My Hero, My Fishing Partner
Imagine this: It’s early morning. The air is crisp—sharp and clean—with the scent of pine needles crushed under boot soles and the earthy musk of fish returning upstream, their instinct pulling them home. Mist hovers low over the river, curling like breath from a sleeping giant, and every inhale feels like something old and familiar waking up.
Just downriver, a great blue heron lifts from the shallows, wings stretching wide and slow. My dad nods toward it, a small grin tugging at his mouth. It’s always been one of his favorites — stoic, composed, perfectly still until the exact moment it chooses to move.
He stands beside me, the very picture of ease — eyes bright, shoulders relaxed, already halfway into a story. With him, there’s no pressure. No urgency. Just the simple joy of being here. His optimism is contagious, grounding me in the moment even when my mind wants to drift downstream. Being near him reminds me that the river’s gift isn’t measured in weight or length—but in presence.
My love for my father wasn’t built in grand gestures, but in mornings like this—strung together over the years. Simple, steady, unforgettable in their own unassuming way.
And I’ll never take that for granted.
The river has given us so many moments. But the truth is, his impact on me reaches far beyond the water. If you’ve known me for a while, you might remember me as Frankie Becerra. Before I married my wife, I chose to take my dad’s last name—Scola.
It wasn’t just a legal change. It was something deeper. A decision rooted in love, respect, and the power of showing up. My Father, Darren Scola, came into my life when I was still figuring out who I was, and while we don’t share blood, we share something stronger: a lifetime of handwritten chapters, hard conversations, and lessons learned side by side.
In every way that matters, he’s my dad.
When I was younger, I burned hot. My temper wasn’t a match—it was a forest fire. Fast, consuming, and hard to contain. I didn’t know how to feel anything without turning it into anger. Sadness, fear, shame—those felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. But anger? That was safe. That was armor.
And like a fire out of control, it didn’t just rage—it damaged everything around it. I scorched people who loved me. Scarred the trees that fed me. Left behind the kind of silence that lingers long after the flames are gone.
But my dad, the man who cared most, never flinched.
Where I was fire, he was water. No matter how hard I pushed, he never wavered—always there, solid as the current. Flowing around my resistance like a river around a rock. Over time, his dependable presence taught me how to listen, be patient, and show up for others, even when it wasn’t easy.
People who don’t know our story often say I look like him, and I wear that comparison with pride. I hope I reflect his warmth and kindness in how I carry myself—qualities my wife says she’s grateful I learned.
The foundation my dad gave me took shape in many ways, but none more memorably than through fishing.
I have so many moments stitched together by the soft hum of early morning highways, the windows cracked just enough to let in the chill, and the backseat packed with tangled rods, tackle boxes, and my younger brothers half-asleep beside me.
We’d head to local lakes when the world was still sleeping. He’d help us bait our hooks with wriggling night crawlers, our fingers fumbling while he guided us with steady hands and gentle guidance. We’d cast out lines with more hope than technique, then sit on damp earth, watching our bobbers dance.
Lunch was always simple: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, slightly squished from the cooler, eaten with dirty fingers and grins. When the day ended, sometimes we caught fish; sometimes we didn’t.
But what mattered most didn’t come home on a stringer—it was in the moments we carried home with us. Jokes echoing across the water. The shoulder-to-shoulder stillness. The way time stretched out and made room for us to just be.
As I got older, those simple fishing trips evolved. When I was 25, my dad invited me on his annual fly-fishing trip to the Upper Sac. It felt like stepping into a new chapter of our shared passion. He had been coming for years, but this was my first time fly fishing.
That first trip stands out vividly. I was eager to learn the craft of fly fishing, a novice standing beside my father. Calm as ever, he guided me through the basics of wading, casting, and mending. We didn’t talk much about catching fish; we talked about the river, how it moved and how to move with it. Then came the second day, when I landed my first fish on a fly—a wild, acrobatic 20-inch rainbow hiding deep in a pool at the end of a riffle. He stood by, coaching me with his measured voice as the fish fought downstream, leaping and charging with the full strength of the river behind it. My heart raced, my line tangled in ways I didn’t know were possible, and somehow, despite using a barbless hook, I managed to bring it in. That moment cracked something open in me—not just a love of the sport, but a hunger to understand the subtle rhythm of moving water.
After that trip, fly fishing became an obsession. I poured myself into learning everything I could—library books, dial-up internet rabbit holes, anything I could find. Through it all, he was beside me, sharing in my excitement and frustrations. Looking back, I think he knew what I was chasing long before I did—connection, not conquest.
Over the years, we’ve fished together countless times—wandering along streams, wading through icy rivers, and bushwhacking through thick brush in search of hidden creeks. I’ll never forget one particular day in the Sierras. After hours of hiking, we stumbled on a small, clear creek. I crossed a fallen log—solid and wide, maybe too wide—and turned around just in time to see my dad halfway across, completely stuck.
It wasn’t dangerous, just a predicament. The kind where if you fall, you’re not hurt—you’re just soaked to your toes and ego bruised. The log was thick, too large to hug, but not so massive you couldn’t get some grip. Still, it was wide enough that wrapping his arms or legs fully around it wasn’t happening, so he ended up in this awkward cling, part bear-hug, part split.
He froze mid-straddle, gripping the bark like it was the only thing keeping him alive, and muttered, “Help me.”
But I was no help at all. I was doubled over, in full-body, can’t-breathe hysterics. My arms went soft, muscles twitching from how deep it hit. I tried to pull him over, but I was useless, he was helpless, and together we were hopeless.
We still crack up about it. That ridiculous moment—us stuck on a log, crying from it all outlasted any recollection of the fish we may or may not have caught that day.
These days, there are few places in California we can drive by without one of us saying, “Remember when…?” Some days bring the scent of trout, but the echoes that linger? They sound like laughter bouncing off canyon walls.
Through it all, my dad remains my best friend, my most trusted fishing partner, and my greatest role model. He’s taught me far more than how to read a river or fight a fish—he’s taught me how to be compassionate, consistent, and have love for the journey.
So here’s to you, Dad.
To the rivers that carry us,
The laughter that forever echoes, echoes in canyon walls,
And the memories that flow through our veins, like steelhead drawn back to the heart where they were born.
