fishermen

Me and Boy used to get up before everyone. The mist was rising off the surface of the lake. It would be a lie to say that it was cold those summer mornings but it was not warm. I would put on my oversized sweatshirt and rub the sleep out of my eyes. He would sit considering the rods picking the one that would fit perfectly into my small hand.  I would carry the light cushions we would sit on to make the next hour more passable. He always reached for the heavy gas canister. Early in the morning I would never think to reach for it. It was too heavy and the only thing that got me up was the hope of a fish. The dew was still heavy on the grass. My cheap wal-mart tennis shoes would be soaked before I even reached the dock. My toes becoming pruny and cold in the early morning grey. As I sat in the green beat up rowboat, he would begin to coax life out of the engine. Prime, wait, pull the chord no life, add some gas, and try again. Slowly a weak purr would begin in the bowels of the engine. Slowly the purr rose to a growl then the engine roared to life. We would slowly back out and then turn slowly avoiding the tangle of weeds that would surely choke the life out of the engine. Once out of the inlet we would pick up speed. Flying around the lake. Sitting on the bow of the small green vessel, my eyes tearing up from the brisk winds. We would soar, turning to that perfect spot where all the mornings catch were hiding. Unselfishly, he would put the bait on my line. We never said much. Those mornings did not require words. We were in a space where words would have been foreign. On occasion he would look into his long years of life and give me his small pieces of advice, “ its ok to look but never touch”. Not a bite. We soared back. We were successful hunters. I could never stay disappointed for long. I knew the next morning we would be back. We would conquer these waters waiting capture what lay beneath the morning mist.