The impact plowed us both into the gravel and sand of the beach. We grappled in the surfline and I wrestled the fish onto the beach and clobbered it again. We both hit the ground with a thud, the fish writhing beneath my weight. I grabbed it in a bear hug, hanging on to one of it's lateral fins determined not to let go. We rolled around among the boulders and I became coated with fine black sand, my father laughing so hard, he nearly forgot to help.

Between the two of us, we soon subdued the fish and I remember a faded photograph taken at the event, my father holding a salmon by the jaw and me standing next to fish that equalled my height and girth.

Much has happened since that first fishing trip, our lives have changed and at some point we became less like father and son and more like friends. We forget dates that others remember, we miss phone calls, and don't always communicate, but under the circumstances these transgressions are acceptable, because we keep track of the important things, like making time to fish. And it's often these times that we remember most.

My father and I recently spent a month together, fly fishing for trout in Pagosa Country, and some may find this sort of relationship strange, but it seems we decided long ago to fish together as friends, and for us, that is enough.