The River Why

The surface of the earth...

is 30 percent land...

and 70 percent water.

A newborn baby is composed of 70 percent water...

and 30 percent everything else.

I guess this means...

that life and water are inseparable.

A human child at birth undergoes a ritual...

almost identical to that inflicted upon a trout at death.

The fish is whacked on the head...

thus putting it out of its misery.

The infant is whacked on the behind...

thus initiating it into its misery.

Upon my birth, my father made sure that I was given...

the proud, manly name of Augustine.

And since I was born into the first family of angling...

it should come as no surprise...

that I was a fishing prodigy.

I caught my first steelhead with my mom...

on a worm when I was four.

I didn't feel any hostility towards land dwellers.

I just had water on the brain.

The only thing I gave much thought to...

was bait versus fly.

On my tenth birthday...

I caught my 180th steelhead with my dad...

on a fly.

By the time high school rolled around...

I was great at attracting steelhead.

Not so great with the cheerleaders.

And when most kids were making college plans...

I didn't bother.

Gross.

Figured the only institution...

my grades would get me in...

was the Oregon State Pen.

But on water?

I understand the way fish think.

My parents' union...

is one of stubborn, extremely loyal...

hot-tempered, polar opposites.

Ma is a bait fisher...

an expert plunker of worms.

My father is a writer secondarily...

and a famous fly fisherman primarily.

My brother Bill Bob is different...

than the rest of us.

He was born with a prodigious ability...

to ignore all things aquatic...

which to a massive extent implies his entire family.

He hates water. Won't drink it.

He wears galoshes and a hat...

almost every day...

just to stay clear of the stuff.

Not that he doesn't need a little protection...

from other hazards now and then.

Good thing Ma has native intelligence.

And she always seems to be

in the right place at the right time.

My father's battle...

with a giant steelhead he named Nijinsky...

was the stuff of legends.

And the story of that fish brought him fame, fortune...

and a healthy ego.

Raised by English aristocrats...

he inherited their speech and manners.

When he autographs a book, he writes his entire name...

Henning Hale Orviston.

To approach every task--

I call him H2O.

He's the one person in the world...

who calls me by the name on my birth certificate.

Augustine...

best get another box from the car.

I just brought in three boxes.

Tell you what, Augustine.

Until you find someone else to employ you...

you might want to do what I request.

Yes, sir!

Do you have children?

Oh, yeah.

Before I take a few questions...

let me conclude by saying...

I like to think of this legislation...

as the Worship the Waters Act.

Yes, little lady.

Hi . Um, curious.

How can building all those new dams be an act of worship?

I mean, even if the wild salmon are lucky enough to survive...

the turbines on their pilgrimage up the river...

their smolt will be swallowed, of course...

by the predators on their way back to the ocean.

Maybe we should call it the Slaughter the Salmon Act instead.

There may be some collateral damage to the salmon...

but this will create jobs and cut taxes, and besides...

we are making great strides with aquaculture these days.

You'd be amazed what we're doing...

with farmed salmon.

There's no smoking here.

You need to put that out.

Of course. The environment.

Come on.

Certainly.

Let's go. Come one.

There's no evidence...

that consuming farmed salmon poses any threat.

Yeah, you and I can debate that.

But we can both agree that fish have better places to live...

than pools of their own shit!

Where are my books, Augustine?

My name is Gus!

Sorry.

Sorry.

My parents argued about a lot of things.

But it was never a question of who would have the last word...

merely who would have the next one.

How could I tell them I was thinking about leaving home...

when I couldn't even get a word in edgewise.

So, Hen...

have you ever been to Royal Lake?

If I have...

the brain cells recollecting it...

have been destroyed by this merciful beverage.

So go ahead, Gusser.

Tell him about that record bass...

you and Bill Bob pulled out of there that time.

Ma.

Augustine, you call yourself a fisherman?

I call myself Gus.

Well, Gus...

why were you fishing for bass?

Dutch Hines says that--

Dutch Hines is an idiot. What does he know? Bass.

Bass!

It's been said that a man with a Bible...

is more dangerous than a man with a gun.

lzaak Walton's The Compleat Angler...

was my father's Bible.

"The king of fish, the trout."

And since the time I was a toddler...

I heard it quoted and misquoted daily.

"via the fly rod, the most aesthetically perfect experience...

available to mortal--" Don't break my book.

Don't worry about your stupid book. Here.

"Come. Let's kill them all.

"Then let's go find an honest alehouse...

"where we may drink a cup of barley wine...

and rejoice together. "

Completely mistaken.

I swear, Hen.

You've taken his facetious humor...

and turned it into a mortal condemnation.

You bribed your teacher for your diploma.

Shows a lack of humor. The trout--

lke Walton wrote all that about fly fishing...

just so he could make some extra pocket money.

Stop! Just shut up! Stop.

What would you think of me if I didn't fly fish?

You know what you are? You're a fishing fascist.

You're a diarrhea-mouthed bigot who's blind to anyone...

who doesn't drool over the sound of your stupid, suave talk.

The only person you love is yourself...

because you've got your head so far up your own ass--

All right now, Gus Orviston...

that's no way to talk to your father.

What in hell's gotten into you?

You're a greedy, gloating shrew...

and you don't know shit about fishing or living.

Neither one of you do because you're just both...

dug so deep in your ruts...

that you've got mud in your ears.

I gotta get out of here.

See this?

No no no, not Nijinsky.

This is the source of all your bullshit.

Nijinsky was an honored part of our family...

since before I was even born.

And even though his body...

was stuck over the living room mantle...

his spirit haunted every corner of my life.

What can you say after you've spontaneously cremated...

your parent's prized fish in the fireplace?

The only thing that came to my mind

was "Good-bye."

For me, happiness would never be found...

anywhere but on the banks of a river anyway.

So I took the few possessions I owned--

Bye, Gus.

and turned to the river.

And to a new life devoid of every obstacle between me...

and my beloved art of angling.