Dirty Rotten Lying Fish Bums

Anyone who tells you fly fishing is easy is a liar. I know this because it's in my blood. It's sort of a family tradition. I do it all the time and I say it knowing that the person I'm saying it to believes me and may consequently hate me at some later time.
I vividly remember the first trout I ever caught. I remember the gleaming scales, the wondrous array of spots, the sharp little teeth. I remember it because it was enormous, much larger than anything I ever expected to catch. I remember it because I worked so hard for so long. Years, literally.
My grandfather introduced me to the world of fly fishing at a young age. He said it would be fun and easy and at age six gave me a rod, reel, and fly tying kit he had built up. He would take me with him to Pennsylvania's famous Yellow Breeches in pursuit of these mysterious and beautiful fish that I knew very little about. What I learned from him can be summed up in three words. God, damn, and it. Besides permanently searing this phrase into my vocabulary he instilled a belief in me that A. He was not very good at fly fishing, B. Fly fishing was obviously impossibly hard since he was not very good at it, and C. I would most likely never catch anything. However, it was fun eating junk food and hearing him swear (a lot) so I enjoyed it.
The day I finally caught my first trout I was alone on a tiny creek near my house, mostly screwing around. I remember it so well because of how horribly ironic it turned out to be. I also remember thinking I was a genius for a while. Keep in mind, I was still pretty young. I dropped my net in the creek and before I could grab it the current swept it through a culvert. To my surprise and delight it emerged on the other side holding a giant rainbow! God Damn! I'd done it! I ran all the way home with the fish in the net to show whoever was there and get the glorious victory photos.
Years later, after more or less having given up on the fly game, I heard my grandfather's last "GOD DAMN IT!" Not long thereafter, I picked up the dusty old rig he'd built for me so long ago, brushed it off, and tied on a fly. It was about this time I realized a few things. A. My grandfather was an awful teacher. He had the heart but certainly not the technique. B. Normal people like me could catch trout this way, and C. My monstrous gleaming rainbow, which had at this point grown in memory to biblical proportions was not, in fact, any more than eight inches or so. Apparently I had forgotten about a certain glorious victory photo which happened to resurface.
Of course fly fishing isn't easy. But if I'd have been asked if I wanted to go do something incredibly hard and boring for hours on end with grandpa, would I have gone? Of course not. Looking back though, I'm glad he was so full of malarkey and I'd give just about anything to have him tell me that whopper of a lie again.