Goodbye, Carol Ann. How a special fishing trip becomes an eternal memory

This is the hardest and most personal thing I’ve ever written, but I felt compelled to share my story of family, a special fishing memory and great loss. Come cry some happy tears with me.

Just before Christmas we found out that my youngest sister, Carol Hansen, had cancer that had become untreatable and the diagnosis was terminal – very soon. She had been fighting this monster for nearly 15 years but it had come back with a vengeance. The news sent all of us reeling.

Carol, five years younger than me, was always “Carol Ann” growing up on my parents’ ranch in Burrel. She herded and fed turkeys with me. Like my mom, Carol was understated and private but always an uplifting, classy and sweet person. A very strong moral and ethical compass were her trademarks. She was quietly determined and selfless to a fault, and a pillar for her husband Doug Hansen, daughter Kelsey and stepson Chris.

For years people have told me how important it has been for them to be able to fall back on good memories of loved ones during a personal crisis. They were right.

Crystal-clear in my mind is that one special fishing trip with Carol over 30 years ago. Carol had shocked me by telling me that she was serious about going to Millerton to try to catch her first striper. She saw the ones that Dad and I caught and wanted one, too.

It was a beautiful day in May. We headed up the lake into the river area. I had a special pole set up just for Carol – and it perfectly fit her. Coachable, she picked things up quickly as we worked along the shoreline casting our lures. After an hour, no strikes, but I told her to cast to a special spot I knew. The cast was perfect, but the line got tangled around the hooks. As she reeled in, her tangled plug began cartwheeling across the water. Suddenly, a large shape exploded underneath the flailing lure, and the pole jerked forward. A spectacular strike – and a great fish!

The reel was screaming and Carol was hanging on to the pole for dear life. She gasped, “I can’t hold it!” I helped her get control and then I stepped back. The fight was on. The battle with the 12-pounder lasted five minutes before I netted it. Holding the big fish, I looked up to see Carol’s face flush with excitement and an ear-to-ear grin. My usually composed sister was pumped!

Big brother and little sister shared victory together. The trip became a forever memory as well as a special bond between us. It’s the only striper Carol ever caught.

As her cancer progressed, I had to keep thinking back to that special day – I needed it. All that mattered now was our family, close friends and memories of better days.

She could barely talk as I sat alone with her by her bed. No more time. Knowing what would happen, I pulled out a picture of a big striper and showed it to her. In spite of the tremendous effort required, her face lit up – as it always did – as she tried to smile, barely whispering about “our special trip and her fish.”

“Yes, Carol, I know, I’ll never forget our trip. Love you, too.”

It was our last conversation. She passed away the next day, Feb. 16, surrounded by our family.

Like others, I’ve found that my wonderful memory of our trip is like a precious jewel I’ve hidden in my heart, one that I take out and look at when I need to. Good tears flow.

Make awesome memories, love deeply, have no regrets.

Carol was a champion. I never, ever saw her give up. Go do likewise.

PS

Funny, after many years, I’ve never named my boat. Nothing ever felt right. The day after she passed, the name swept over me: “My Carol Ann.” Yes, perfect. I can see her smiling with one of her knowing smirks giving her approval.

I’ll admit it. I wept.

This story was originally published February 25, 2020 at 10:00 AM with the headline "Goodbye, Carol Ann. How a special fishing trip becomes an eternal memory."