Fishing

Dad grins over at me, coffee stained teeth flashing through his bushy grey beard. I smile back, stifling a yawn until he looks out over the water again. He casts his line in a high smooth arch, his reel whirs as he cranks it in.

My cast is lazy. It lands the lure only a few feet from the base of the doc, in an oily patch of water. I balance the rod in my left hand as I lean down to pick up my travel mug off the low guardrail. The smell of fish bait on my fingers wrinkles my nose as I bring the mug to my lips, and I squint at the morning sun sparkling off the little peaks formed by the incoming tide. The salt scented breeze ruffles my bangs and the water laps gently at the wood pilings below us.

I have to admit that it’s all very lovely. But wouldn’t it have been just as lovely after ten am? I put my coffee down and slowly click over my reel, counting down the seconds to when my alarm would go off on a typical work day.

“Morning Mark,” each new comer greets Dad as they pass, grey, grizzled old men like himself.

“Morning!” Dad responds to each one, calling out their names as they pass, “Did you see? Arlana’s here for a visit!”

“Wow, look at you,” they say. “All grown up!” “I remember when you were only…”

I smile and nod politely to each one, though most I don’t recognize at all, and none have names in my memory. I continue to sip my coffee at regular intervals, ignoring the stink of my fingers in my need for caffeine.

“I’ve got one,” shouts an old-timer who Dad called Jim, down at the far end, “Someone give me a hand!”

I look around, confused, wondering what “someone” is supposed to do. One or two of the other men start reeling faster but I’m the only one without a line in the water. I look to Dad for an explanation.

“Grab one of those nets,” he gestures with his bearded chin to a heap in the middle of the pier, still reeling in his own line, “And help him pull it in.”

I put my rod and my coffee down on the deck and hurry over to the pile, grab what looks like an oversized wire mesh hanging basket attached to yellow nylon rope and hustle to where the hunched figure is struggling to hang on to a rod bent almost double.

“I’ve almost got him,” he gasps, managing to click the reel over a couple of notches, “Get the net in the water.”

I look over the edge, to where the ocean meets the pilings several meters below. I hadn’t thought about how the fish were supposed to get up to the platform.

I heave the basket net over the side and flinch as the frayed rope scrapes my fingers. I try to line up the basket as close to the where his line enters the water as possible, scanning for the first flicker of scales under the surface. There it is!

I let the rough rope slide through my hands, the basket splashes into the water and Jim is right next to me, so close the smell of his chewing tobacco overpowers the salty sea air, struggling to force the fish into position. I jerk the rope a second to soon and the fish slips over the edge of the net, still fighting for it’s freedom. I curse under my breath but Jim just chuckles and leans back against the pull on his line.

This time I’m more patient, I watch for my moment and then I heave. Hand over hand I lift the basket while Jim reels like mad. Together we lift the gleaming speckled body up onto the planks.

“Thanks,” gasps Jim, grasping the fish and twisting the hook out of it’s mouth with one smooth gesture. I stand back, breathing hard, looking down at our handiwork.

Then, "Help!"

"Somebody help!"

The following minutes are a blur. I'm up and down the dock, pulling up fish after fish, the rough, worn ropes rasping against my palms, drops of salt water leaving white crusted splotches on my leather shoes.

I’m panting, and half laughing when a familiar hand, large, scarred and calloused, catches hold of the latest fish and I look up into my dad’s eyes and we’re both grinning at each other in the sunshine and I don’t even notice the salt water running up my sleeves.

“Go on,” he says, “I’ve got this. They’re really biting now!”

I glance around to be sure no one else needs me, then snatch up my rod and cast my line in a long clean arch, my grip tightening on the handle as my reel begins to whir.