Gone Fishing

This was the June assignment for the Ditalini Press. Compose a piece that takes place entirely in or on a body of water.

It's a beautiful sunny Saturday, and the lake looks like pure glass as we approach it. I take it all in from my perch high atop my Dad's shoulders. We reach the end of the pier, and he lifts me easily into the shiny red boat with the black motor: settling me onto the passenger seat. Our rods and tackle box are already on board, along with a big cooler. Dad steps in quickly, unties the boat, and slides behind the wheel. He grins at me and says, "We're goin' fishin' girl!"

With a turn of the key, the engine roars to life. I don't like the noise. It's loud and scary. Then Dad thrusts the throttle into gear and, as the boat leaps forward, I am thrown back into my seat. "Isn't this fun?" Dad yells over the engine noise. I'm scared. I can't swim, and it doesn't really feel like fun to me. But, I say, "Yes." anyway.

I turn and ask him, "Don't I need a life jacket? Mom said to be sure to wear one." He laughs and shouts back at me, "Mom's not here, and life jackets are for sissies. You're not a sissy are you?" I say, "No", but I think maybe I am, because I want to wear a life jacket like Mom said. Ashes from Dad's cigarette are blown into my face and they burn. I brush them away quickly, and try not to cry. Dad doesn't like cry babies or sissies.

He leans over and says, "Hey, Buddy, Want to drive?" I say, "No. That's OK Dad. You drive." He frowns and says, "Don't be a baby. I want to go in back and adjust the motor. I need you to steer straight ahead while I go do that. You're my co-pilot aren't you? Now don't make any turns. Just keep straight ahead. OK?" I don't want to drive the boat. My heart is racing and my stomach's flip flopping, but I slide into the drivers seat and grip the wheel, because I don't want to disappoint him. I say, "Sure, Dad. I'm your co-pilot."

He smiles and goes in back to work on the motor. We fly across the water. I steer straight ahead and it seems like the shore is coming up really, really fast. But Dad said not to turn the wheel. I'm so scared. The tears are coming out of my eyes, and I can't stop them this time. I'm even afraid I'm going to wet my pants. Hurry, Dad. Please, hurry.

At last he is there beside me again taking the wheel. He pats me on the head and says, "Good job." I look away and scoot back into the passenger seat. Then he looks at me, frowning, and barks, "Oh my God! You're not crying are you?" I say nothing. I wipe away the tears and hang my head in shame. I've ruined everything by being a baby. Why can't I just be brave like he wants me to be?

Dad tosses an empty brown bottle over the side and grabs another one from the cooler. He opens it quickly, then turns the boat, cutting back around and bumping over our wake. We bounce off our seats, and he laughs and drinks from the brown bottle again and yells above the wind, "Let's go catch us some fish!"

Fish Tales

My father taught me to fish when I was barely three years old. My first fish was landed through a hole in the ice and it was nearly as tall as I was. I carried it proudly across the ice and each time it flopped, I flopped right along with it, and fell down. I probably don't really remember this incident, but the black and white photo of my first prize catch has been ingrained in my memory.

My dad was a drunk, and when he was under the influence of alcohol he was just plain mean. But on the days when he was sober, he taught me everything I know about hunting and fishing, including how to bait my own hook and clean and cook whatever I caught. These are some of the very rare and very precious memories I have of an otherwise hellish childhood. Because of this, the love of the outdoors and the ability to hunt and fish is the one gift he left me and I treasure it.

A good psychiatrist would probably tell you that I've spent my entire life trying to find a mate just like my dad (minus the drinking of course). And they might be right. Up until now, I've been unsuccessful. I thought that age brought wisdom, so I chose older men. I imagined that ego meant self confidence, so I wasted years with self centered ego maniacs. It's hard to find a real outdoors man in the heart of Cleveland so I settled for the Urban Cowboys who only pretended to like the outdoors as much as I did. They couldn't name the varieties of trees, birds or any other kind of wildlife. I ended up spending weekends alone hiking, biking and occasionally kayaking throughout the metro parks. I had discovered the real truth in life is that: "It is better to be alone than to wish that you were."

Then I met Rudy. A slightly red necked Italian who actually knows more about the outdoors than I do. He can spot a deer hidden in the woods long before I can. When I couldn't name a particular bird he simply said it was a Junco. Truthfully, I doubted his knowledge and when I got home that day I looked up the bird on the Internet. I'd never heard of a Junco but I had heard a lot of BS answers from wanna be woodsmen. Sure enough there was the bird we'd seen; and it was called a Junco. I became a believer.

A couple of weeks ago, Rudy took me fishing at Mogador lake. I hadn't been fishing in over fifteen years and to say that I was excited would have been an understatement. We got up before dawn, loaded the pick up with gear and bait that he'd purchased the day before, and headed out to the lake. Arriving just as the sun was coming up, we had the entire place to ourselves. We parked the truck and began hiking through the woods along the shore, searching for one of the many good fishing sites he knew of.

We ended up on a point of land which gave us clear access to the lake. The water was like glass; the only ripples coming from the fish which rose to the surface all around us. Then we baited up and cast our lines. I was amazed when we both landed our first fish of the day on that very first cast. We spent the next three hours in fish heaven hooking bluegill, crappie, and sunfish. I know that because he named every one of them for me. In all, we ended up with sixty seven pan fish. We carried our prize back to the truck and headed home to yet one more surprise.

My dad taught me to clean fish and that meant scaling the little buggers, gutting them, cutting off their heads, and removing the fins. With sixty seven pan fish that's one long tedious chore and I fully expected to participate. However, Rudy knew another way to clean fish; a better way. He set up an outdoor cleaning table, and went to work filleting even the smallest of our catch. He handed each fillet to me and I used a second fillet knife to slice the meat from the skin. Together we laughed and completed the task in record time. Men in the neighborhood came to stare in amazement at the procedure. They all wanted to learn the technique and Rudy modestly showed them. Once again, I became a believer.That night we had a fantastic fish fry. We both took turns in the kitchen preparing the meal, washing it down with wine and laughter.

Looks like I've found someone who makes it more fun to be with than to be alone. Someone who really loves the same things I do. Is he my father? Hell no. He's younger and cuter and kinder. Best of all, we are creating new memories, good memories, which are no longer tainted with the dark side of alcoholism. I've always dreamed of growing old with someone, but was beginning to think it was too late. After all I am already old, and time has become a precious commodity. I have learned however, that as long as one doesn't give up on life and on love, there is always a second chance waiting for us.