It was a fine day, on the morning of which all the children’s mothers, currently at the lake, had said, “It’s such a fine day, and we should go to the lake.” The water was gin-clear, as water tends to be, and it reflected the blue color of the sky so that the likenesses of cumulus clouds glided across it like puffy, white sailboats. Trees, mostly tall pines, bordered the lake, and it appeared that those nearest the bank were balanced precariously, and would topple into the lake with only the slightest coercion. This fence of trees (it wasn’t quite a wall) surrounded the whole lake, with the exception of the public swim area, and thewell-used concrete boat ramp next to it, and a small wooden shack that, according to the sign out front, was owned by Jim and rented canoes for cheap.
From where I stood, the children splashing in the swim area were almost out of hearing range. Their middle–aged mothers, sitting in colorful, cheap, folding beach chairs and bragging to one another about their sister’s oldest daughter who just got accepted to Brown, would habitually turn their attention to their semi-aquatic progeny and shout, “Don’t go outside the buoys, hun!” or “Boys, stop throwing sand or we’re going back to the house!” This would satisfy the women’s consciences more than it would protect the boys, who rarely ceased throwing sand, knowing from experience that mommy wouldn’t put down People to enforce the rule. Or at least that’s what I assumed was happening, for I, too, learn from experience.
I continued to wade, just off shore, until I turned a bendand could assure myself that I could neither see nor hear them, as if their existence had been questionable in the first place, and was now doubtful. I was glad that I hadn’t bought the waders that the otherwise affable man at Orvis had tried to push on me; even if they were “technologically advanced”, that didn’t justify the outrageous price. Just because the summer people on the Cape are uniformly wealthy doesn’t mean we’re gullible as well. Not all of us. I bet the mothers back at the public beach would’ve bought them, though. But that’s beside the point,as I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of the cool, clean, waist-deep water on my legs and of the sandy lake bottom on my feet as I shuffled towards my impending conquest of nature.
I eventually reached a spot where, if I were a fish in that lake, I would have spent my days. It was perfect, I thought. The spot was hidden away from the normal interference of humans - except for me, of course, for I could outwit a fish – and included an ancient sunken pine trunk as cover. I walked to the nearest bank, set down my beaten, forest green Jansport backpack, and, removing the bungee that kept it in place, took a long PVC tube off the side. I tried to pull the cap off, but it was cemented on too tight, having not been opened in a decade, and I had to whack it with a rock a few times before it popped open. Inside were the parts of the old fly rod that I had bought at a yard sale the day before, which I promptly assembled into one long, fragile, and formerly top-of-the-line stick. I placed the butt of the rod on the ground at my feet, and balanced it against myself as I took the reel case out of the backpack. The zipper was green and corroded and refused to work properly. I pulled hard on it and it opened unexpectedly, sending the reel into the air. I fumbled it once before both it and the rod dropped into the water. I hastily fished out the reel and attached it to the fly rod.
After selecting an especially extravagant and burnished fly from my kit, I began to cast, practicing my best novice technique. One, lift fly out of water, two, rod moving forward, three, moving backward now, four, repeat. I got into a rhythm. My body began to move mechanically, and my mind, no longer occupied by the minutia of fly-casting, began to wander. I thought of many things, and after several hours of tranquil, flawless, and unsuccessful fishing, I thought of the public beach. Even now that seems to me a strange thing for my mind to dwell on, and at the time it was even more so. Had the mothers taken their children home? Were the boys still throwing sand? These obnoxious and insignificant questions flooded my otherwise serene mind. At first they were an afterthought, but they slowly became more prominent. Had anyone new arrived? It felt as though someone had bludgeoned my peaceful, solitary afternoon with a bat. I was nervous all of the sudden, and lost my rhythm. The fly whipped me in the back of the head, stinging and hooking itself through my blue Boston Bruins cap. I quickly disassembled the fly rod, packed my equipment back into the green backpack, and left.
I had forgotten about the fish, and only remembered that I had failed to catch one as soon as I turned the bend and saw the people again. They were still there, just as before. The moms were both reading paperback novels, of the cheap kind that you see in the checkout line at the grocery store and wonder “Who even reads those? There can’t be nearly enough people who read them for the authors to afford to keep writing”. But now I knew, that moms sitting on the edges of lakes read them, and they must read all of them, or at least enough to keep the industry afloat. The boys were pestering a solitary seagull now, and one of their sisters, who I hadn’t seen before, was paddling around the swim area on an inner tube.
I waded and then walked up the beach hastily past them, giving a friendly glance as I passed. Both looked up from their rubbish reading and gave me a weary, aggressive glare, as if to make me sure of their presence, or warn me, or something. I felt uneasy. Why would they do that to me? Do I look threatening? Surely not, I’m tall, thin, innocent, and barely twenty. I tried to rush to my car, a reliable red 1989 Volvo station wagon, without looking rushed. It began to rain lightly, which added to my haste, and clouds passed in front of the sun, masking the landscape in New England grey. The only other cars in the gravel lot were a junky old green Oldsmobileand a brand-new looking blue BMW M3 that was parked directly next to me. I threw my gear in the trunk of the Volvo. Without thinking, I flung open my driver side door directly into the side of the BMW. This left a massive dent, but I didn’t flinch. I climbed into my car and drove off as it began to pour. In the rearview mirror, I could see the two families both rushing to climb into the BMW, and one of the ladies was infuriated when she saw the dent. I hope they didn’t get too angry in front of the kids.
No comments:
Post a Comment