If you’ve watched Disney’s “Finding Nemo” movie, you probably recall the scene where Bruce, the ravenous great white shark pledges to curb his natural impulses as a way to improve the reputation of sharks. “Fish are friends, not food,” he says during a mock Alcoholics Anonymous meeting undersea.

That line runs through my head whenever anyone asks me if I fish in the lake at my cabin.

I tried fishing there once, a couple of years ago. I dug out my angling gear, which hadn’t been used in years. As a child, I enjoyed fishing, once I got over my squeamishness at impaling angleworms on hooks and handling the sunfish I caught. I thought it might be fun to resurrect this pastime.

I asked Russ if he wanted to fish. His answer was short and definitive: “No.” Then he added, “And don’t come running to me if you can’t get the hook out of the fish’s mouth.”

Oh well, more fish for me! I bought a fishing license online. Then I set up a chair at the end of the dock, tied on a rubbery lure impregnated with fish scent, and began casting.

Not long afterward, I caught a long, skinny northern pike. These fish have a lot of teeth. They’re voracious eaters and are considered an undesirable invasive species in the western U.S. Since this one was too small to eat (and pike are supposedly full of bones, as well) I gingerly picked the fish up to unhook it, intending to throw it back.

I’d hooked it well. I couldn’t get it out though just using my hands. Now, most experienced anglers have a pliers in their fishing tackle box. I was just getting re-started, so I hadn’t quite got that far in my preparations.

I carefully laid the fish on the dock planks and scurried into the boat house, looking for a pliers. I couldn’t find one, so I went back to the dock and put the fish back into the water, securing my pole so the pike couldn’t swim away.

I ran into the cabin and asked Russ if he had a pliers in his toolbox. Grumbling a bit, perhaps shaking his head, he retrieved the tool for me. I ran back to the dock, fishing the fish out of the water. I began to work on the hook again. It was stuck into the fish’s mouth at such a weird angle, I couldn’t get a good grip.

At this point, I was getting stressed out. I felt urgency to release the fish back into the water so that it could survive being hooked, and I knew that messing with it so ineffectually was probably stressing out the fish, too.

I worked on the pike a few more minutes and then put it back into the water. I realized I was going to have to break my promise to Russ. The life of this watery being depended upon it.

I ran back into the cabin. “Russ, please, you’ve gotta come help. I caught a pike and I can’t get the hook out. It’s stuck in this weird angle and I just can’t do it.”

Bless his reluctant heart, Russ took pity on me, or perhaps he took pity on the fish. He sauntered down to the dock, picked up the fish, and with a single flick of his wrist, dislodged the hook.

I stared, dumbfounded, as the fish swam away into the murky depths.

To this day, I don’t understand how Russ unhooked the fish so easily. It must be a Man Thing.

My return to fishing was not fun. I decided it was too stressful to continue. I tell this story about Russ and the hook whenever anyone asks me whether I fish.

I’ve realized I’d rather be like another Minnesota woman I saw on the television news. She feeds the sunfish that gather underneath her dock, even forming a five-year friendship with one of them. The fish follows her when she swims. She dislodged a hook from its mouth once after someone tried unsuccessfully to catch it.

That’s more in my nature. I want to be like her. The television woman digs up worms, which she no doubt cuts up for the fish. I don’t think I can do that, but I can buy some commercial fish food pellets and see if those will work. I used to take care of a tank of sunfish in a Forest Service reception office where I worked, and they ate pellets just fine.

That’s going to be my project come ice-out this spring.