On the unrememberable

Most people, if they are not completely oblivious to the world around them, are able to recall details of their day-to-day lives. They retire to bed every day with a fair recollection of the events they experienced. Conversations can be generally recalled and sequences can be ordered with relative certainty.

But every so often, something transpires that even the most alert cannot entirely remember. We can more or less rest assured that the event did, in fact, happen, but beyond that our minds staunchly refuse to relinquish any sensory information or our own thought process.

One of those events happened to me in early October of this fall, where I could be found knee-deep in the cool, clear water of the local trout river. I had fished it many times before, until that week with a resounding lack of success. For years, I had read every trout fishing book I could lay my hands on and replayed a trout video I had with such near-religious fervor that the cassette eventually threw in the towel and exploded inside the VCR. But not until two months prior to that day had I ever actually caught a trout using the methods from the tape.

That particular day, I was fishing a hole I had frequented in the past with mildly fruitful results. After one or two casts, I hooked into something unlike the usual seven-inch brook trout I had encountered on the river to that point. Several minutes of careful fighting brought a large brown trout to the surface, nearly identical to the trophies I had watched my heroes battle on tape. My heart began to pound as I reached for my net and extended it out to the floundering fish.

I tried to slide the trophy into the net’s teardrop frame as I had with countless fish prior, but this time did not go as planned. Somehow, the fish ended up draped over the wooden frame. It gave one final shake, threw the lure, and disappeared back into its aquatic realm. I think.

It took several seconds for my mind to begin to process what had happened. My first reaction directed my eyes to the net in my left hand. Upon seeing that it was empty, my next reaction was to dive beneath the surface of the river and retrieve the fish by hand, as it would undoubtedly be waiting patiently for me.

The only reason I ever understood what happened was through piecing the evidence together after the fact. The opening in the net frame in my hand was covered by the netting draped across it. Essentially, I had been trying to net my catch with a porous ping pong paddle. The lure was still stuck in the netting from when the fish hadn’t fallen into the frame completely. With its final shake, the fish must have pulled itself free.

If it weren’t for the physical explanations left in my hand, I would have never known what happened. Thinking back, I don’t remember seeing or thinking about any of those things. I didn’t see the netting draped across the frame, or even realize that the fish was gone until several seconds later. I have no recollection of those five seconds of my life.

It is alarming that I don’t. We as people are inherently conditioned to remember things that happen to us, as a survival instinct to allow us to learn from our experiences. I was looking right at what I was doing, so there is no reason for my failure to recall.

Every once in a while, we experience something so profoundly significant to us that our mind seems to simply process it differently. For me, it was the culmination and subsequent failure to capitalize on years of fishing research, something that has consumed an admittedly disproportionate part of my life. In that moment, I felt a disappointment more profound than any I had ever experienced.

That wasn’t my first experience with the phenomenon of blanking out, nor was it to be the last. It has also happened during a goal in hockey, a first kiss, and a long-awaited intimate hug with a special friend. All I know is that those things happened to me and very little else.

Perhaps our brains realize the importance of these moments as they transpire, and do us the favor of storing them somewhere special. Somewhere far away from our recollections of what comprised our most recent meal, or the name of some mutual friend we were just introduced to. Somewhere the memories would be undisturbed and unaltered by the random, idiotic traipsing and fumbling of our preconscious.

Maybe these milestone moments have been processed to deliberately prevent us from remembering much about them. They happened, and we will never forget that. By denying us access to fine details, our minds restrict us from adding or changing things. They are kept pure, and will resonate as memories frozen in time long after we forget what we had for breakfast.