No One at the Net
by
Ralph H. Riedesel
Originally published in Outdoor
Notebook 12/2000
Touching his son's arm, he pushed
gently. No response. The old Army blanket pulled over the boy's head left
exposed the thin adolescent legs of a teenager. Doug noticed only a slight stir,
so, with a firmer grasp, he gave the boy an extra shake, leaned over and
whispered, "Come on, Pete, it's time to go!"
A muffled, half-conscious protest wafted through the tightly woven threads.
" Come on, we'll get an early start, Doug said, more urgency in his voice.
"
I forgot to tell you, Dad, I'm going with Jim," came the sleepy reply.
Doug Henry stumbled out of the bedroom and groped towards yesterday's half-empty
pot of coffee. At this early hour he needed coffee the way emergency patients
needed oxygen. Within seconds after plugging in the stale coffee, it became a
wheezing background music for the wrestling match he engaged in with his
clothes. He won by a narrow margin, as he pinned the last shirt button against
his oversized belly. The steaming cup of coffee had the aroma of garbage can
covers, but it was eye opening hot, and it gave a welcome jolt to the part of
him that was still asleep. With one last backward glance at the bedroom where
Pete's lifeless figure still had not stirred, Doug swayed out the door.
The new morning air splashed his body like a heavy alcohol aftershave lotion,
slapping him fully awake. He came alive all at once - his spirit blossoming like
a flower feeding on the first rays of the sun. The scene about him was so fresh
and clean, as though God had just created it the moment before; it was as if no
one had ever walked on this ground or seen these trees. These feelings of
renewal always accompanied Doug when he went fishing.
Taking one look at the pile that was his gear, he entertained the familiar
feeling of dread he always had before descending the steep hill that led to the
lake. One deep breath and he was ready. First, he put the large net under one
arm and his life jacket under the other. He still needed to find spots for his
tackle box, three fishing poles, and the bait bucket. It was almost too much for
one person to carry down the steep hill, almost. Fifty steps and a dozen
teetering, fall-breaking circus saves later, he reached the pier. The poles were
tangled, the bait bucket had wet his pants, and both arms ached, but he had
arrived in one piece, gear intact. He dropped the equipment with relief.
Excitement soon began to return as Doug caught a glimpse of the beautiful
sunrise making itself known on the far shoreline. There were fish out there! He
hurriedly loaded the boat, slipped the rope from the pier, and eased out into
the lake. He gave one last look at the cottage on the hill above to convince
himself that Pete was not coming.
A couple of pulls on the starting cord brought the old outboard to life, and
after a short boat ride, Doug reached his favorite bobber fishing spot. He
carefully positioned his boat a medium casting distance from a weed patch that
broke the surface, just where the bottom dropped most sharply. It was a classic
fishing spot and Doug had enjoyed many good days tempting bass, northern, and
even the occasional small musky with his preferred bait, red-tailed chubs,
struggling under a small float. After dropping the back anchor over the side, he
scrambled forward to get the front anchor down. The boat was in the right place.
There was a slight ripple on the water. Maybe this was the day. Doug, like ages
of fisherman before him, always felt the "big one" was just one cast
away. Time to set the poles, sit back, and wait. The waiting was useful too -
for thinking, for remembering.
Doug's joy in fishing was the joy of a child, and his only son had always been
eager to share it with him. "You can go fishing with me tomorrow
Pete," would elicit leaping, giggling excitement. The boy's eyes would
sparkle, and his face would light up with a smile like one of the wonders of the
universe; inside Doug, a little boy jumped and quivered along with his son.
Pleasure was doubled and re-doubled.
Through the years there had been much to teach, and much patience required. The
snarled lines, the countless hooks to be baited, the endless questions, all
amounted to an extra burden but one Doug gladly bore. How many fish had darted
away as the boy pounded the lake with his pole, or dropped the bait on the
bottom of the boat, or snagged a log?
"Do you mind if my son goes along?", Doug would ask his fishing
friends. He knew they minded, but better to endure their wry grimaces than to
see the little boy's longing eyes when he had to stay on shore.
As the years passed, Pete's abilities improved. They now fished together as
equals, both skilled anglers. There was no longer any extra burden; the boy did
his share. He was a companion. With any worthwhile endeavor, you invest and
invest and then it's time for dividends, and the dividends had begun to come.
This morning there were no dividends.
Now as he sat watching his bobbers he realized, all at once, that Pete preferred
to go with his friend. He knew that Pete did not mind fishing with him - no,
more than that, he still liked to fish with his dad. It was just that sometimes
Pete preferred to go with someone his own age. The pill Doug was swallowing had
some bitterness in it. Growing up was also growing away. He understood with his
mind - that's the way it should be. If he had to draw a blueprint, he would draw
it in no other way. Yet, his heart did not understand. The front of the boat,
where Pete usually sat, was empty. There would be no reason to shout, "I
got a bite!" - no one would hear.
A sudden movement caught Doug's attention. A bobber was down. It couldn't be -
he checked the surface of the water again. It was. A thrill coursed through his
body as the special excitement of having a fish on the other end of the line
took hold. It was, probably, a small northern or bass, but right now it could be
anything. At this moment the size of the fish was limited only by the size of
his imagination. He waited patiently, enjoying the moment, drawing out the
anticipation. When he was unable to bear the tension any longer, he slowly
tightened the line, and then reared back on the pole. Whoee, it was big! The
fish had hardly budged. He struck again. Excitement ran up and down and out his
arms, then up and down again. A huge musky broke the surface - a magnificent
fish! Water exploded, as the fish lunged and twisted for life.
Thoughts raced through Doug's mind. This fish was the first prize at the village
hardware store's big fish contest. His name in the local paper. The secret
knowledge that conversations all over the lake area would include the words
"Did you hear about the guy on the hill who got the thirty pound
musky?" It was the hundred flits of shy pride when friends would ask him in
the city, "What did you catch on vacation?" All of that was swimming
on the end of his line. Doug had dreamed of it so often, it didn't seem possible
that it was actually happening, and yet the line was taut and moving slowly away
from the boat.
A feeling of calm washed over him. It was as if he was watching himself. Maybe
this was the way that more important men, in more important situations, felt
when the battle began. Doug sized up his opponent. Don't put too much pressure
on the line, let him think he's free, Doug thought. The musky turned and moved
towards the boat. It moved slowly, the way a big musky does who knows no
enemies, who cannot realize or accept such a terrible danger.
"O God, help me land this fish!" No pious preacher ever offered up a
more fervent prayer.
Doug eased his way to the front of the boat so that he could grab the net. His
heart skipped a beat as he lifted on the handle - the net was tangled in his
life jacket. With one hand on his pole, he used the other one to work loose the
net. The musky moved under the boat. Finally, he cleared the net. The fish
seemed to have stopped and he could see the bobber and the huge, black shadow
beneath it. Should he lift hard on the pole and make a lunge with the net? If
only Pete were here to handle the net! The musky still had much of its strength,
and if he missed there would be no second chance. He was having trouble handling
both the pole and the net while balancing on the edge of the boat. Better let
him run a bit longer, tire himself, he'll be easier to net, Doug thought. The
huge musky began to move away from the boat. Doug felt a sickening feeling in
the pit of his stomach as he realized the fish had wrapped the line around the
anchor rope. Suddenly, the fish shattered the surface of the lake with a
tarpon-like jump. The line went slack; the musky was off.
He reeled in the line. The hook was gone. Doug sat down heavily as his hands
began to shake - the familiar result of an encounter with a great fish. He found
it hard to believe the musky was gone. An empty feeling sat on his lap as
questions of what he should have done differently drifted through his mind. He
should have made a better try with the net. Why didn't he try with the net? His
hands, finally, stopped shaking.
Doug noticed a boat coming from the other shore. It was dipping from side to
side, with someone sitting on the prow. Kids, he thought, dangerous and
irritating, laughing and yelling. They became quiet as they drew nearer and he
saw that it was Pete sliding down onto the seat. His reddish hair tousled with
the careless, inimitable look of a teenager. His tanned arms hung all loose and
gangly, as if they were attached to his shoulders by rubber bands.
"Hi Dad, catch anything?" Pete shouted, his face all one smile."
Just had a big musky get away," Doug answered as matter-of-factly as he
could.
"How big?"
"At least 30 pounds," he said, knowing the size would not be
questioned. They didn't exaggerate the size of fish with each other. It wasn't
fair.
"What happened?" the boy asked, his smile wavering.
Doug wanted to say," No one was here to help me with the net." His
heart cried out, "You should have been here with me. After all these years
you should have been with ME today!"
But he just replied, "He bit through the line."
The special excitement all fishermen understand began to grow on his son's face.
There is something as infectious as the plague that takes hold just hearing
about a big fish.
"We're going over to the rock pile," Pete said as he reached for his
pole. "Good luck," answered Doug, "I'm going back to the
cottage."
The poles securely wrapped, the tackle box snapped shut, he pulled up the
anchors. The boat drifted, as did his thoughts. The excitement was gone. The
disappointment of not landing the big musky was still there, but it, too, was
blowing away with the breeze. Doug could see the boys; they were serious now.
They were fishing near the rock pile, and he admired Pete's skill as their lures
flashed with each cast. He was proud to watch his son grow and become a young
man. It was wondrous. It's good that he has a fishing friend, someone his own
age, Doug thought. If growing up is growing away, so be it. Seeing the growing
up was worth any pain caused by the growing away.
Starting the motor, Doug slowly headed back to the pier. The sun, the sky, and
the water poured their magic on him. He revved the motor, dipping the boat from
side to side. Childish or child-like? He could not tell. In that moment he knew
there was a small child deep within himself that would never grow up. Pleasure
bubbled up in him as he relived the feeling of having such a big fish on the
line. He began thinking of his return to the same spot tomorrow, and how he
would prepare, and wait, and hook the big one again.
As Doug approached the pier he realized he did enjoy fishing with Pete, but he
also enjoyed fishing by himself, and perhaps next year he would invite a friend
along.
There would still be ways to spend time with his son - and his friend, Doug
thought. He always needed bait to go bobber fishing; he would take the boys to
the river in the afternoon to seine for minnows. It took three to seine, one on
each side of the net, and one to scare the fish toward it.
He docked the boat and placed the nearly empty minnow bucket in the water. With
a sigh, he loaded up - poles in one hand, life jacket in the other, net under
one arm, tackle box under the other; it was almost too much for one person to
carry safely up such a steep hill. He would have to start making two trips.
© Pete Riedesel - All Rights Reserved. Duplication and/or distribution without permission is prohibited.