A clinic in humility

Herding cats is nothing compared to herding children. I already knew this. I am a father of three now-grown kids who, when they were little, could be a lot. They still can be, but at least they no longer live at home. But kids overall? Pfft. So when I was asked recently if I'd like to help run a free, three-hour kids' fishing clinic by the American River Parkway Foundation – a non-profit I love – I said absolutely. The Parkway Foundation would provide rods, reels, basic tackle and bait. I, of course, would supply the know-how and charisma. Haha, I even created a lesson plan. I know now I only agreed because the brain is good at repressing trauma. For example, when I think of our kids as little, it's all laughter, love and endless Christmas mornings. But dare I dwell a little longer? Murkier memories arise: a 6-year-old Sam punching his 9-year-old brother Joseph in the stomach … at Disneyland. In front of Princess Jasmine. Our pre-teen daughter's Chernobyl-sized meltdown when she found out I was going to be a lunchroom monitor. The cloying, gouda cheese-from-hell odor of pre-teen sneakers. So, yeah, it's accurate to say I over-estimated how easy conducting this fishing clinic would be. Even though it only happened a few days back, at bucolic William B. Pond Park near the American River, it's already a blur and I can only recall bits and pieces. Scenes of young, hopeful faces looking to me to teach them a lifetime skill suddenly disintegrate into tangled lines exploding off spinning reels, rods being used as light sabers, and the vertiginous realization that using actual hooks was probably not a great idea. The first part of the clinic, which I envisioned as a row of 13 well-behaved youngsters paying rapt attention as I taught them the basics of casting dissolved like cotton candy in the rain. Henry wanted to know if we would be catching alligators. The Ngyun girls sat at a picnic table sipping Capri Suns. Trystan's cough was scaring the park squirrels. Not five minutes in and already, Brink Of Anarchy. OK. Time to pivot. We grabbed the rods with reels not yet fully cocooned inside a tangle of line and walked to the park's pond, which has a nice little pier. As quickly as I could, I squished little globs of Power Bait onto hooks and cast them into the water. But the fish weren't biting, the dock had no shade and I'd forgotten that the bones of bored children left in the sun too long actually begin breaking down as though being boiled for soup. Soon, there was nothing left but whiny piles of skin lying about. Except for the Ngyun twins, who were still at the picnic table, now enjoying Lunchables. Pivot again. One of the ARPF volunteers suggested a short hike down to the river. Great idea! So we set down the rods and, as the kids snapped on their life jackets, I organized my thoughts so I could tell them about the fascinating life cycle of salmon. But, it's incredible the distance a simple line of 13 children can stretch out to. The first kids were already at the river while the last were still being peeled off the dock. Rather than explaining smolts and redds and the circle of life, I spent much of the hike telling a little angel named Jordan to stop splashing the other kids with his water bottle and reminding another cherub named Abel he did not need to "pants" his brother, who I'm pretty sure was named Cain. Meanwhile, the Ngyun twins were still at their picnic table, and a volunteer had joined them. The kaleidoscope of failure was unrelenting. There were blackberry bushes, gnats, bees, wet feet, a fast-moving river and slippery logs. I dimly remember collaring Jordan by his life jacket as a root nearly tripped him into a Class XIV rapid. He lost his water bottle, poor thing. At some point, safely back on green grass, I recall a foot race, and I was in it. In fact, I was given a three-second head start and came in fifth. Just after the finish, Abel finally pantsed his brother. There was also a revisiting of the fishing rods, now hook-free and somewhat untangled by two volunteers with the patience of Zen monks, and a casting contest that finally, some 2.5 hours in, actually seemed to hold their attention – but only because I told them I would Venmo the winner's parents $5. Then, mercifully, for all of us, the class ended. And as the last of the children disappeared into sedans and minivans, I glanced back and saw the Ngyun twins still at that picnic table. The volunteer was still there too, and their parents had joined them. I thought about hitting them up for a Capri Sun, but they all looked so peaceful.