I went fishing for the first time two summers ago, on a lake about an hour north of Toronto, where I've lived since moving from the Philippines for nursing work.
My colleague Dave had been inviting me for months, and I finally said yes on a long weekend in July. We left at five in the morning, which was painful, and drove up to his family's cabin. His father lent me a rod, showed me how to put the bait on the hook, which I found slightly disgusting, and we rowed a small boat out to the middle of the lake. Then we just waited. For almost two hours nothing happened. The water was perfectly still, there was mist rising off it, and the only sound was the occasional bird. Finally my line jerked, I panicked, and Dave had to talk me through reeling it in. It was a small bass, nothing impressive, and we let it go straight away.
I had mixed feelings, to be honest. The early start and the long wait tested my patience, because I'm used to a very fast-paced hospital where something is always happening. But in a strange way that was the best part. After a while I stopped checking my phone and just sat there, and I realised I hadn't felt that calm in months. Catching the fish was exciting, but releasing it felt even better. I also felt quite moved by the place itself, because it reminded me of fishing villages near my grandmother's house back home, which I'd never really appreciated. I've been three more times since then.