Fishing

I am vulnerable sitting in that tiny boat, suspended above fathoms of an inky void as the menacing, colossus lurks below, beyond the sun's rays, out of range from my squinting eyes. With no interest in a drowned worm concealing a barbed hook, it opts for easier prey. Circling underneath my boat, the assault begins. Using effortless flicks from a broad tail, the prehistoric-in-stature fish ascends with increasing velocity all the while remaining focused on its selected target. The jaws splay open right before impact against the hull.

With little resistance from the surrounding medium, the momentum propels its body and my craft well above the lake. The vessel’s keel snaps, separating the bow and stern as I am hurled through the air. In disbelief over what just happened, I find myself treading water, converted into flotsam among the scattered, buoyant debris. The hunter has become the hunted as the surface roils. After the gnashing of teeth and a definitive gulp, I’m expunged from existence. My demise is Nature’s retaliation for all the previous fillets I’ve consumed.

Such is the thought process of an overimaginative eight-year-old fishing with his grandfather.

Hunching my shoulders, I bury my face in the orange, Kapok-filled life preserver wrapped around my neck to seek refuge. Gramps notices my posture and sudden quietness. Recognizing the power of an adolescent’s self-generated fear, he knows if my unsubstantiated anxiety isn't dispelled, I'll want to go back to camp. Without embarrassing me, he mentions he’s going to “reposition the anchor.” And in three arm-length pulls, the anchor is by the gunnel. He then lowers it back down, using the thick line to prove that we are in a mere fifteen feet of water. This reassuring display mitigates my angst, banishing the nightmare-fuel from my mind. With newfound courage, I return to the task at hand, cast out my lure and slowly crank the reel, hoping for manageable resistance on the line that trails off into the depths.

Such is the obligation of a grandfather fishing with an overimaginative eight-year-old.

My grandparents owned a camp on a reservoir nestled between two mountains in upstate New York. Our extended family convened there each summer, spending most of the time either in or on the water. Days revolved around wading, swimming, water skiing, boating and fishing. Fishing superseded everything. Fishing was king.

Having always been around it, I don't remember a time when I didn’t know how to fish. My grandfather was passionate about this hobby. So, I learned from his example to love it as well. He was there to lend a supportive hand, helping me reel in a struggling sunfish or pugnacious perch caught off the dock. He taught me correct casting techniques, how to properly set a hook and respect for nature.

After a few years, he was also the one who decided I was ready to accompany him on his fishing trips in the boat. Fishing from the boat was my rite of passage. It meant I had proven to Gramps that I was ready to venture out where the big fish are. He may have been impressed with my diligence while waiting for a nibble in the waters surrounding the dock. Or, he may simply have grown tired of fishing with me twelve paces from his kitchen window. Nonetheless, he deemed me trustworthy to be away from camp for hours on end without the risk of being bored, whiny or in need of accessible, indoor plumbing. My internship was complete. Now it’s time to continue honing my craft far away from shore.

Taking the boat shows I am a real fisherman. With enough fuel, it grants access to the entire lake - open water or protected bay, deep basin or shallow flats. No part of the expansive reservoir is unreachable. I am liberating myself from the narrow confines of our waterfront property.

The downside of my grandfather's excursions is the predawn wake-up calls. Five a.m. is an ungodly hour for a kid on summer vacation. "Because that's when the fish are biting," was the standard reply when questioned about the need for early departures.

After finishing our traditional breakfast of two fried eggs over easy atop a piece of Roman Meal toast surrounded by still spattering bacon and accompanied by a mug of hot chocolate, we are ready for our trip. I rush to the storage shed attached to my grandparents' cottage. Navigating the uneven floorboards, I am responsible for gathering the bait box, hook remover, gloves, air horn, stringer, net, empty Maxwell House Coffee can and seat cushions. With my arms full, I trudge to the boat. Gramps follows with a full tank of gas and our tackle boxes.

When everything is stowed, we return for the fishing poles. They go in last to prevent them from being snapped while loading the other gear. Plus, it’s a ritual. The Carrying of the Poles. The Presentation of Arms. Once they are ceremoniously placed in the boat, we depart. Daybreak's quiet air and calm water are disrupted by the steady putter of the engine and the ever-increasing, rippled "V" pattern our wake leaves as we set off towards fertile honey holes.

Measuring about ten feet long, our boat is made from what seemed like World War II surplus steel. It has a pointed bow, three bench seats and is powered by a trusty 18-horse Johnson outboard motor, which always starts on the third yank. My station is forward, fully exposed to the uninterrupted wind and water.

When I am old enough and pass a safe boating course, we reverse roles. I steer and he sits on the middle seat. He is the Admiral; I am his Captain. During moments of insubordination, I deliberately angle the bow, so it glances off an oncoming wave. This creates excessive spray, which in turn soaks my higher-ranking official.

From underneath a tilted fishing cap that is his only shield against the aqueous onslaught, I hear, "Whatta man. What a man." Grampa used this lighthearted expression every time I slipped from Serious Fisherman Mode into Rambunctious Little Boy Mode. I'd snicker while offering a feeble, "Gosh, sorry" over the din of the motor and correct my course.

Arriving at our destination, we each take and stick to one side of the boat to cast from, preventing inadvertent line entanglement. Like a true fisherman, I am diligent in keeping my pole pointed skyward, except when a dragonfly lands on the tip. Then I dunk the end in the water, attempting to submerge the unwelcomed squatter. The insect always launches before my rod breaks the surface. When this happens, Gramps reminds me, "Eddie, you can't set the hook when your pole's pointing towards the seaweed (technically, it’s lake weed)." He dutifully concludes with, "Whatta man. What a man."

Letting my lure sink too far before reeling means it will snag on the bottom. When this occurs, more often than it should have, I turn these annoyances into pretend fights with trophy-sized fish. Out of the corner of his eye, Gramps notices my rod bending grotesquely and plays along with this make-believe battle. He can tell the type of fish hooked by the way it fought. A steady pull meant vegetation.

"Don't let that one get away, Eddie."

"Better get the net because this one's a doozy," I reply, before the tangled mass of slimy weeds or waterlogged branch breaches. I was taught, “You catch it, you release it.” So, I am on my own to free the clot of plant life from my hook while Grandpa continues casting and uttering, "Whatta man. What a man."

Between my battles with the littoral flora, I concoct "What if..." scenarios.

"What if…the boat springs a leak?" I ask, trying to catch him off guard.

"We'll use the coffee can and bail out the water," he calmly replies.

"What if…while getting the anchor, I fall overboard?" I persist.

"Let go of the line, you can swim. Plus, you’re wearing a life jacket," he counters.

"What if…the motor doesn't start?"

"We'll row. That's why we have oars."

I had a better chance of catching the dragonflies on the tip of my rod off guard.

Losing a fish when a line broke was a minor setback. "Must have been a hefty one," he proclaims while swiping at the severed end limply blowing in the wind. A few quick twists and he’s secured a new leader. I couldn’t tie knots as quickly or as efficiently as he did. Despite crooked fingers, he is masterful. With a snap of the wrist, the line, leader and new lure are airborne, back into the lake. "That fish is out there somewhere with my lure. Maybe we'll catch him this time."

When my arm got sore from casting, I'd rummage through my tackle box to get a hook, a leader with a sinker and a plastic, red and white bobber. Then I’d switch to “still fishing.” Positioning the bobber on the line about four feet above the hook, I toss the ensemble overboard. With the bait suspended in view, the waiting begins. I wait for the fish to come to me. I wait for the bobber to execute its one and only job – bobbing to signal a bite. And I wait. And wait and wait, knowing the longer I wait, the greater the probability I’ll be rewarded.

Eventually, fish congregate around my line. But instead of chomping at the juicy worm writhing in mid-water, they are captivated by the leader and sinker. What’s the attraction to steel and lead when a free lunch was dangling just below? I hypothesize the fish were mulling over how to unclasp the leader. If they could learn to do that, they would nullify the threat of impalement and leisurely peck at the free-falling food.

Our trips were usually successful. Undersized fish were released so they'll "grow up for next year." Big ones destined for the dinner table were kept on a stringer hanging off the transom. I can sit with abundant patience during the process. But when the stringer is heavy with keepers, my attention turns to showing them off back at camp. As Gramps senses my uneasiness, he announces he'll take "one last, lucky cast" before heading home. I don't remember if he ever caught anything on this final cast, but he always upheld the tradition.

Water droplets fly off the line as I pull the anchor, hoping it latches onto a sunken treasure chest. It never does. Instead, the homemade hunk of lead has dislodged a large accumulation of weeds and bottom muck. After a few dunks in the water, the anchor is clean enough to slide under the middle seat. The stringer is retrieved. Our trip has concluded.

Approaching the dock, I ready myself for a premature disembarkation. Grandpa tells me to wait until we are tied up, but I can't. I grab the stringer and jump out of the boat before it’s completely moored, while hearing, "Eddie, wait. Secure the bow line.” I don’t. “Whatta man. What a man."

Struggling to keep the day’s catch from dragging on the ground, I run up to camp yelling, "Hey, look at these," to nobody in particular but everybody in general. I strut about, acknowledging congratulatory smiles and answering probing questions. "Where did you go?" "Can't say, it's a secret." "Who caught that big one?" "Grandpa." "And that bigger one?" "Gramps." "And the small one?" "Me." This invokes reminiscing of past trips the onlookers had taken.

Grandma would get her Instamatic camera and tell us to stand on the dock. Then, with a burst from a flashcube, we are immortalized from knees up, destined for the photo album. Grandma’s Kodak Moments rarely showed anyone's legs or feet because she focused on the fish proudly held out for display. "Get closer. Hold the fish between you two. Higher up, Ray," she directs.

I’m beaming ear-to-ear standing beside Gramps. With his shirt half unbuttoned ("This makes it look like I had to put up a fight to land the fish."), he extends his arm. "Hold the fish away from your body so it looks bigger," he whispers before the shutter clicks.

Whatta man. What a man.