For the past several years (and much to the dismay of my non-fishing friends), I have spent (perhaps too many) hours in boats of all shapes and sizes, pondering some of life’s biggest questions.

Questions like this: How big does a salmon have to be in order for him to try to swallow a six-inch sewn-on smelt? (The answer: as close as I’ve been able to figure, about seven inches).

And this: What is the difference between a “streamer chop” and “too darned windy?” (Answer: It all depends on whether the fish are still biting. If they are, it’s still streamer chop. If they’re not, it’s the wind’s fault).

But a few weeks ago, thanks to the inquisitive nature of a child, I found myself seeking the answer to a question I’d never thought of asking.

As I rigged up rods for a sunfishing-off-the-dock expedition with the young daughters of a woman who has miraculously and inexplicably decided to tolerate me and my assorted quirks, 8-year-old Sarah struck.

“Are you a good fisherman?” she asked, as 6-year-old Molly waited eagerly for my response.

The question was a toughie, for a couple of reasons. First, Sarah may not have been asking the right person.

While my parents have two perfectly well-adjusted, modest children, they also have one who sometimes seems to walk the line between confident and obnoxious.

Yup. My sister’s really a pain.

OK. OK. I admit it. It’s me.

And second, as much as I wanted to assure Sarah that she was, in fact, in the presence of a genuine fishing magician, I couldn’t.

Instead, I hedged, blubbered and tried to think of a way to quantify the unexplainable.

Avid? Yes. But good? Who knows?

Years ago, it was pretty simple. I figured that if I somehow managed to back my boat down the ramp without jackknifing and tearing another chunk of metal out of my bumper, I was off to a good start. If I did jackknife, and it took me six or eight zigzagging attempts to chase the trailer into the water, it was still a success … as long as nobody was around to see it.

And if I remembered to put the plug in, too? It was time for a touchdown dance.

I had a feeling, however, that Sarah didn’t care much about that.

She probably wasn’t interested in the fact that (punctured fingers aside), I had finally learned how to cast a dry fly well enough that it’s not immediately apparent that this whole fly-fishing game is still a mystery to me.

Maybe she was interested in knowledge. Over the years, I have done everything I could to learn what makes fish tick. I asked questions. I read books. I paid attention when my Fishing Buddy was busily reeling … and I was sitting around, catching nothing but a sunburn.

I’ve learned the age-old trolling secrets. Low and slow. Big bait, big fish.

I’ve learned that eight colors of lead-core line (with the proper attached spoons) will always hook up on bottom when the fish-finder tells me I’m in 37 feet of water.

Still, I didn’t have an answer to her question. She recognized that and (like a good reporter) hit me with her follow-up.

“Have you ever caught a fish before?” she asked, a suspicious eyebrow raised.

Finally, a question I had an answer for. Maybe I’m better at this fishing thing than I thought.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.