Who can truly say why we fish – I believe there are several reasons. I believe it satisfies a visceral need to hunt. I also believe that we get addicted to the rush of the strike and the fight that ensues – addicted to the adrenaline and other hormones. But I also believe there is a tranquility in the practice, the Zen focus of preparation and use of the equipment. Then, add waves crashing at sunrise with your feet in the water and the smell of salt air and you have a perfect escape from our daily surroundings of laptops, cell phones, concrete and asphalt.
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W.B. Yeats (1865–1939).
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.