The echoes of my Atari's Space Invaders star-ship in it's death throes had barely died in my head when I was awakened by Lucas' mother at three a.m. I shook and picked the sleepy eye-boogers off my face, staring at my best friend as he quickly put on his "fishing weekend" clothes. "Wide-brimmed hat, check. Mosquito repellent, check. Tent, check. Flashlight, check. My special lures, check. (Uttering this, he cast a fond look at his fishing tackle box, settled neatly beside my plastic bag full of haphazardly placed fishing materials) Sun-lotion, check. He looked up at me with a crazed grin on his freckled face, his mandarin-orange hair in every direction like a firework drifting slowly down from the sky, and whispered: "Let's go." It was 3:05 a.m. and I wasn't even dressed.
... Now, clearly there are a variety of actions I could have done on a muggy August day, far clear and free of any sixth grade responsibilities. I could have watched old man Carlitos down the street ring his bells calling "Tio rico, tio rico!!!" while pushing a cart ancient as him, full of mouth-watering ice-cream. I could have sprinted ten blocks down from Lucas' house in Maracay and played on the rubber tire swing in the park, attached to a gigantic araguaney, which let us swing waaaaaay too far up for our own good. I could even have gone to parque del reposo and watched Senor Caña grind sugar cane stalks through his cart's tool, making the sweetest sugar cane juice you would ever have. Yet, the Hannah's are no fishing amateurs. They have and always will be the ultimate fisher-family to me. Nobody has the endurance, patience, skill, abandon and ludicrous luck to ensure such a catch as that epic frustrating weekend. And to think I joined. Me, a self-pronounced ADD student, non-stop talker and wildly antsy boy to boot. Now that's an amateur...
3:30 a.m. found myself, Lucas, and his parents closing the doors to their four door, wood-paneled Wagoneer station wagon in a rush to be out on the street. Still attempting to get dressed, I looked back into the cargo area, and saw it brimming and bristling with fishing gear, tents, food coolers stuffed with ice packs, flannel shirts hanging, stray mosquito repellent, mini-stoves, butane and every other thing minus the proverbial kitchen sink. Taken aback at the thought of when this must have been packed, I quickly sunk low into the comfortable cloth seat in the back, and began a bet with myself about when the sun would come up. Two hours later found me thwacking my head against the door window as it lolled itself awake, while Uncle Bob spoke in his unhurried, calm voice about how enormous the reservoir was, and how searing hot the sun could get during the 10 hours of fishing. Yet, behind that calm, lay undisguised joy at the upcoming adventure, a preternatural gleam coming out from beneath heavy eyebrows and spilling down over a bushy beard moving up and down slowly to his words. I looked over at Lucas. He had his window rolled down all the way and was leaned out a few inches over into the air, smelling the forest on either side as we bounced, jolted and jounced down a dirt path road big enough for...well, just us. "Oh boy," I murmured to no one in particular, as Uncle Bob relayed another pair of facts about heatstroke and getting there in time to catch the six a.m. crop of bass. I attempted to get a glimpse of their boat bounding down the dirt road behind us, yet couldn't see through the rising dust, Coleman lanterns and fishing rods blocking my view.
"We're here!" Uncle Bob spoke with sheer excitement, as Lucas let out a whoop, shot out his side of the car and began to disconnect the wires and cables connecting boat to car. Gathering in their infectious excitement, I leapt out behind him, and began distributing gear according to Aunt Sandy's instructions. Again, I noticed how pitiful my bag of fishing supplies stood in the near-dawn darkness next to the Hannah's row of weather-beaten, sun-pounded and well-loved tackle boxes. Sigh, I had lost my own bet. Pitiful.
"Gently now, gently now..." coaxed Uncle Bob, as we four slid their simple yet prized fiberglass boat for four into waters still as a magician's mirror. My feet slid and stuck in the muck as I gained a footing, and helped nudge the craft out a few feet into the docking area. Standing there silently, listening to Lucas's parents swiftly park and lock up the car, I stared out at what seemed an endless horizon of water cut ruthlessly short by the other side. Seconds later my view was swallowed effortlessly as the sun rose a half-inch above the water. Sunbeams sent the darkness scurrying, and the inky black turned into dark purple, royal blue and what Uncle Bob referred to simply as "fishin' color." Coolers loaded, rods adjusted and cinched down, food stowed carefully under the seats, we clambered aboard and gently nudged our boat out into the now quietly bobbing small waves that moments ago lapped at our feet. Uncle Bob turned on his ultra small, ultra quiet propeller "engine" and even as the mud still lay thick, sludgy and slowly drying around the soles of my feet, I could feel the tiny thrum of our boat heading out into the cool blueberry morning.
...I am not made for sitting around hour after hour. I know this now after that adventure. Even more so, I am not made for sitting around quietly. The term "quiet" exists for me on a few levels and occasions. 1) Church sermon. 2) A crowded NYC subway car during rush hour. 3) the 13th straight hour awake on a trans-Pacific flight. That's about it. The 10 hours sitting calmly in the prow of the Hannah's boat, watching them catch fish after fish after fish after fish......after fish, is enough to try even the stillest student. I am not that student. Nor am I a fisherman. Nor did I catch fish...
Five minutes passed at our first fishing hole, before the zzzzzzzzzwwwwwwweeeeeeee of Lucas's fishing rod sprang out into the spooky quiet morning, bringing in a 15 inch striped bass. (12 inches was the minimum in the Hannah family to earn the title "keeper.") "Awesome!" I exclaimed, netting it for him as it flopped against the side of our boat, and bringing it up in order to remove the hooks.
Cooler: 1 fish. 6:30 a.m.
Moments later, not hours, Uncle Bob's fishing reel zzzzing'ed in tandem, netting a fish nearly clearing the 20'' mark. By 8 a.m., the cooler easily held 10 fish, and my line kept going out and coming in empty. Searing, boiling, empty-feeling-noon rolled around, and flipped lethargically over to evening a handful of hours later. Tents were pitched, fish were filleted and rolled in breading, cool water was poured over my red neck, dinner was eaten, lanterns were snuffed out, good nights were called across the small camping area.
Cooler: 45 fish; full. 9:30 p.m.
Brennan: 0 fish.
Sounding vaguely like another father I knew, Uncle Bob unzipped our lovely cocoon, and bustled Lucas and I out to another day of "fishing." At this point grumpiness was settling in, and Lucas began to comfortingly point out where I should throw my lure, how to fine-tune the twitching and flicking of the line in the water, and how I should alter my stance in the point in case of a catch. Moments after pulling up my lure (dare I say it? Empty), Lucas cast his lure in the same spot, the predictable zzzzzzzingging ending another frustrating moment for me. Close on noon, amidst "you can do this," "your turn will come Brennan," and "it won't be long 'till you get a big one," Uncle Bob caught a monster. His catch was so magnificent that I forgot my lethargy and sun-soaked sleepy feeling and clung to the side of the boat as his forty five minute battle ended with a 26'' flopping bass in the bottom of our boat. Problem: The coolers (plural) were full.
Coolers: Over 100, 4 p.m.
Brennan: 0 fish.
To say my one fish catch an hour later was anticlimactic is an understatement. There were cheers, hooray's! and slaps on the back, but the mood had settled as deep into me as the fish laughing at me from below the murky waters. Besides, I had caught a piranha, shimmering iridescent purple and pink, amidst a pack on their way to devour prey. I nearly lost a finger to its slippery, biting, twisting and furious indignity at being caught by me of all people. Fact: You can't eat piranha's because they're too bony.
I know now that masters like the Hannah's are few and far between, and to their undying benefit, they helped me as much as possible. Even after handing over a 30 fish bribe to the security guards at the edge of the reservoir, our catch nearly cleared 100 fish, and to their cries of "next month! next month!" to the guards, I simply looked down at my hands. Caked, cracked, smelling of mud, algae and scales, I shook my head and merely smiled, remembering how the piranha pack had shifted and swung to another direction as I pulled mine up. A purple rainbow moving in unison, an elusive art.
... Now, clearly there are a variety of actions I could have done on a muggy August day, far clear and free of any sixth grade responsibilities. I could have watched old man Carlitos down the street ring his bells calling "Tio rico, tio rico!!!" while pushing a cart ancient as him, full of mouth-watering ice-cream. I could have sprinted ten blocks down from Lucas' house in Maracay and played on the rubber tire swing in the park, attached to a gigantic araguaney, which let us swing waaaaaay too far up for our own good. I could even have gone to parque del reposo and watched Senor Caña grind sugar cane stalks through his cart's tool, making the sweetest sugar cane juice you would ever have. Yet, the Hannah's are no fishing amateurs. They have and always will be the ultimate fisher-family to me. Nobody has the endurance, patience, skill, abandon and ludicrous luck to ensure such a catch as that epic frustrating weekend. And to think I joined. Me, a self-pronounced ADD student, non-stop talker and wildly antsy boy to boot. Now that's an amateur...
3:30 a.m. found myself, Lucas, and his parents closing the doors to their four door, wood-paneled Wagoneer station wagon in a rush to be out on the street. Still attempting to get dressed, I looked back into the cargo area, and saw it brimming and bristling with fishing gear, tents, food coolers stuffed with ice packs, flannel shirts hanging, stray mosquito repellent, mini-stoves, butane and every other thing minus the proverbial kitchen sink. Taken aback at the thought of when this must have been packed, I quickly sunk low into the comfortable cloth seat in the back, and began a bet with myself about when the sun would come up. Two hours later found me thwacking my head against the door window as it lolled itself awake, while Uncle Bob spoke in his unhurried, calm voice about how enormous the reservoir was, and how searing hot the sun could get during the 10 hours of fishing. Yet, behind that calm, lay undisguised joy at the upcoming adventure, a preternatural gleam coming out from beneath heavy eyebrows and spilling down over a bushy beard moving up and down slowly to his words. I looked over at Lucas. He had his window rolled down all the way and was leaned out a few inches over into the air, smelling the forest on either side as we bounced, jolted and jounced down a dirt path road big enough for...well, just us. "Oh boy," I murmured to no one in particular, as Uncle Bob relayed another pair of facts about heatstroke and getting there in time to catch the six a.m. crop of bass. I attempted to get a glimpse of their boat bounding down the dirt road behind us, yet couldn't see through the rising dust, Coleman lanterns and fishing rods blocking my view.
"We're here!" Uncle Bob spoke with sheer excitement, as Lucas let out a whoop, shot out his side of the car and began to disconnect the wires and cables connecting boat to car. Gathering in their infectious excitement, I leapt out behind him, and began distributing gear according to Aunt Sandy's instructions. Again, I noticed how pitiful my bag of fishing supplies stood in the near-dawn darkness next to the Hannah's row of weather-beaten, sun-pounded and well-loved tackle boxes. Sigh, I had lost my own bet. Pitiful.
"Gently now, gently now..." coaxed Uncle Bob, as we four slid their simple yet prized fiberglass boat for four into waters still as a magician's mirror. My feet slid and stuck in the muck as I gained a footing, and helped nudge the craft out a few feet into the docking area. Standing there silently, listening to Lucas's parents swiftly park and lock up the car, I stared out at what seemed an endless horizon of water cut ruthlessly short by the other side. Seconds later my view was swallowed effortlessly as the sun rose a half-inch above the water. Sunbeams sent the darkness scurrying, and the inky black turned into dark purple, royal blue and what Uncle Bob referred to simply as "fishin' color." Coolers loaded, rods adjusted and cinched down, food stowed carefully under the seats, we clambered aboard and gently nudged our boat out into the now quietly bobbing small waves that moments ago lapped at our feet. Uncle Bob turned on his ultra small, ultra quiet propeller "engine" and even as the mud still lay thick, sludgy and slowly drying around the soles of my feet, I could feel the tiny thrum of our boat heading out into the cool blueberry morning.
...I am not made for sitting around hour after hour. I know this now after that adventure. Even more so, I am not made for sitting around quietly. The term "quiet" exists for me on a few levels and occasions. 1) Church sermon. 2) A crowded NYC subway car during rush hour. 3) the 13th straight hour awake on a trans-Pacific flight. That's about it. The 10 hours sitting calmly in the prow of the Hannah's boat, watching them catch fish after fish after fish after fish......after fish, is enough to try even the stillest student. I am not that student. Nor am I a fisherman. Nor did I catch fish...
Five minutes passed at our first fishing hole, before the zzzzzzzzzwwwwwwweeeeeeee of Lucas's fishing rod sprang out into the spooky quiet morning, bringing in a 15 inch striped bass. (12 inches was the minimum in the Hannah family to earn the title "keeper.") "Awesome!" I exclaimed, netting it for him as it flopped against the side of our boat, and bringing it up in order to remove the hooks.
Cooler: 1 fish. 6:30 a.m.
Moments later, not hours, Uncle Bob's fishing reel zzzzing'ed in tandem, netting a fish nearly clearing the 20'' mark. By 8 a.m., the cooler easily held 10 fish, and my line kept going out and coming in empty. Searing, boiling, empty-feeling-noon rolled around, and flipped lethargically over to evening a handful of hours later. Tents were pitched, fish were filleted and rolled in breading, cool water was poured over my red neck, dinner was eaten, lanterns were snuffed out, good nights were called across the small camping area.
Cooler: 45 fish; full. 9:30 p.m.
Brennan: 0 fish.
Sounding vaguely like another father I knew, Uncle Bob unzipped our lovely cocoon, and bustled Lucas and I out to another day of "fishing." At this point grumpiness was settling in, and Lucas began to comfortingly point out where I should throw my lure, how to fine-tune the twitching and flicking of the line in the water, and how I should alter my stance in the point in case of a catch. Moments after pulling up my lure (dare I say it? Empty), Lucas cast his lure in the same spot, the predictable zzzzzzzingging ending another frustrating moment for me. Close on noon, amidst "you can do this," "your turn will come Brennan," and "it won't be long 'till you get a big one," Uncle Bob caught a monster. His catch was so magnificent that I forgot my lethargy and sun-soaked sleepy feeling and clung to the side of the boat as his forty five minute battle ended with a 26'' flopping bass in the bottom of our boat. Problem: The coolers (plural) were full.
Coolers: Over 100, 4 p.m.
Brennan: 0 fish.
To say my one fish catch an hour later was anticlimactic is an understatement. There were cheers, hooray's! and slaps on the back, but the mood had settled as deep into me as the fish laughing at me from below the murky waters. Besides, I had caught a piranha, shimmering iridescent purple and pink, amidst a pack on their way to devour prey. I nearly lost a finger to its slippery, biting, twisting and furious indignity at being caught by me of all people. Fact: You can't eat piranha's because they're too bony.
I know now that masters like the Hannah's are few and far between, and to their undying benefit, they helped me as much as possible. Even after handing over a 30 fish bribe to the security guards at the edge of the reservoir, our catch nearly cleared 100 fish, and to their cries of "next month! next month!" to the guards, I simply looked down at my hands. Caked, cracked, smelling of mud, algae and scales, I shook my head and merely smiled, remembering how the piranha pack had shifted and swung to another direction as I pulled mine up. A purple rainbow moving in unison, an elusive art.
No comments:
Post a Comment