‘How old was I when you first took me in a boat?’
‘Five, and were nearly killed when…’
…I tried to stay up all night in order to launch the boat, because I knew I would launch alone. Tristan is still too small to help with the trailer winch, and whenever I ask him to stand by the ramp with the flashlight, he always runs after me when I head for the truck. So waking up late is not an option. The other fishermen would cut me up and use me as bait.
One day of work, one bottle of wine, and one emotionally draining week intervene.
At 11 pm, I am utterly passed out, fully clothed, having barely managed to set the alarm for 3:30. Last, prescient act.
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff on Clear Lake and he had gone 84 days now without taking a fish. In the first 40 days a boy had been with him.
On paper, no disaster compares to Opening Saturday of Fishing Season. Friday, I spend $90 on gear and bait. A net to replace the one I’ve lost. A new pair of gloves. $50 on snacks, because IT IS ALL ABOUT THE FOOD ONCE YOU’RE ON OPEN WATER (Apologies for breaking character.) $23 on licenses. $80 for a new battery. $20 on gas.
And we always catch one fish.
The alarm stirs me from hangover dreams, thoughts hung elsewhere, over balconies and ledges, wintry and rainy cityscapes. Kissing in the rain, skipping through skyways and the dread that comes with calling a cab. 84 days between good-byes. I am somehow able to drag Tristan with me.
‘But remember how you went 87 days without fish, and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks?’
I remember being asked recently about my sea legs. They are worthy, if only at the cost of pleasant childhood memory, forced onto frigid ocean waters, 15-foot waves and unforgiving men. Only once did I ever fall ill, and it was the one compassionless act I savor, because it instilled the thrill of the water. I would take that beating time and again, the lesson so sweet.
Before casting the first line, Tristan noticed where I set anchor.
“That’s where we swim!”
He talks about summers past and summers present, and summers so whimsical I think they may never come.
The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.
As in years past, I have trouble with the boat. I’ll later discover that the battery connections are corroded, and that’s why the radio plays but the engine will not crank. The little lake, all 91 boats that I can count, gives up one fish for our troubles.
But, oh, what troubles.
As I’m paddling ashore, a PERFECTLY GOOD 80 HP EVINRUDE IN TOW, I remember three years ago when during equal nautical/mechanical difficulty, Tristan turned the shiny key and threw me to the back, nearly over the side. Had I been tossed, I would have watched in horror as he headed for the shore, crashing among the fallen timbers that house otters and mergansers, swam until I found him. I would still be swimming, all this time later. But instead, I smiled and told him how the one time I was angriest with him was my blessed moment.
“I’m so glad I didn’t have to kill you that day.”
But it is good that we do not have to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers.
Tristan sees eagles. Day and night, we are constantly beckoned outside, crows for all our troubles. But today, he’s eagle-eyed. He wills it to land in the hemlock nearest us.
‘Take a picture!’
I manage a shot before it flies away, and with more than a little satisfaction realize that none of the other boaters even notice this bit of grace. For once, we declare, in solidarity, an unlikely sighting. It’s our catch of the day.
Then the fish came alive, with his death in him, and rose high out of the water showing all his great length and width and all his power and his beauty. He seemed to hang in the air above the old man in the skiff. Then he fell into the water with a crash that sent spray over the old man and over all of the skiff.
It might have been the smallest fish we’ve ever caught.
You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to sell for food, he thought. You killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. You loved him when he was alive and you loved him after. If you love him, it is not a sin to kill him. Or is it more?
The old men always seemed to me to have barbaric notions of love and pride. Always wanted to exalt their mistakes, when they should basically be reduced to animal instincts. Those old men thought every trip should be a lesson for a little boy. Harsh. Unforgettable.
WELL FUCK THAT SHIT.
The last thing I want is a memory of some little kid begging me to take him back to his GameBoy and HappyMeal and DryLand. We left the water before the last boat launched from the public dock. Home before 8:30.
‘Supper. We’re going to have supper.’
‘I’m not very hungry.’
‘Come on and eat. You can’t fish and not eat.’
‘I have.’
When you catch one fish, it’s ALL ABOUT THE PRESENTATION.
Tristan spit out most of his portion. Predominantly bones.
I chewed through the sons-of-bitches, how soft they were.
For the second time in a row, Tristan named the goddamned fish, making it a very awkward moment when I presented the carcass to him, gutted and dressed.
I spent the day cleaning my gear, putting the boat back into storage and catching up on alcohol. By 6:30, I was asleep, still fully clothed, still unwilling to bathe away the odor of the lake, catching up where I left off, still trying to catch a taxicab somewhere between Broadway and Church.
