I went to Kaka’ako the other day. . . .It was a cool evening, a few people were out surfing and Diamond Head looked golden-green in the fading light. Actually, there were quite a few people at the park, which seems to be getting more and more crowded each time I go.  It was packed. People playing cards, tourists running for a photograph before the next bus leaves, children zooming around on bicycles.

And people fishing.

Always fishing. Young. Old. Tall. Fat. You name it, they are there, casting their rods to the sea in the hopes of catching. . . .what? Nothing, as far as I can tell. I spend a fair amount of time sitting on the sea wall over there, soaking in the salty breeze and watching the sun dip low, and I have never, I repeat, NEVER seen anyone catch anything.  (Except once. Right after that other time. Before that guy got a bucket full of  moi.)  Seriously though, the chances of catching a fish there are about as high as TV ratings for Manimal.

 I know fishing is all about the journey, the experience of sitting outside, soaking in the fresh air and spending relaxing quality time with those around you, but I also recall a little something called ‘fish’.  You’re supposed to catch them, not stare wistfully at the water, wishing they were there.   Call me crazy, but when I fish, I like to catch.  Or I go somewhere else and try again.  I’m not sure that sitting around and waiting is really a valuable spiritual exercise.  Too many things in life are billed that way.  When there’s no end in sight, someone is always there to say. . .’it’s the journey that is important’. . .hogwash, everyone likes to get somewhere and if people are really that sold on the experience of futility, then I say let them have at it.

I got places to be.