My father's vest

 

My father's vest was out of the ordinary, far from the standard fishing vest and did not look likenit belong to some special forces operative.
It was dark forest green,a mix of gabardine and wide corduroy,with the perennial thyme smell of bass and Northern pike.
He used to kill fish with no doubt,remorse or second thoughts.
Fishing is a blood sport in the end and he was of a generation when fish were caught, killed and eaten.
It was a tad longer than usual,almost like a hunting vest and covered with a dozen or so pockets of any size,like a flyfishing vest,but no flies for this man though; he was a firm believer in Rapalas,spoons and large spinners.
Even though he was extremely successful harvesting bass,perch and trout, his specialty was pike.
The vest used to hang behind the door of the service bathroom and I had plenty of time to inspect it and search it hoping to find a new secret lure or a note about a new spot.
He used to walk up to me and tell me he was going to move further up the shore for a bit and off he would go,in the fog,only to return a couple hours later with one or two pikes in the net.
We never knew how or where he did his businness.
I don't use a vest anymore,specially down here in Baja,but there were times when I was fishing my BC rivers that I would have loved to have it.
My old Patagonia vest was enviromentally friendly and extraordinarily fashionable but it was soulless, cold,with no personality and with no stories to share with me.
I need to make a note to myself to look formit at my mother's place when I'll take little Dante to Italy and meet the family next year.