Fishing
Fishing
by Ernest Troost
“What do you say we try some fishing after dinner?” said Dad.
“Okay. If you want to,” I said. I was not keen on fishing. It was boring, and the mosquitos down at the lake in the evening were ferocious.
After dinner we got our poles and the fishing basket—in case we actually caught something—and headed down to the lake behind our house. The path led down the hill, and I’d run a little ways ahead and then wait for Dad to catch up. He was smoking and stopping to look dreamily around at the woods against the darkening sky.
“These are some beautiful trees,” said Dad.
I imagined that after spending his day around a noisy factory and machine shop, this walk must have been peaceful for Dad, like strolling through a woodland poem. I knew every inch of this ground, the young maples we climbed and swung from, the rock outcroppings we pretended were fortifications to be breached or mountain cliffs to be scaled. I bounded down the path to the water, my feet springing from roots and rocks, their placement memorized by countless repetitions.
“Don’t break your neck,” yelled Dad.
“See you down there,” I called back.
I waited next to the old dock, which leaned to one side on its 2 x 3 supports. The unpainted plywood was faded gray and warped. It would sag when an 8-year-old stepped on it, and the heads of rusty nails would rise up loosely if you got the contraption rocking back and forth.
“I hope you kids don’t play on this dock,” said Dad. “It’s on its last legs. Best avoid it.” In fact, my friends and I had spent that morning madly jumping up and down on the dock, trying to shake it to pieces. Even with three kids jumping we couldn’t sink it, so we lay down on our stomachs across the plywood with our heads hanging over the edge. Our faces were inches above the water, which gave off the faint smell of ammonia, and we watched the sunnies swimming in circles around their sandy nests.
Standing now amongst the mounds of sedge grass, Dad and I baited our hooks and cast out into the still lake. The worms and sinkers plopped as they hit the water, and the plop repeated as a soft echo. Ripples slowly traveled across the dark surface to where we stood on the shore. The spongy ground we stood on was a tangle of fine roots, sediment, and mosses slowly decomposing with a musty odor. The evening was quiet except for a lonely car engine revving in the distance, and as the sky dimmed, bats flashed overhead.
Fishing was no fun compared to catching frogs. Fishing involved too much waiting around and pondering my place in the universe. I held my rod while I watched the head of a muskrat swimming towards the island, then disappear as it entered its underwater burrow. I had a red and white plastic bobbin on my line and I stared at it, trying to will it to go under. I had to admit I couldn’t control the bobbin with my brain waves. We cast a few more times and the last of the sun flickered out behind a hill of maples.
The frogs and crickets were singing now, and soon enough a squadron of mosquitos arrived. My arms and neck took the brunt of the first wave of the attack while Dad stood undisturbed. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and the smoke curling around him was an effective repellant. I smacked a few mosquitos on my arms and ears and dropped my pole. I couldn’t hold it while I was defending myself from the onslaught. I picked it up and reeled in.
“These mosquitos are killing me,” I said. “I want to go back up to the house.”
“They don’t seem too bad to me,” said Dad. He turned towards me and smiled through the smoke. He reached into his breast pocket and took a cigarette from the pack. He lit it with the end of his own cigarette and handed it to me.
“Just hold it,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
I held the cigarette between my thumb and first finger wondering what to do next. As I watched Dad fish with his cigarette cocked to one side of his mouth, I tried for the same effect. I put it between my lips on the side, going for a Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca look, but my eyes started burning and I pulled it out of my mouth and held it at arm’s length again. Next I tried holding it between my second and third finger the way Dad did, but when I put it near my lips the smoke went right up my nose and I sneezed.
“Just hold it still in your hand and they’ll leave you alone,” said Dad.
For a time I held it upright like a candle next to my face, but I couldn’t hold it and fish. Then I put it back in my mouth and inhaled. The coughs exploding out of my throat surprised me. My throat went raw and my eyes were burning. I could feel my dinner starting to rise in my throat. This was worse than the mosquitos!
“Just hold it. Don’t smoke it. I want to fish a little longer,” said Dad.
After a few more minutes of my fidgeting around with the cigarette and acting impatient, Dad said, “Alright, alright, let’s go.” As we started up the path Dad said, “And, we don’t need to say anything to your mother about the cigarette.”
“Right,” I said.
When we got back to the house I walked into the kitchen and my mother immediately asked why I smelled of cigarettes. I glanced at my dad, who smiled and shook his head.
Moms just know stuff.