the kids to touch before I let him go.

They made the appropriate noises, and watched intently (as only kids can) while he swam back into deep water.

Puffing up just a little, I turned and faced the small mob, ready to receive my due as a shining example of male perfection; the World’s Greatest Dad and Fisherman.

Instead, they turned on me.

“Catch another” the dark-haired niece yelled.

“We want more fish!” chanted another.

“Daddy catch big fish now!” Meski said (et tu, Meski?).

Oh.

I was expecting adulation.

I got expectation.

Two casts later I hadn’t caught a fish, so the mob — clearly disappointed — melted away, my status falling from genius to has-been in less than 90 seconds.

Turns out fame among the fresh-out-of-diapers set is fleeting.

Note to self: When you’re teaching kids, you’re not even as good as your last fish — you’re only as good as the time interval to your next one…

See you on the dock (trying to redeem myself), Tom Chandler

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