The lake was placid and glassy as the pre-dawn sky reflected the
impending sunrise. Two men sat quietly at the port and the stern
(or was it the fore and the aft? OK, the front and the back) of the
aluminum boat as it quietly cut a swath through the tranquil
water.
The lake was placid and glassy as the pre-dawn sky reflected the impending sunrise. Two men sat quietly at the port and the stern (or was it the fore and the aft? OK, the front and the back) of the aluminum boat as it quietly cut a swath through the tranquil water. The importance of this moment shone in their steely glares.
The lines of the fishing poles were taut as the boat trolled along, a solitary visage in the slightly chilly morning. Suddenly, as if awakened from a great slumber, the mighty beast, which the locals call “Bass,” dared to breach the surface, sending mocking ripples toward the craft.
The men, these hunters, snapped to attention as their eyes focused on the spot where the creature poked its head from its world into ours. In unison, the men (nay, warriors) prepared to attack in a ritual practiced for centuries – first for sustenance and now for sport – a ritual these men call “fishin’.”
The elder among them (he’s got me by a good half-decade) had done this dance many times before. Man versus beast; technology versus nature; biped versus swimmer. His countenance changed as he prepared to cast into the depths, using years of experience to gauge where the creature would rise again.
The younger of the pair (did I already mention our age difference?) knew this was his grand moment; his one shot at impressing the elder, the master. He reached for his weapon, a length of fiberglass and metal designed for just this moment.
The elder, whom the villagers call “Todd,” struck first, whipping the implement backward then foreword; masterfully sending the multi-pronged hook hurtling toward the rippling water. It broke the surface and slowly sank, daring the beast to approach it. Todd maneuvered the line so the lures would replicate the dance of a minnow, the favored food of the mighty gilled beast.
The monster of the depths would not be fooled this time, as it passed on the fake delicacy as Todd reeled in his line.
The younger man, whom his tribe calls “Adam” or “Dad,” then took his shot. “Was it too late?” he wondered. “Could the beast still be there, mocking us just beneath the surface?”
With rod and reel at the ready, he reached back as he had seen the master do just moments before. His muscles tensed and his brow furrowed under the bill of his cap as he prepared to strike in this do-or-die dance with destiny.
With a mighty swoosh he flung the pole forward, waiting for the “whizzzz” of the line as it shot through the quietude toward its prey. But instead, there was silence, then laughter.
As if an unseen hand had reached up from the water to stop the savagery, this man, this Adam, had forgotten to press the button on the fishing pole and the line didn’t go anywhere. The hook wrapped harmlessly around the pole like a tetherball.
The elder laughed at his protege; the youngster (hey, I’m still in my 30s) bowed his head in defeat and shame, pausing for a moment as he thought he heard a chuckle from the depths, the prey mocking its would-be attacker as it swam to freedom.
The men had lost this battle, but not the war. Like true outdoorsmen whose pride is not defined by a single defeat but rather shaped by the whole of their expedition, they persevered. There were children to feed back at the shelter, which the locals call a “lake house,” and the men would not – could not – return empty-handed.
Finally, man tamed the lake on this morning, reeling in three of these “bass,” whose eyes seemed to show a glint of respect as they were hauled into the floating craft. Todd, the elder, later cleaned the fish along the shoreline, returning their innards to the water in a time-tested show of respect for the battle that had just ensued.
Adam, the novice, stood back with pride as his catch suffered its final indignation. This man, this young, young man (compared to Todd) knew he had made his ancestors proud by fulfilling this quest.
Then, seeing Todd peel back the vanquished carcass and touch the fish’s insides, Adam silently thought “Eww, gross,” and went inside to have some waffles.
This tale is recent and true. Repeat it only to those who will learn from its message, and respect its protagonists – particularly the young hunter who is scared of fish guts.
