I went fishing once with James and his uncle, standing in the stream of some little river, leading into a lake with a name I don't know that I ever knew. James and his uncle picked out a prime spot to fish, where they stood on the bank and cast and recast. I stood twenty, thirty feet away, happily casting, recasting, not catching anything. I didn't WANT to catch anything. The fish we were fishing for - blue gill? - were white with stripey flecks of orange and blue. They were slimey, wet, scaley . . . they breathed and undulated, flopped in the air where they didn't belong.
There was ONE I caught, that fell off my hook, that I flipped and flicked and tried not to touch as I released it back into the water - we were catching and releasing, I was glad but didn't know why - and I wanted to flick it back with my foot, but it was so small, no longer than my own hand, thin like a quarter, I was afraid my shoe would destroy it. I managed to get back in the water and swam away, despite a nasty hole in its face from my hook. I hadn't wanted to catch a thing, but was glad I did. I'd caught one, so I could say that much. I didn't have to answer "nothing" regarding how I did, what I caught. I CAUGHT one. I caught ONE.