Passion

A short story about bass fishing...

I’ve been protecting her for several weeks now. The poachers want her but I won’t give her up – she’s mine. It doesn’t matter that I’ll forget about her soon enough; it doesn’t matter that I’ll be in another place chasing another refracted ideal. What matters is her memory of me as a guardian angel. I built the dock which gives her shade on sunny days but it isn’t sunny today and I’m not protecting her anymore. My kayak glides into the water and I’m already wet from the rain.

I only like waking up early once a year – on the fourth Saturday of June. I’m up at the crack of dawn and some guys say Simcoe bass are late risers but that’s not always true. I don’t drink coffee anymore and I’m grumpy and I’m frustrated and I wish someone was still holding me in bed. I get pissed off when I have to wake up early. I get mad when I break off a fish; sometimes I throw my hat on the ground and swear. I’m emotional. But if I wasn’t I wouldn’t be here on the water – I’d be asleep with the rest of the world. I’d be dreaming of wings instead of living without them.

Most fishermen will tell you they’re just as focused on the last cast as they are on the first. Fishermen are liars. There’s nothing like the sound of a square-bill breaking the stillness of dawn’s calm; nothing matches the anticipation of those first few turns of the reel; and when the lure comes back to you untouched for the first time there’s no greater belief in your ability to overcome adversity. But every machine breaks down if it isn’t serviced properly. Casts inevitably become tedious.

Every moment on the water is happy and every moment is uncertain. Every moment has an element of artistry. Intention and luck become so mixed up it looks like they’re – –. My precision is no accident. I can skip a tube thirty feet under a dock no problem. It may be cruel but my dedication is incredible in its own way. I’m cold and wet and breathing heavily. I’ll catch fish after fish after fish and I’ll keep calling them beautiful and I’ll keep sticking hooks in ‘em.

I take a picture of myself every time I catch a big fish. It’s vain. I don’t really need to look at my thick and wavy hair that shows absolutely no sign of receding at the age of twenty-six. I don’t really need to admire the fine job I did trimming my beard. And I don’t really need to take pleasure in seeing my full lips covering my teeth in some bizarre display of false bravado. I just need to see a burning grey fire and remember the haunting moment that took place on another sunless day – when I was a hero with mystical eyes. I pose for a picture and move on to the next spot.

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