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 Fishing superseded everything.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.

Says the Lime to the Lemon,

Wedge, I like your style...

You're big and light

and just a little tart...

Said the Lemon to the Lime:

I think you're spicy, spritely,

and green, but plenty bright.

We each add a touch of acid lace,

jerk some tears and squeeze a laugh

And the world without us, both,

would be missing a zest of life.

02.06.2025

Liming challenge @AJAY9979

I laughed,

choking back tears of pure agony from how much my face hurt from laughing.

This was... bliss.

I mean, how could it not be?

When the nights are long and cold,

my stomach can ache all it wants, but this feeling never gets old.

Anxiety, anguish, feeling alone. Ah... It has no place here.

Here, where I never can quite miss the catch of my voice as it goes high,

and some quip of a joke catches between us and I laugh until my eyes aren't dry.

Hours after shift.

Long dark, I think almost midnight.

Sometimes here with him,

other times there with others.

All people who make me laugh, cry, or talk like I'm on some sort of soap box.

But right now, he's kind of my favorite person.

Man, what an adventure.

Someone real, someone I can relate with.

We go on like this for hours.

At his house.

At arcades.

At bars or restaurants.

Ugh- who knows where else.

Anywhere, really.

Hours that could seem to cause rifts.

But they don't. At least, they never end up doing so and I come home relaxed later.

Muscles unwinding and untense. Shifts long over. And I laugh.

It's like... how can you have one favorite person?

Ha- I can tell you for certain, you can't.

A favorite person is so generic.

It's so basic, and unrealistic.

He's my... favorite person who I just sit back and play games with.

Even if I suck at them.

He's my favorite person to poke fun of,

because of the way he hates Vodka.

I mean, 'what's up with that?' Haha.

Agh- It's so funny, but it's nothing vulnerable.

Not really.

But yeah- I'm here anyway, laughing,

and then we're turning in to places on whim.

An arcade.

Drinks?

Maybe an expensive 'appetizer' dinner in...

In a place where I won't go. Not alone... at least.

Safe.

With company.

Real company.

And we can bump shoulders.

Nothing romantic.

Never.

Just... good friends.

With similarities.

Kind of looking through worn lenses,

at a life we're tired of fighting in.

Because pain is a history,

and a history laid bare.

How can I not enjoy the little moments when someone else who's been through hell knows what's there? Knows what could be stabbing at me, like it stabbed at him.

Kicking and screaming.

Who used to be.

Not him. Not me.

No, we're just here.

Joking, nudging shoulders and playing games no matter how stupid.

Failing. Dying, asking 'how the hell you screw that up?'

Until I'm laughing so hard my face hurts.

What a reality.

What... a- reality.

If only my life was like this before.

Agh- hard to believe it was so painful.

Painfully hard to ignore,

until we're here.

Just being stupid.

Just a couple of people,

loose on life.

Giving it no limiters.

Just riding the high.

love of my life, i called you

but you put me on hold again.

you say i get too far ahead of myself, so my heart sinks into the ground like a plane crash.

you say the plans i make

you don't want

a future you refuse to see

you justify it as postponed plans for now, better this way you say.

but i am convinced

you're just anti-everything

me

because I’ve spent 1000 nights looking for the love of my life to love me again.

now i give up on the edge of the sofa like an item in the lost and found never picked up.

watching you from inside the bin

admiring how you give a phone all the attention I wished for easily

now time brings me worries

there doesn’t seem to be enough time now.

not like when we were teenagers time stretched out forever

Midnight Blockbuster trips

movies without interruptions

a race to return the DVD

24 hours and we never got a late fee.

we appreciated time when we were younger it makes me miss the old versions of us.

it was a different world so long ago before Google was even born.

this new era seems to have taken you from me.

i can’t finish a sentence

because you've heard it all

i can't hold your attention for more than sixty seconds

no more questions

to figure out together

you say google it

here i am

asking the AI

how should

couples

move forward

in a broken state

it couldn‘t

understand

how tired

I had

become

of missing

a person

who was across

the room

it kept giving me advice

to get rid of the devices and invest in couples therapists.

but option two too expensive to hire and the device too precious to jail.

a phone that will always win his attention over mine.

Time now worries me.

I’ve came

to the conclusion

that maybe he is right.

maybe I ask for too much…

maybe I’m the worst person for him to love…

maybe I don’t deserve mothers day

candle light dinner escapes…

I never thought I was worth a celebration either.

But I do know in this new world we live in i am no soulmate of yours.

I am more like a reel he swipes up before i could even make a sound.

As he holds

the phone closer

than he holds me

and I wonder

if this love can survive

in a world

designed to distract.

Hanging out with her feels like laying on wet grass on a hot summer day, with the sun heating me up with all its strength. It feels like walking through a rose garden, with nothing but the flowers' intoxicating fragrance surrounding me. It feels like quiet peace, like I'll be happy forever. And that is the best feeling I could ever ask for. My best friend is kind, sweet and caring. If she ever goes shopping, she makes sure to get something for me too. But most of all, she listens to me and I listen to her and this way we help each other bloom.

"Dude, who do you like better? Paulo Dybala or Joao Felix?"

"Felix, duh."

"Really?"

"I don't know who either of those people are."

"But you saw Felix at the Euros,"

"Do you want to play Fortnite instead?"

"No, seriously. How dumb do you have to be to forget Joao miss the penalty?"

"I don't like watching you play FIFA. I want to play Fortnite."

"Just let me finish this game."

"Okay."