A Great Fisherman

The trunk lid slams after he removes his fishing gear. Mom kisses him on the cheek. Always embarrassing, he's much too old for that now. Especially now. Today's the first day the boy is allowed to fish from the pier by himself.

He has always fished. Seems like every time he turns around, Dad has to show somebody the picture of him in diapers, holding up a little fingerling bass. Of course, those annoying moments are fewer. For a while now, can't remember exactly how long, the boy has only been allowed to see Dad every other weekend.

His stepfather is an all-right guy. He tosses football, asks him how school is going and everything. Of course, Dad is a Great Fisherman, and stepfather, well, isn't. He can cast pretty good, catches a few fish and even has his own boat. But a Great Fisherman? No.

The white sand of the parking lot is flat. Smooth from the weight of many cars. Its hard, moist feel combined with the delicious smell of sea, old bait, and hamburgers frying in the little snack shop, tell him he is really here - by himself, going fishing, on the pier.

The rod in his right hand is almost three feet longer than he is tall. It is caught on things as he walks past. The tackle box and bait bucket are too heavy to carry far at one time. With all that to bother with, it's hard to walk to the pier with the dignity and poise of a Great Fisherman.

Finally, the boy makes it to the gray wood of the pier. The hollow echo of his footsteps, the thunk-thunk of the fishing rod handle dragged behind, the sound of the quiet surf at high tide, all let him know that today will be the great day.

The bright sun is straight overhead. It's hot. Most of the tourists and other elders are taking it easy in their cool air conditioning. That makes it easy to get to the spot. The boy wearily lugs his gear up to the tall rail. Its flat top is just below his shoulders. He places his equipment on the floor of the pier with the care it deserves. They are friends he has known all his life.

He attaches the plain steel hook to the thin metal leader, below the sliding weight and the crimped split-shot. As even any Half-Great Fisherman knows, that kind of hook will quickly melt away in the saltwater, should the fish get away.

As he impales a piece of half-frozen bait on the hook, he remembers a day, fishing with Dad, on this pier, at this spot. He was standing on alert, watching for even the slightest movement of the rod tip. Many times he snatched the rod up and gave a heroic yank, only to have the Great Fisherman tell him it was only the movement of the waves, not so softly instructing him to relax. Saying that when a fish hits, he'll know it.

The boy continued to stand vigilant guard. Though feeling a bit confused, he was sure he would know the strike when he saw it. He was right. Out of nowhere, the rod tip bends down with a violent force. The boy picks up the rod and starts to run across the pier. He was going to set that hook for sure. He did. No later than when the line first became taut, he felt an incredible pull from the other end. Whoa! That fish is stronger than he is.

The Great Fisherman was half laughing as he caught his son being dragged back to the rail. Dad held the rod, his strong arms hugging, his giant body bracing the boy's back, as the boy fought to reel in the monster. The tugs where incredibly powerful. The boy knew landing this unseen demon would make him a Great Fisherman for sure.

Then, just as suddenly as it all started, the rod went slack. The line had snapped. The boy just stood, stunned. Dad smacked him on the back. Told him not to worry. He had made a good, solid fight of it. There will be another day. The boy quietly, shamefully, sobbed.

Brought back to the present as the needle tip of the hook begins to enter his finger, the boy releases the bait. He picks up the rod, flips open the bail. With an easy, fluid grace, he casts the line far out into the ocean. He sits the butt of the rod down on the pier, then his on the same surface.

He sits for a while, his arms grasping his legs, his chin resting on his knees, his eyes not moving from the rod. Then, a series of rapid twitches assault the tip. The boy stands up. The familiar, almost reverent excitement sends his heart pounding against his chest. He maintains his discipline. He does not touch his fishing rod.

Then the tip screams down in a vicious arc. With both hands the boy picks up the rod, expertly sets the hook. A huge tug pulls back. This is it! He will finally win his trophy, change from novice to Great. Containing his excitement, the boy fights the stronger creature with a skillful poetry. Keeps the line tight as the beast runs, reels in when it weakens.

The struggle lasts several minutes. A small crowd gathers around the boy, wanting to see what marvelous trophy is about to be won. A friendly man about the age of the Great Fisherman throws a landing net over the rail. The creature is still deep in the water as the boy guides it into the submerged net.

The man hoists up the net, cursing when he sees its contents. Slinging the heavy object over the rail, he gives a disgusted grunt. He quickly empties the net onto the pier floor and tells the boy to kill the thing. All the fisherman are fed up with wasting their time and bait on those damn rays. The people in the small crowd chuckle and shake their heads as they walk away.

The boy looks down at his nearly helpless adversary. He watches the whipping tail, the gulping mouth, the frantic struggle. The friendly man again approaches, tells the boy to just cut the line, throw the worthless thing into the garbage can. The boy nods respectfully.

After everyone has walked away, the boy grabs the line, lifts the ray over the rail. He reaches to the fillet knife hanging from his belt, a birthday gift from the Great Fisherman. Holding the line with one hand, he severs it with the knife held in the other. The ray belly-flops back to the sea.

The boy bends down, opens his rusty tackle-box and gathers just the right materials. Slowly and methodically, he constructs a new rig. He ties it on the line. Once again daydreams as he baits the hook.