If you're an angler, and you keep company with other anglers, you've probably heard this one:
"The original GPS was called Grandpa."
It's a saying with a double meaning.
The obvious one is navigation. Before technology found its way onto every boat, you had to remember where you were going — and more importantly, how to get back. You learned the water by memory and landmarks.
"Don't forget to take the left at the fork by the old cypress tree that looks like it's sunbathing, kneecaps just above the water."
That was your GPS.
But the second meaning runs deeper.
It speaks to the closeness we had with the ones who first took us there.
Those early trips didn't involve graphite rods, Power-Poles, or side-scan imaging. They started with an ugly green and beige Plano tackle box, a Zebco rod and reel, and a pint-sized styrofoam cup full of dirt-covered nightcrawlers.
The mission? Seek out the gateway drug — the almighty Bluegill.
Back then, fishing wasn't a test of skill. It was a test of something else entirely.
Patience.
Did you have it in you to sit still? To speak in whispers? To resist complaining about being too hot, too cold, too tired, or too dirty?
And maybe most importantly — could you make it through the day in a way that let Grandpa actually enjoy his time too?
That test didn't end with childhood. It showed up again and again. Through uncles. A father. Friends. And eventually, fishing partners competing alongside me at a professional level.
At some point, without realizing it, the roles start to shift. The album flips to the B-side. And one day you're no longer the one being tested — you're the one giving it.
It's been about 22 years since I took my son on our first solo trip. He had a Shakespeare Snoopy pole. A handful of nightcrawlers dug from the garden. And I had one simple hope — that he could endure a few hours of what probably felt like meaningless conversation, staring at a small red-and-white bobber floating on the surface, waiting for it to disappear like magic.
I remember watching him more than the cork.
Wondering if he felt what I felt all those years ago. Wondering if something was taking hold.
Somewhere between my grandfather taking me for the first time, and me taking my son, and where I stand today — there's a story. One filled with growth, perspective, love, frustration, and at times, the urge to walk away from it altogether.
But somehow, you don't.
Because it was never really about the fish.
They call the OGs of the fishing world "Old Salts." The ones who've seen enough to stop chasing everything and start understanding it.
I'm not there yet.
But I'm getting closer.
This is Becoming Old Salt.
Come along for the ride.
