EP 01: Courage Is Simple

When we find ourselves at the crossroads of fear and uncertainty, the temptation to think our way through is ever present. At some point, life teaches you the hard truth – Courage is simple.

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 It was the first winter after graduating college, and I found myself sitting with an old man on a tiny fishing canoe in a tiny fishing pond on a cold Saturday in Southern Virginia. I was in Southern Virginia because I had quit my job in Nashville, and here the rent is cheap.

I was in the fishing canoe not because I knew this old man, but because he was my new neighbor, and I made the mistake of telling him I had no plans that weekend.

His name was Ray. He was certainly over 75 years old and a straight-out-hollywood classic American(™). The kind of guy who listens only to wholesome bluegrass music, repairs the same shoes for decades, and has no problem spending a day alone in a tree stand.

He was a man seemingly allergic or immune to trends, materialism, and excess of any kind. He exudes a low key grittiness that is muted only by his alarmingly calm and deliberate demeanor. 

Nothing seemed to elevate his blood pressure even one millimeter. Ray was unmoved by the crappy rainy weather, the erratic driver tailgating him on the way there, or me wrapping my entire fishing line around a log 5 minutes after we began.

At this point in my life, I was an overthinking, underthinking, and shallow 22 year old. I could barely cook a hot dog, but was well versed in instagram filters and Air Jordan release dates.

Ray’s presence was inspiring and moving, but also foreign and unrelatable – he seemed almost like a deity.

We returned to Ray’s home with a cooler of bass and crappie, which we were to clean and filet so Ray’s wife could fry them for dinner. Ray took me to the back of his garage and placed the cooler on a long prep table, then pulled out a filet knife. It was the sharpest looking knife I had ever seen. He rinsed the fish before slowly completing the gutting and filet process, narrating each step out loud. The resulting filet was perfect.

Ray handed me the knife and told me to give it a shot. I rinsed the next bass and attempted to hold it on the table. In my hands, the slippery fish seemed almost alive as it slid around the cutting board.

As I gripped the cutting knife in my other hand my mind went negative. A poorly butchered filet seemed like the best case scenario, major blood loss seemed like the worst. I looked to my guide for confidence “Ray.. I’m worried I’m going to cut my hand.”

Ray took the slightest pause and said plainly as ever.. “Well, that’s part of fileting a fish.”

I stared back at Ray, finding myself shocked and somehow annoyed at this saintly old man – “that’s all you have to offer?” I thought to myself.. “I’m not looking for a hug or trying to get out of the situation. I guess I hoped you had a bit more technique or safety tips to share, perhaps those metal gloves they wear in the prep line at Chipotle?”

Ray sat patiently while I processed the situation. And for the first time all day, I perceived the slightest negative emotion from him. Nothing close to anger, but perhaps a bit of bored confusion as he blinked at me, waiting for me to begin.

I pinned down the wet fish the best I could, and attempted to replicate Ray’s technique. My first filet was terrible, but it was edible, and my hand was intact. By the end of the bucket I had started to improve, and a feeling of relief washed over me. 

“Looks good” was Ray’s two word review.

Later that evening, I returned to Ray’s house for dinner. I was sitting at a small round dining table with him and his wife while she served us the freshest, most wonderful fried fish I had ever tasted. 

I devoured my meal as Ray and his wife told me about their life, and family. About the local deer hunting scene. And about Ray’s music lounge – a small den off their living room filled with a hyper organized wall rack of burnt CD’s, a low budget hifi system, and a brown recliner chair, seated to look out into the thick Virginia woods.

I ate blissfully, because I was still unaware that with each passing day, Ray’s blunt words would begin to haunt me more and more. I was unaware that in time, a simple phrase would grow like a vine in my psyche.. 

“That’s part of a fileting a fish”.

I ate unwittingly because I did not yet know that I would look back on this day as a crucial lesson in my life. 

Courage is simple. 

Simple does not mean easy. Courage means something scares you, and you do it anyway. Difficult, but not complex. 

Scared to cut your hand?” That’s part of fileting a fish.

This one sentence would slowly help me understand how severely the mind may try to protect the body from pain and injury. From failure. Or even from simple discomfort. How the mind can conjure all sorts of unneeded steps, side quests, sideshows, distractions and addictions in the face of challenge or uncertainty. 

I would one day look back and admire Ray’s understanding that what I needed in my moment of hesitation was not information, was not affirmation, and was not help. It was acceptance.

“That’s part of fileting a fish.”

I would one day understand that a key mistake is focusing on competency instead of aiming for courage. Courage precedes competency. Courage builds confidence. Not the other way around. Courage is the first spark of the positive feedback loop. Courage compounds.

I had no idea that this lesson would lead me to adventure and happiness. To personal growth, love, and family.

I would one day understand that it is normal to feel worry, to feel fear. And how truly awesome it is to carry on anyways.

When dinner was over, I thanked Ray and his wife several times for their hospitality as I made my way to the door. As I did, Ray handed me a plastic grocery bag filled with bluegrass mixtape CDs, and many pounds of frozen venison. He instructs me to load the music onto my own computer then return the discs at my convenience. The meat, which will last me for weeks, is a most welcome generosity. 

Best of all, I got to hear the lovely country tunes Ray listened to from his old recliner, looking over his little forest. They would bring me some stillness in a time of chaos, and one day serve as a reminder of the simple beauty that lies in the challenge of courage.