Once there was a boy who hated to sit down.

“You must at least sit down to eat,” his mother would say.

“I don’t have time to sit,” he would reply, as he bounced a ball across the hall and out the door into the sunshine.

This boy, whose name was Rick, was always in motion.

One day, Rick’s parents told him they were taking him camping.

The first morning, he was up before the sun. He burst from the tent and rushed to the beach. A massive gleaming salmon arched high out of the water.

“Dad!” Rick bellowed. “I’ve just seen the biggest fish in the whole wide world, and I’m going to catch it.”

“We didn’t bring a fishing rod,” said his father.

“We can make one, Dad! Quick, quick!”

The whole family got involved. Rick and his brother, Brad, found just the right willow tree.

“Perfect,” said his father, cutting a branch for the rod.

“And here’s your fishing line,” said his mother, handing over a piece of string.

Rick’s baby sister gurgled as they removed a pin from her diaper to use as a fishing hook.

Rick did not catch a fish that day. Or the next. He didn’t even get a bite. But he was bitten. He was bitten by the fishing bug.

When Rick had grown a little bigger and a little stronger, his father took him on a long hike to an extra-special fishing lake. Loons cried on the crystal-clear water, and minnows darted in the shallows.

His dad pointed to a small raft moored at the end of a fallen cedar tree. Rick’s heart pounded. The round, slippery tree trunk seemed to stretch on forever.

“I can’t!” said Rick.

“There’s no such word as can’t,” said his father. “Don’t look down; just keep going, one step at a time.”

A fish jumped far out in the lake. Rick clenched his teeth and set off.

At the end of the day, he crept back along the fallen tree in semi-darkness, being extra careful not to drop his catch—a string of five shining rainbow trout.