Publishers Weekly children's book editor Diane Roback and I meet at Grand Central's information kiosk, where we will rendezvous with James Prosek, author and illustrator of A Good Day's Fishing (Simon & Schuster), a fishing book for young readers. James Prosek is also the author/illustrator of several acclaimed books on and around the subject of fishing, for people other than children (Trout: An Illustrated History; Fly-Fishing the 41st: Around the World on the 41st Parallel). James may also be the first person ever to take a Metro-North train in from Connecticut to go fishing in Central Park.

While we wait for a man with a backpack and a fishing pole to appear, Diane has us move around the information gazebo occasionally, in case James Prosek has arrived on the other side of the structure and thinks we aren't there, possibly causing him to head off toward the next train back home. But in a moment, a youthful fellow with a backpack and a fishing rod sidles by looking at us with his eyebrows slightly raised as if to say, "Are you them?" We are them. Introductions are made. James Prosek looks like a regular guy going fishing, not some gear-and-tackle-flyrod elitist. Looking at him, Diane says, "Where's your hat?"

In A Good Day's Fishing a hat is an important part of the fishing equation.

James looks a little chagrined, saying, "Well, the truth is I'm between lucky hats right now." He reaches into his pack, pulls out a semi-baseball-type hat, and puts it on without enthusiasm. "This one just keeps the sun out of my eyes."

A long-time hat wearer myself, I understand that not all hats are created equal. Pulling the right hat down on my head is a familiar sense of completeness, a circuit connected, a bolt gone home. Conversely, putting on a wrong hat can cause psychic discomfort and loss of confidence.

We head to the uptown subway. At 110th Street we disembark and move west toward the Harlem Meer, which is the north end of Central Park. The sky is overcast, and raindrops are beginning to fall. The wind is rising with promise of more rain following it.

In the park, a group of school-aged children are fishing with bamboo poles in the Meer, a word--presumably Dutch--that seems to mean lake. (Later, I look up "meer" in the dictionary and find that it means "body of water" or "sea" or "pond." Somehow I imagined a meer would be a more formal arrangement of water.)

James explains that the kids, who are supervised by a counselor, can sign out the bamboo poles for a few hours at a time, through an arrangement with the park. All the fishing here is catch and release. These kids seem to be having a gas.

We walk around the park on a man-made stone path that follows the water's edge. After a bit, we sit down on a bench along the path. James breaks out a fishing rod with a spinning reel. He puts a bobber and hook on the line and a worm from his own backyard on the hook, saying, "I am not a fishing purist who never uses bait." Then sitting down on the bench, he deftly casts the line out onto the water. The overhanging branches of a maple tree provide us with shelter from the light rain falling. James smiles and says, "Lazy man's fishing." We can hear sounds of the kids fishing, laughing and having fun. It is a nice moment.

Soon we move around toward the other side of the lake, where a stand of trees is growing out of the water. James informs us that fish like to hang out in the shadows beneath tree limbs. He also explains, "I like to move when I fish. I cast, reel in, then move along a ways and cast again."

The first fish we catch is a drink-coaster-sized sunfish that Diane hooks. This is followed shortly thereafter by what James terms "the world's smallest largemouth bass."

A beautiful white heron is standing several yards from us on the path, watching us closely. Diane glances over at the bird as James is unhooking the bass. James catches her glance and says, "Do you want to give him your fish?"

Diane says, "Yeah."

The heron spears and swallows the tossed fish.

The rain comes down harder. While Diane fishes, I hold a small umbrella partway over her in such a way as to soak us both with runoff. When James starts to school Diane on casting with the flyrod, I step away to accommodate the easy overhead back and forth whip of the rod. In a relaxed fashion, James explains how to move the flyrod and talks about how he thinks and feels about fishing. He gives off absolutely no air of "I am an expert on fishing."

Around this time, I predict the rain is about to stop, not long after which it starts to pour. Cold and wet has been a part of many fishing expeditions I've been on before, and now it is part of this one too.

James suggests we retreat under a stout willow tree, saying, "I like to stand under the dry side of a tree." Sure enough, I see that James's side of the tree is dry. I never thought of such a possibility. Seeing him looking out at the water from under the willow, I realize I am witnessing a person well oriented and immersed in the context of his environment and pursuit. It is as if this place--for the moment--has become his place.

The rain lessens, and we walk to a new spot. Diane and James insist I fish. I take the spinning rod, which now has a Rapala plug (a lure that is one of James's favorites) on it. I begin casting and moving as per James's preferred method. I catch a crappie, our largest fish yet. We move and cast again. I reel in, employing a stop-and-go pattern James recommends for this plug, and wham, a fish hits the lure. It is the biggest hit so far. My line goes slanting through the water as the fish cuts sideways. Diane and James move next to me to see. We are all standing right at the edge as I reel the fish in. The fish is coming into view at our feet when there is a wide brown flash behind it and a huge largemouth bass engulfs the smaller bass on the hook. It is an explosively primal, electrifying sight. We all start yelling, employing what movie guides refer to as adult language. As far as I am concerned yelling, strong exclamations and cursing are an integral part of peak fishing experiences. I am gratified to hear that James Prosek seems to agree.

He says urgently, "Quick. Let me have the rod!"

I hand over the fishing pole instantly. James moves fast. He flips the bale open so the big bass has the line to run with the smaller fish in his mouth, to give the large bass time to swallow the smaller fish deep enough to reach the lure in the small bass's mouth. We can see the huge fish swim directly away from us. Then James closes the bale and sets the hook, before carefully playing the powerful fish on very light test line to shore. Somehow, the large bass has ended up with the hook, and the smaller bass has escaped.

James takes the hook out of the fish's mouth, and holds it up for us to admire. Then he hands the fish to me and I slip it back into the water.

James is embarrassed to have taken the rod from me. "I got excited--I was afraid he would get away," he apologizes. "Hey, it's totally cool. It's fine," I tell him.

Though James refers to the bass as "your fish," I feel like the experience belongs to the three of us. I say, "In all my time fishing, I never saw anything like that."

Diane says, "Me neither."

James says, "Me neither."

We are all exhilarated. We have been transported in an instant from being wet, cold and slightly aimless to suddenly really fishing.

There can be no higher fishing moment on the Harlem Meer for us today. We agree it is the right time to stop.

In the cab going downtown Diane and I ask James about his next project (a book on eels) and where he will go on his next fishing trip (Italy). The cab gets close to Grand Central. James decides to run the last block to catch his train. We say hasty good-byes.

He looks back through the cab door and says, "If you guys ever want to go fishing again give me a call." It seems a genuine--and welcome--invitation from a guy who loves to go fishing.