By April 2024, the divorce was final. I had two suitcases, a coffee maker, and a 7-foot medium-heavy casting rod with a rusty reel. It felt pathetic and liberating all at once. I chose a small reservoir two hours north of the city—a place no one from our old life would ever think to look for me. The forecast called for overcast skies and a light south wind, perfect conditions for largemouth bass. I packed a cooler with water, a peanut butter sandwich, and a six-pack of cheap lager. No phones, no texts, no “we need to talk.”
Over the following weeks, I returned to that cove again and again. I caught smaller fish, lost a few lures to the log, and watched the season turn from summer’s haze to autumn’s gold. Each trip sanded down the sharp edges of the divorce—the resentment, the regret, the what-ifs. Divorced Angler Memories of a Big Catch -2024- ...
What I came to understand is this: a big catch isn’t really about the fish. It’s about the moment you realize you’re still capable of joy. That your heart, despite everything, can still race for something other than pain. By April 2024, the divorce was final
The divorce still stings some days. But the memories of that big catch—July 14, the thump, the laugh, the release—sit beside the pain like a quiet anchor. I chose a small reservoir two hours north