The One That Got Away (Part II)
While he did not believe she would cease to love him – this, of course, was unthinkable – it was problematical whether Gloria without her arrogance, her independence, her virginal confidence and courage, would be the girl of his glory, the radiant woman who was precious and charming because she was ineffably, triumphantly herself.
I stumble out of bed and, without thinking, head to the washroom. My beard’s getting pretty thick. Time to make a hearty breakfast, that is, after I finish looking at myself in the mirror. I’m going to Mary Lake today; I need fuel. Out comes the bacon, out come the eggs! I grab the frying pan from the bottom drawer and turn on the stove’s left element, the one closest to me. There’s no kettle – I boil some water in a pot next to the frying pan so I can make instant coffee. I cook the eggs in bacon fat and put a piece of bread in the toaster. I’m trying to cut back on carbs but on a day like today I can afford them – it doesn’t hurt that the bread, purchased by my aunt, a woman with exceptional taste (a trait that clearly hasn’t been passed on to me), is from a bakery in Dwight. Breakfast in hand, and coffee in a brilliant house warming gift, a mug featuring the art of Tom Thomson, I turn the TV on, flipping to Sportsnet, channel 44 in Huntsville. How quickly the novel becomes routine.
There’s no harm in trying again – or, more accurately, the certain harm of not trying is greater than the potential harm of trying. But this is easy to say in hindsight. In reality, I’m stricken with boredom and apathy, the chief symptoms of a wonderful hangover. Well, maybe this isn’t the truth either. Funny how one love can make you so readily forsake another, one that has been more dedicated to you, one that has made you happier, one that caresses you, encourages you, despite your sins, one that cooks you eggs, bacon, toast and beans – and this isn’t to mention the strangeness of reversion or, better yet, fluctuation. The whimsical are rarely esteemed; esteem, in turn, is ignored by the whimsical, the courageous, the impetuous. I check my phone. No new messages. The instant coffee sits cold and stale in my mug but I drink it anyways. It all ends up the same. Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. Another day on the water; another day to be a fool.
- - -
I’m a big Kevin VanDam fan. Like him, I feel most confident throwing lures that cover water: spinnerbaits, topwaters, and especially crankbaits. Aggressive people target aggressive fish; the best fighters want to fight the best fighters. But, at least from a fisherman’s perspective (and the leaves tend to agree), it’s still summer, and I keep telling myself the fish are probably lethargic and close to cover. I put away the Rapalas and Livetargets, instead grabbing two rods, one with a spinning reel, the other, a baitcaster, each with braided line and fluorocarbon leaders. I tie a drop-shot rig on one and a tube jig-head on the other. Though I’ve become familiar with failure and gazed respectfully into the eyes of convention, I maintain a strong longing to do something new and, more importantly, to do something I’m uncomfortable with, consequences be damned. I have nothing to fear: there’s comfort knowing that greatness can’t be killed, only distracted.
- - -
I turn left onto Brunel road, passing Goodwin Park shortly thereafter. Muskoka Road 10 will take me the rest of the way. It’s a winding, undulating path I’ve travelled once before. But this time, driving alone, it feels uncharted and unknowable. On this bright, warm September day, every home I pass looks quaint, inhabitable, almost innocent. I’m reminded of a house on Fairy Lake that has a face of windows looking north and hundreds of feet of waterfront access guarded by patches of lily pads. It’s on a large lot, with a great yard and an old barn a hundred metres or so south of the main structure. I place myself in the stead of its owners, thinking less about the edifice itself and more about the kind of life I could build in it. Perhaps, with the right woman by my side, I too could join the ranks of the quaint and innocent, the calm, the polite, the successful. But that’s not the life for me. Driving carelessly, pensively, approaching Mary Lake, my car gallops along like Vronsky’s beloved Frou-Frou, Toby Keith’s “The Other Side of Him” playing on the stereo, and thoughts of a comfortable bunk bed alternately coagulating and dissipating.
The south-westerly wind is light, but occasional gusts make effective kayak control difficult. I start fishing around the large island closest to Port Sydney Beach, casting my tube, letting it sink, and then dragging it along the bottom, popping it up once in awhile. I feel a bite and set the hook. Nothing. I can’t tell if it was something decent or just a little guy picking at my bait. As I paddle towards a group of three islands to the north, I’m diverted by an appealing cliff face to the east. Thinking there might be a nice drop-off, I change course. But, after half an hour or so, my hook’s virginity remains intact, so I go north behind the island closest to me to get a break from the wind. Here I catch my first fish of the day, a small bass, on a dark green tube.
I then move further north to the lake’s biggest island. I alternate between the tube and the drop-shot, both of which, despite being finesse baits, can be used effectively to cover water. I feel like I’m doomed to have a one-fish day until I see a submerged tree close to shore, one of those places you know just has to hold a fish. I throw my drop-shot. As soon as I lift it – tension, but not the good kind. I’m snagged on one of the branches. Damn. An opportunity wasted because of a bad cast. Still, it might be salvaged. Be positive. I stealthily bring my kayak to the tree and unhook my line, pushing off silently and casting again to the same piece of structure. As soon as it hits the bottom, I feel a strike. Fish on! Almost immediately, it propels itself out of the water towards my kayak. I reel frantically to pull in the slack. It’s still fighting and jumps again, but this time its decision is a bad one: it falls right into my net. The bass isn’t big, but it at least justifies my persistence.
- - -
For someone who loves fishing, I’m a terrible fisherman. But, after all, the pursuit is pleasure, and after paddling for hours, alone, having imposed my will on the day, I’m pleased – as is often the case when I do what I want to do, say what I want to say, go where I want to go. I pack my things and put the kayak on the roof rack. There’s still about half an hour of sunlight left. Stripping down to my boxers, I wade into the water and look at my domain: the lake in front of me and Port Sydney beach behind. Sometimes, at the end of a day of angling, I feel as if I’ll never land a fish again. The last catch, the one that’s given you a seemingly immeasurable, fantastically fleeting joy, is always the most memorable. In due time, I remind myself that there are bigger, stronger, prettier fish to be caught (just as there may be other men with mystical eyes). But, verily, only one fish is the biggest, the strongest, and the prettiest and you can only catch her once, and forever after your career as a fisherman will be a denouement. If that day has passed, cherish it; remember it; if it has yet to come, strive for it, and know that the title is always within your grasp. To be a champion, a hero, for even one day is to enter the tenements of the privileged, a place visited by few, if any, mortals. Having forgotten my sunglasses, my eyes undoubtedly damaged, I look away from the setting sun. Somewhere in the turbid waters, a monster lurks. I dive in, distinguishing myself, or maybe only trying to escape a painful obviousness, hoping my sins will be washed away along with the fish shit on my hands, drowning out, at least temporarily, Autumn’s vernal thunder.
THE END
0 Response to "The One That Got Away (Part II)"
Post a Comment