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Last night, I watched one of my absolute favorite movies “Men of Honor” with Robert De Niro and Cuba Gooding Jr. The movie, based on a true story is about the military life of Carl Brashear as he worked to become a Navy Diver and ultimately a Master Diver despite being severely injured and eventually having his left leg amputated. Robert De Niro plays an old salt of a Master Chief who makes it quite tough on Brashear but ultimately becomes one of his biggest supporters. The underlying theme is Brashear spending most of his life trying to make his father proud by proving that he made something of himself. A.S.N.F. – A Son Never Forgets.
I can only hope that I’ve lived up to my father’s expectations with regards to work, family and even our outdoor pursuits. We were always slightly competitive with our fishing or hunting trips so by the end of the day, we’d count fish, rabbits, grouse, or squirrels to see who had the best luck or who was the best shot of the day. He always won and coming close to his skill level was something we always tried to reach right up to the point when we left home. Our trips afield grew less and less frequent and now I head out with him on my mind and in my heart, especially when hitting the trout streams because that was one place I never even came close to matching his ability. Better eyes, more skill, better equipment, greater experience level, more patience, he always seemed to catch more fish than my brother and I ever could. But I think I’ve finally reached a point where I’d have given him a run for his money. Forty plus years of experience and the lessons he drilled into us along with all the little things I’ve picked up in his absence have brought me to a point that I think he’d be pleased with.
“Buck” wasn’t a man of many words and he wasn’t overly emotional but you could tell he had a passion for his family, especially for his grandchildren, and for unfailingly doing the job he was paid to do. But even with all that, I don’t think anyone really knew him until they spent a few hours following him around the woods, fields, streams, or lakes of Northwest Pennsylvania. Even the local wildlife officers came to recognize his truck when it was parked on some lonely and deserted forest road. They knew he was out there keeping watch and getting some exercise. Even in the dead of winter you’d find him hanging wood duck boxes along the shore of some isolated beaver dam. I tried to hang with him over the years but I never would quite match his energy level or stamina. A lot of ducks owe their existence to him and many outdoorsmen can attribute their continued passion for hunting and fishing to early forays afield with my father. You’d have gotten the impression that half the hunters and fishermen in the region knew and respected him based on the steady parade of camo and plaid clad men attending the viewing and subsequent funeral.
Many years have passed since our days with him and I hope I’ve done a decent job of carrying on in his memory, whether it’s through actions or written words. Sharing our common passion wasn’t something I ever set out to do, but all the many forks in the road have eventually led to this point. I guess, like any other man whose father was sometimes bigger than life, I just hope to measure up to his expectations and be half the man he was.
Brian “Beastman” Eastman
White River Fly Shop
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