I labored far too long over a title for this blog–as if my cleverly conjured words would draw fledgling female anglers to my page. When I shared my blog idea and title with my favorite fisherman and teacher of all things fishing, his response was simply, “It’s no different for any beginner, male or female. You all experience the same stuff.” Ah, but do the guys have to pee into a bucket in a rolling sea in December was the rejoinder that ran through my head–but I kept it to myself knowing he would reply that relieving oneself in a bucket really had nothing to do with fishing, and, in a way, he would be right…and wrong. Fishing I’ve been told is not “catching.” Fishing, I’ve learned, is the complete experience–bucket included in my case.

My passion in life had always revolved around horses, buying my first at seventeen while still living in Jersey City, borrowing my mom’s car and making late evening forays to the Jersey Shore to ride my sixteen hand gelding under the lights. He was the color of city snow—white smudged with gray, which seemed sort of apropos considering my background.  Walking in the barn door—any barn door—was tantamount to entering another world, where the two legged inhabitants spoke a different language of snaffles, martingales, irons…you get the idea. Over the years, I’ve been fortunate enough to own three horses in succession, each with me until their time was up. My feisty little mare was the last to go and with her went the realization of my passion.  Sadly, New Jersey has become a financially prohibitive place for a horsewoman to live out her dream.

I floundered for a few years in search of a new passion to no avail.  And then I met Gary.  “Want to go fishing,” he asked, and another door opened to a whole new world, where the two legged inhabitants spoke a different language of bucktails, braid, spoons, jigging…you get the idea.  After that fateful trip with my now favorite fisherman and teacher of all things fishing, I knew right then and there that I wanted to be a fisherman—except, well, that wasn’t really possible considering my gender.  It has been about five years now, and I still don’t know what to call myself.

“You’re a female angler,” I’m told, but in my book being an angler is comparable to being an equestrienne—which I certainly was—eyes focused, hands fluid, heels down, tactical learner, winner of the prize.  More importantly though, I like to think I was a horsewoman, feeling for the slight variations of heat and pulse in my horse’s legs, mending fences, getting incredibly dirty, wrapping bandages, trying to make sense of and plan for the movements of an animal with a mind of its own…horse whispering.  As a horsewoman, I endured hours in the dead heat of the summer and nursed frozen toes in the winter. Having now spent time in both the horse and fishing worlds, it has become clear to me that while being an equestrienne is much like being an angler, on the other hand, being a horsewoman is more akin to being a fisherman. 

Don’t get me wrong, I unequivocally want to be considered an accomplished angler, but, more importantly, I want to be the female equivalent of a fisherman…

fishwoman (No, that would be a mermaid.)

fishingwoman (As in: Look, a fishing woman!)

fisherwoman (too many syllables)

fishingperson (too politically correct). 

When I say I want to be a fisherman, I’m referring to one of those people out on the water well before the first light of dawn, able to glimpse the silvery flash of bunker before the sonar registers the school, out fishing shipwrecks, trying to plan for the movements of an animal with a mind (no matter how small) of its own…fish whispering. 

Until I come up with a more suitable moniker, I’ll just be the woman on board with the rod in her hand. Welcome to my new passion and my new world.