I am not a sportsman in the truest sense, but I do know how to fish, and for me it goes beyond the confines of mere sport. Perhaps it is the relative mellowness that comes with age that allowed me to discover the riches hidden all those frivolous years. Certainly I know that at 20 I was incapable of seeing it, but now, well, few things are finer. Fishing is the promise that makes tolerable the long winter; it is the quintessential punctuation of the fleeting warm months.
I fish with a partner. His name is Hawthorn and he`s the one who frets over and sees to the fishing pole, bait, the attendant claptrap. That he does this without ever bothering me with the details is to his everlasting credit. Hawthorn is 83 years old and I met him on my first day on the lake. He ambled over-it can`t be said that Hawthorn moves any other way-and asked if I needed help unpacking the truck. I looked at his frail self and told him no.
He stood there and watched me do it all myself. He showed up the next evening with a large pot of chili and a plastic bag containing what looked to be bits of broken glass. In the plastic bag were smashed cough drops, to chew, as fast as I could, after eating the chili. We`ve been pals ever since.
Hawthorn taught me how to make coffee in a skillet on an open fire; how to grow roses in dirt that is always damp; how to play gin rummy; how to get energy, he calls it, by lying on the granite rocks in the dawn. He taught me how to field strip a cigarette. He taught me how to fish.
I love that old man. I could fish my way to the midst of infinity with Hawthorn, but of course the time will come when he can`t make the day with me. When it happens, I`ll manage as best I can. I have promised him I will.
Hawthorn told me to look at death. ”Look it in the eye,” he said, ”and bear in mind there ain`t a thing you can do about it.” Hawthorn is a master of sane and obvious advice. Hawthorn`s wife died the year before I was born.
We are happy with the lake. There are those who talk the evening long about the joys of fishing from the ocean, but to our way of thinking the ocean is too fickle to guarantee a long and undisturbed commune with the fish, is just too apt to change its mood with an intensity quite likely to be alarming. Essentials of life
When fishing, you need sustenance. You need a large Thermos bottle, filled with steaming hot coffee and real cream and lots of brandy. Augment this with some solid food. A few Oreos. A couple of peanut butter sandwiches. Anything.
A roomy pair of pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt are a guard against the sun. Speaking as one who once came home with second-degree burns, I can tell you that while you may look better mostly uncovered, you`re a sight better off covered. And a hat with a brim. I wear a baseball cap that was given to me by a cigarette salesman named Larry who routinely launches a sales assault on the corner grocery store. The cap orginally carried the logo of one of the lesser cigarettes, but I tore it off and implanted a colorful plastic trout in its place.
My neighbors on the lake (and there all too many of them) hold an amused view of my fishing. They roar across the lake in the early mornings and cut the engines of their sleek power boats and glide up to my dock. Some of these boats have things like ”Born to Raise Hell” or ”Fast Momma” painted on the side. These neighbors ask whether I plan to fish that day. They nod solemnly and offer the customary wishes for success.
In the evening they again charge across the lake and make a big display of nearly flipping their boats out of the water by cutting the engines. They ask about my day. Their friendliness is genuine, but I also know that they hope for a repeat of the famous occasion on which I could not name the variety of fish sizzling in the skillet on the fire, clearly visible to all. News of my ignorance flew fast; I`d been on the lake only a couple of weeks and was fair game.
But things have changed, and now I know that I do not imagine the subtle transformation in tone engendered by the cap. Its outdoorsy look may be the reason, I don`t know, but my fishing is treated seriously now. However, I do not flaunt the cap. I merely wear it for the purpose that it serves.
The penultimate item you`ll want for any fishing trip is a book. A light mystery is what I prefer, but it could be any volume that allows you to read and doze at the same time. Lastly, you will need a sturdy cushion for your backside.
Now that the tools of fishing have been enumerated, let`s proceed along less technical lines.
The time is somewhere within the first hour after dawn and the lake is beginning to stir. Hawthorn has lain on the rocks in front of his cabin, his arms stretched out, soaking in the energy. I have had my egg and toast, my first cup of coffee. I have attended to the thermos. The Oreos and sandwiches are packed and ready. Hawthorn has tossed the fishing pole, etc., into the canoe. We sit on the rocks by the water and survey the lake and play with the news and events particular to the two of us.
Hawthorn`s grandson is coming to visit. Hawthorn wonders if I might want to marry the grandson. I say no. Hawthorn says that a possible marriage to me is the only reason he invited the kid. I say I`m sorry. He says it`s okay, he`ll just tell him not to come.
We smoke a cigarette or two, I ask him the age of his grandson. He says,
”The boy`s only 40.” We slowly drink our coffee.
Several frogs tiny enough to pass as animated gemstones skitter across my toes, leap past Hawthorn`s ankles and vault into the camouflage of the lawn. We realize they`re fleeing from an eel swimming close to shore. Hawthorn lobs a twig at him and he vanishes. The neighbors come over and we exchange greetings. They wish us well with our fishing and glance at my cap before leaving. One of them makes a parting remark that I don`t hear, but that sets Hawthorn to furious blushing. I pretend not to notice.
I spot a bobber-one of the bright purple ones I handpainted for Hawthorn the previous Christmas-caught in the reeds a foot or so from shore. Hawthorn doesn`t see it. I say nothing and make a secret note to come out in the night and retrieve it for him. We finish our coffee. I grab a book from a pile of mysteries kept strategically by the back door and fling it into the canoe. Hawthorn dons his fedora and we set sail.
He descends the rocks and grabs the end of the canoe. I grab the other end and toe-dance over the wet granite until the canoe is free. We struggle aboard and lazily paddle in a direction divined by Hawthorn. Through some pre- arrangment that only he perceives, Hawthorn suddenly quits paddling and asks, ”How`s this look?” I glance around, take in the pine-flanked horizon and the angle of the still-pallid morning sun, and say, ”Excellent.”
Hawthorn has been fishing the lake for 63 years and has theories as to where the fish spend various segments of their day. These theories are complicated and contingent on many variables. I pretend that I can read the signals, that I see with the same wisdom. He knows I can`t.
Hawthorn drops anchor. This piece of equipment is special to him. It`s an ugly rock tied and wrapped with too much rope and the reason it`s special to him is that I fashioned it one day out of sheer pigheadedness and need. I see it as an embarrassment, but Hawthorn has his quirks.
He cautions me that he is ready to bait the hook and I avert my eyes, the impending slaughter too much for me. That chore accomplished, he has a wild few minutes of fun casting in every possible direction, and then quiets down to wait for an unsuspecting fish to wander our way.
I adjust the cushion and tip my hat forward to shade my face. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don`t. Eventually, I begin to read. I find a
preposterous detective and a butler who replies, ”Yes, my lord,” to whatever the detective says.
Hawthorn lands an adolescent sunfish. We speak of the favorable omen in such an early catch and then release the handsomely iridescent little critter to swim madly to the comfort of the company of his own kind. I return to the foppish detective.
Hawthorn baits the hook again, casts twice in the opposite direction, and then pays attention to nothing but the water. The canoe is rocking in an almost imperceptible rhythm. I read on, but then wake with a start to realize that Hawthorn is paddling to another spot. Not to be outdone, I grab a paddle and take a few swipes at the water. We reach the right location, drop anchor and carry on as before.
I read, decide to stay with the case, and in the daze that I am soon enjoying, I sort through clues and red herrings. Dimly I hear Hawthorn curse a time or two, and finally I wander from my ruminations. Hawthorn has two small white perch on the stringer and I envision dinner, cooked on the rocks on shore-crumb-coated fillets, thick slices of stunningly red tomatoes, corn bread.
We have lunch. Hawthorn says I have outdone myself on the peanut butter sandwiches, that they are, in fact, superb. And the Oreos, fine dessert, their attributes understood by all beyond the pablum stage. The coffee, still hot, is just the homeopathic ploy against the toastiness of the sun. We take our own good time with this meal.
A splendid interruption
Hawthorn knows the fish have moved on and I am prepared to believe that he even knows why they have moved. We follow them. As we`re paddling, an awkward cry hits the air and we turn to see a prehistoric-looking great blue heron slice across a tiny inlet and swoop down beyond a stand of spindly shore pines.
We paddle frantically around the point into the mouth of the inlet on the chance that the bird has come to light. We are in luck and can see it dancing in the tall scrub at the edge of the water. The scene lacks credibility. The area is one where the water has encroached, leaving a dense span of dead and bleached hardwood trees, bent and split and very like the still of a movie transporting the believers back to prehistory. At that moment the bird`s consort appears and together the two of them shriek and cavort.
We watch entranced, but soon they careen over the treetops and, with more shrieking and a proud display of their six-foot wingspans, they leave us, offering the idea that time carries little meaning, that the scene has been played thousands of times and for as many years.
The afternoon passes. Hawthorn lands several more perch, a diminutive yet fierce-faced catfish, and a half-score more of the pretty but unloved sunfish. He sets all of them free but for a few of the perch that will be our dinner. I doze and never finish the mystery.
Hawthorn and I discuss the book. He tweaks my toe and announces that I could write a better mystery, or at least a very different one, for the lone and simple reason that my mind is wholly calmed by the time spent fishing.
I couldn`t be happier. Ah, fishing. I look old Hawthorn in the eye and tell him it`s too bad I`m not 83 years old. He bows his head and mumbles that it would be even better if he were a boy of 40.
