A Story Of How To Win In Business With Less Effort.

A lot about fishing is not about fishing.? Here’s what you should know when fishing is not about fishing.

When I was a kid I caught hundreds of crappies and sunfish.? Maybe more.? Big ones too, the kind that barely fit in a 12” skillet.? The kind that put up a fight, especially when you’re 11 years old believing you’re landing sailfish.

My cousins and I spent some of the best days of our lives, many entire summers, with our grandparents Bill and Virginia, up at the lake in northern Minnesota.? Often after dinner, Bill would holler, “Who wants to go fishing?”? A gaggle of grandkids quickly scrambled to the lake.? Speeding across the big water, with whitewater screaming out behind the monster outboard, the secret spot was about 20 minutes away.

We’d round the point near Killworry Resort, slip into the back bay, then slow to trolling speed so you could peer over the side, hopefully spying trophies. What polarized glasses? That water was crystal clear.? Like a big bird flying low over a field of sunflowers, we’d glide over big-leafed weeds yearning for the surface.

Upon reaching just the right place, we’d drop a warship-like, cast iron 40-pound navy anchor, spooled out on a steel cable from an electric winch. ? With a fistful of nightcrawlers, my grandfather made distributions to an eager crowd.? We’d string them on our hooks, press the reel's line release with our thumbs, then cast.? Seemingly in seconds, our bobbers started jumping, like whack-a-moles at the fair.?

Fanned out on the front of the boat, up to 9 grandkids had secured their favored spots.? Standing inside the fence, some fished from the front, others leaned against the fence on both sides.?

The big pontoon was 30’ long, and the entire front deck was intended without furniture, open so you could move side to side, ensuring your fishing line could be cast left or right without obstruction.? Yep, expertly designed for young ganglers.

Busier than a hummingbird in a sea of nectar-rich flowers, Bill flitted back and forth, plucking fish off hooks and splashing them into plastic, full-sized garbage cans filled with lake water.? In the hour before sunset, we’d fill several garbage cans bulging with fish to the point where each can frothed with fish.

Just before the mosquitoes hit, we’d winch up the anchor, then head for home.? With kids taking turns driving, Grandpa made quick work of cleaning the fish.??Bill filleted on a customized, transom-mounted wooden 12" x 24" fish cleaning board, scored with countless crisscrossed hieroglyphics from the thousands of fish he'd dispatched on it. His skills were fascinating, his dexterity and speed could make a Bennihanna chef blush.??

He’d scale each side in seconds, one-cut the head off and incise the belly, then clean out the guts with a swift forefinger swipe.? The innards disappeared into the wake, tossed there to feed the walleyes.? By the time we hit the dock, dozens of headless, clean fish bodies were rinsed and ready to cook.

All the while, the amped fishing gaggle compared their catch, glowed with delight, anxious to tell their tales to waiting parents.

For dinner the next day, Bill would fire up the outdoor cooktop, the only way to use his giant black iron skillet, about 30” across.? Preparing the fish, he’d rinse each one, flop it back and forth in flour, then drop it into a hot frying pan already sizzling with a thin layer of oil.

After flipping them like hamburgers, the skin would be crispy, the meat bright white.? Perfectly done, the skin would flake away.? If you pulled on the dorsal fin just right, the spine would smoothly release.? With a fork, you could fold open each fillet side, revealing long rib bones, easy to extract.? Once removed, the meat left an impression on your taste buds still savorable decades later.

Bill created generations of fish slayers, all of whom carry cherished memories like mine.?

So, of course, fishing is about catching fish. But the memories are more. I don't carry around visions of 6-pound crappies. I carry around the blessings of the best days spent with the people I cared about most.

These days I replay those hundreds of hot summer fishing adventures in my head,-pole in hand, bobber bobbing, delectable crappie and sunfish dinners- relishing every second spent with my grandparents and cousins.?

I still live in Minnesota. In the winter, I frequently see ice fishermen perched upon overturned 5-gallon pails, on windswept frozen lakes.? Looks really cold.? Staring into a small hole between my feet while the wind whips my body attempting to draft away any warmth looks like a losing proposition.? One I’ll continue to bypass.

But the people I know that do it, love it.? They love the solitude, they love the winter winds, and the occasionally caught fish.? For them, fishing is about getting away from it all, losing themselves in the great outdoors to contemplate their thoughts.? If it’s -12o, no worries.

Now in the summer, my preferred use for scarce water time is ripping it in the slalom course. Winding my way from the dock to the course location, I frequently find myself threading slowly through fishermen working the channels cut through the lily pads.??

As I idle by, the sunfish slayer in me inquires about the daily catch, any fish size worth discussion, and general conditions.? Where we ski, the fishermen are nearly all catch and release types.? Often there are pros. They prefer the action over the eating.

Then there are the fishermen who own the gear, but it rarely gets wet.? It rides in the storage locker awaiting moments stolen for cruising, tubing, and memory-making that doesn’t include lures or worms.? Yes, they consider themselves avid about fish but rarely get enough hours strung together for drowning bait.? Hats off to the hopeful!

Whether a fisherman gets their line wet a lot or not, obsession is embedded in their DNA.? They think, dream, and speak fishing. They sticker their trucks,?what weather??is their mantra, and their family and friends are well aware of their passion.

Statistically, fishing boats are the only category not suffering.? Aren’t many of the fishermen you know seemingly more enamored with it than most other sportsmen??

What’s the business takeaway?

You can’t outwork the obsessed.?

To the obsessed, the work is a blessing, the effort is painless, and coming up short means you get to do it longer.? How do you compete with that?? Wickedly hard. If you, your team, and your culture aren’t inspired by obsession you’ll be crushed by those that are. Ask yourself:

1. Are challenges seen as learning opportunities?
2. Does your culture inspire giving a full measure of effort?
3. Is there a component of joy in committing to the objective?

Your level of obsession determines your outcome.? Put that bait on your hook.