The subject is fishing. With apologies to the talented scribes of this newspaper who frequent the wilds of Maine and write about them for a living, thoughts today turn to the time I’ve spent on the water.

A number of years ago, Bob Hennessey, a good friend of mine, and I took a fly fishing class together. Both of us had spent a good deal of our leisure time dropping worms in the water or spin casting, but the spirit moved us, and we made our way to the education of this new version – at least for us – of the popular sport.

The casting took a few minutes to grasp, but I must admit that my old digits weren’t nimble enough to conquer all the knots of one variety or another.

My friend nailed the techniques right away, and off we went to a local pond to demonstrate our newfound expertise.

I learned a long time ago from my uncles and my father that fishing is a sport that requires patience.

I caught my first fish, a brook trout, when I was about 8 years old.

My uncle took me to a wooded brook somewhere near Houlton, and I have fond memories of a fish fry that night – remember, this was the 1950s – and the smell of the open fire and the ribald talk which accompanied the event.

My mother, of course, would have been dismayed to hear some of the fireside chat, but she knew I was in good hands. I still have the rod from that inaugural event, and back then, a hook, a worm, a bobber, and patience – there’s that word again – served most fishermen well.

Not so today.

My, what an offering of related paraphernalia my friend and I were exposed to that spring weekend in Freeport.

I came away thinking that many of today’s fishermen have “the look” that none of my uncles did, or my father, for that matter.

We shied away from the expensive stuff and gave our attention to the bare necessities.

When my sister and I were kids, fishing became a part of the camp routine. My father loved to fish, but he didn’t allow himself much leisure time until after his retirement.

It is a special camp memory to cast off our small dock at Branch Lake. Back then, we were into the catch-and-release mode long before it became law on many waters in our state.

We used to have casting distance contests there at dusk, and if we were lucky enough to land a fish, why we just held it up, kissed it for luck, and set it back gently in the water.

One of the things I enjoyed the most in my fly-fishing education days was learning about the various flies. This time of year, I particularly marveled at the ones that resembled what lived near the bottom. In summer months, matching what was flying in the air was a real treat, and I have a tackle box full of flies my father and I exchanged through the years.

I never evolved into the fisherman my father did. He demonstrated more patience than I did and, with his good friend Ralph, spent many hours on the water in wayward haunts only a small plane could get them to.

In Maine, this is the beginning of a season that attracts thousands to the water, but for me, it will always remain the beginning of the time when the splash of that bass plug hits the water and the squeal of the reel is accompanied by the joy and merriment of young boys trying to outdo each other.

As good friend and fellow coach Buddy Wood used to say: “Tight lines!”

We made it through another winter, dear readers. Enjoy the season.

BDN columnist Ron Brown, a retired high school basketball coach, can be reached at bdnsports@bangordailynews.net