John never took Dean fishing. Dean had asked, once, when he was about seven or so. They were in a cabin on the shore of some small lake in Michigan. Dean had found some fishing gear in a shed and had worked all morning on getting it ready to go. He'd even gone out and dug a pail of worms for them.
His dad'd smiled, genuinely proud of the work Dean had done, and promised that they would go fishing. Tomorrow.
The next day, Dean took the poles out to the dock, went through the worms to check for the best ones, baited the hooks, and then waited for his dad. John came, smiled that same smile, told him he did a great job, but that he had work to do. Fishing would have to wait. They'd do it tomorrow.
Every morning, Dean was out at the lake, sitting on the dock, lines baited, waiting for his dad. John's fishing line never got wet, but Dean still remembers the lake. The water was always so blue, so calm, so full of possibilities.
Dean always loved fishing.