(Image from 90smovies.net Copyright Walt Disney Pictures)
Like many others, I was exposed to copious amounts of cartoons when I was a child. Growing up in the Philippines, though, only afforded me with re-runs or VHS copies. Life was simple. There wasn't much to complain about.
As intended, cartoons provide children with life lessons — besides the colorful animation, that was their appeal. Oddly enough, one of the most influential movies of my childhood was The Goofy Movie — the one where Goofy takes his son, Max, out on a road trip. In it he teaches him the fishing technique he dubbed as “The Perfect Cast.” It was a sure fire way to catch a fish, without ever explaining the science behind it. It was elaborate, it was intricate and it was … well, goofy. A-hyuck!
The Philippines is composed of 7,107 islands and is surrounded mostly by water. Naturally, a childhood hobby of mine was … swimming, but fishing came in close second. After I watched that movie, I couldn’t wait to test it out with my rod. I was stir-crazy, I couldn’t sleep. I practiced the whole day just to perfect the technique. I couldn’t tell you how many times I was scolded for whirling my fishing rod inside the house, but what I could tell you was that it was a lot.
The next day came, and I was all set. I had my sunglasses on, baby powder on my back and a full stomach. We lived in front of a river, but we used to always head up to a nearby pier to fish. The pier was about a ship tall from the sea and the pillars that held it up had shellfish sticking to them. The pier's floor had these holes which looked like manholes that were used for the kerosene hoses. They were large enough for one leg to slide right in, but I was small and thin as a feather back then so I could’ve slipped through them just fine.
The pier wasn’t open to the public so there wasn’t really any competition. Alongside me was my cousin — who was about 2 months older than me, but was significantly bigger. So much so that he didn’t have to worry about slipping down those manholes. There were about five to six men who were stationed there who didn't really mind two kids running around pretending they knew how to fish. Sadly, it has since been renovated and we don't have access to it anymore, so I don't have a picture of it to show for.
It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. From the onset, I did the whole ritual for “The Perfect Cast” but didn’t get a nibble, not even one. I waited, and waited … and waited. One of the men approached me an hour later to see how I was doing. He went to the edge and pulled on my line to check if there was a bite, but there was none. I stood a few feet from the edge because I used to be deathly afraid of heights. By then, my cousin had already caught quite a few decent-sized fish and was celebrating his victory over the sea. The man who was checking on my line told me to pull it back in for a bit, and so I did. Maybe he was feeling sorry for me or maybe he just had a feeling. Upon checking my hook, we discovered that my bait was already gone. It had been out for too long that fish might have nibbled on it without getting hooked. Those good-for-nothing freeloaders!
Disappointed, I threw my rod down and walked around for a bit. The man asked me if he could borrow my fishing rod, to which I nodded. What could I have done wrong? I followed that damn anthropomorphic dog’s instructions to the tee! After a few minutes of sulking, I went back to check on the man, only to discover that he had already caught three fish. I fumed inside and took back my rod.
Surveying the pier, pretending that I was a seasoned angler, I switched my position and tried my luck again. This time, I doubled the amount of bait and accentuated every move. I could feel everyone staring and chuckling. Undeterred, I fixed my gaze to where my line touched the sea and stood closer to the edge. I loosened my reel a bit and walked backwards whenever my fear of heights inevitably kicked in. A few seconds later, I felt a soft pull on my line. My eyes lit up, and I immediately reeled in, not even trying to choke my line a little. Almost instantaneously, the fish fought for control and almost tore my rod in half. The struggle drew the attention of almost everyone there. Now we're getting somewhere!
Beads of sweat dripped down my face and neck. The rod was cracking, bending almost in a 90-degree angle. I was literally being pulled into the sea — the slippers I was wearing rubbed violently against the cement. The people were cheering me on; some were on the ledge, the others beside me ready to hold me down if I would be sent flying. Eventually, my grip gave way and my rod was snatched from my hands. The men gave chase, and tugged the line to pull the fish up. I scraped my elbows when I landed on my back, but I couldn’t avert my gaze.
After seconds of struggle, they finally hoisted up a large fish — its scales glistened against the almost-noon sun. It was a majestic sight to behold. No one could remember how heavy the fish weighed, nor do I have a picture to back up that memory. (Cameras were a rare commodity back then) It was a gindara, which was half as tall as I was at that time. I was in awe, and all I could remember after that was their cheering. We brought home the fish, and my family ate it for lunch. It was my proudest fishing memory, and for the longest time it was my proudest catch.
I’ve told that story a bunch of times, but only recently did I realize that I have been telling it wrong. For all those times I narrated the tale, it was always about the thrill of the moment, or the pride of the achievement, or how it was a testament of “The Perfect Cast’s” effectiveness — it was after all my achievement. That’s where I was wrong.
People often attribute victories — no matter the scale — to their skill or some sort of divine intervention, when in fact it is anything but that. The training that athletes undertake is not solely born from their hard work — whose existence itself isn’t born from personal fortitude. Academic achievements aren’t accomplished only by one’s own intellect or acuity. All of these are concerted efforts by multitudes of people separated by distance and association, stretching for hundreds of years.
Had I not done “The Perfect Cast” technique, I would have probably still hooked that gindara, but without each and every variable that lined up, I wouldn’t have successfully caught the fish. If different onlookers were there and weren’t too keen to help reel in the catch, I wouldn’t have caught it. If my cousin would have chosen the position that I eventually wound up in, I wouldn’t have caught it. If my mother hadn’t dabbed on baby powder on my back, I could have itched at that very moment and wouldn’t have caught it. If Disney decided against making The Goofy Movie, I wouldn’t have gone fishing that day.
I had it all wrong; it wasn’t the technique, but everyone that has ever been involved for that catch was the “perfect cast.” None of what we do are individual achievements, but a culmination of the effort of different individuals working in unison.
So, the next time you achieve something, take a moment to thank the world. Without everyone else, we would be nobodies. Thank you, and you’re welcome.