The Bookless Club: Fishing lessons

Jane Macdougall: Today was ideal. Summer had ended so the tourist trade had died down at the local marina, but the weather was stellar.

Published Aug 30, 2024  •  Last updated 0 minutes ago  •  5 minute read

Today was the day he was going to take his gear out. His plan was to wing it — just throw a line in the water and see what happened. He was still getting used to retirement and this was as big as his plans got these days. Photo by ConceptCafe /Getty Images/iStockphoto

This is the last installment of the August short fiction project wherein readers submitted words for inclusion in the story. We’re back to the weekly Bookless Club question next Saturday but thanks for all your submissions and comments on this project.

This week, Jane Shumka sent in the term ‘church key;’ Jennifer Lucas suggested ‘bamboo’ and Lance Levy asked to have ‘earrings’ included.

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FISHING LESSONS

He had bought the fishing rod at a garage sale. Why he had bought it was another question altogether. It was bamboo. ‘How often do you see anything made out of bamboo?’ he had thought to himself as he turned the rod over and over in his hand, feeling the evenly spaced nodes. Sandra had tried to talk him out of it: “You don’t fish! Why in God’s name do you need a fishing rod?” But he had bought it and all the tackle as well.

The box was a resin relic but still in perfect working order. It opened up like a Busby Berkley musical revealing three marvellous cantilevered tiers of compartments. Bedded down in each little niche was something shiny or sharp or the opposite — lustreless, lead weights of various sizes.

There were bright polka dotted lures, iridescent, segmented lures, and hot pink, satiny lures that looked like tassels. Some of the lures were as big as a shoe horn and some were dainty, like fancy earrings. Many of the lures still had price tags. He could still make out the name Harkley and Haywood on the tags, none of which exceeded 50 cents.

In the righthand side compartment of the uppermost tier there was a church key with a metal rimmed circular tag tied on with string. And on that tag someone had written in red ink: “Hey Mabel, Black Label!”

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Today was ideal. Summer had ended so the tourist trade had died down at the local marina, but the weather was stellar. Today was the day he was going to take his gear out. His plan was to wing it — just throw a line in the water and see what happened. He was still getting used to retirement and this was as big as his plans got these days.

He walked the dog. He read the paper. He had two cups of coffee and then put his bamboo rod, his tackle box and a cooler with sandwiches and four bottles of beer into the car.

The man at the marina said: “That’s some stick,” when he noticed the bamboo rod in his hand.

He nodded back, remarking: “It’s vintage.”

The fellow asked how long he would want the boat for. He figured maybe three hours.

The fellow sold him a fishing licence and a bucket of bait. As the fellow walked him down to the little metal boat, he asked if anything was biting. That was the phrase, wasn’t it: ‘Is anything biting?’

The fellow shrugged, saying: “You never know; you might get lucky.”

It wasn’t really an answer but a reply. He felt stupid when the fellow showed him how to operate the boat’s outboard motor.

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Once he had cleared the marina, all of that was forgotten. Soon, he was bobbing in the bay with a Windex blue sky above him. He slowed the boat, taking a moment to regard the rim of cedar clad mountains that sawed into that blue sky. Lowering his eyes to the surface of the water, he began to look for clues as to where, indeed, the fish might be biting but there was no one else bobbing around on this Tuesday morning in early October.

He baited his hook and then let out 15 pulls.

He kept his eye on the spot where the line entered the water. With each wave, the line grew taut, and he found himself wondering if that was a nibble. Reeling in his line, he saw the bait untouched, still impaled on the hook.

This time he let out 18 pulls.

He added three pulls.

And then five more.

And then he reeled two pulls back in.

“So, this is fishing”, he announced.

He reached into his cooler and grabbed a bottle of beer. The church key popped off the cap effortlessly.

The little boat had spun slowly around. There, off to his left, was another boat, with a solitary man, his line in the water.

He hollered to him: “Any luck?”

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“Nah, maybe a couple of nibbles. You?”

“Nothing yet.”

“What’s running now,” came the reply.

“I’m not entirely sure. To be honest, I’m new at this.”

“Ah, me too! Recently retired. Just trying to keep busy,” said the man in the other boat.

He started the engine and drew up closer to the other boat.

“Same here,” he said. “Thought I’d give fishing a go.”

Then he added: “Care for a beer? It’s kinda early but it really hits the mark on a day like this.”

They lashed their boats together and drank their beer. The talk turned to wildfires, elections, the price of simply everything, as well as his bamboo fishing rod.

Untethering their boats, the other man said: “Hope to see you out here again one day.”

“Oh, you will, you will; bought all this tackle so I have to prove to the wife that I’m going to use it.”

They both laughed.

Sandra was moving the sprinkler as he parked the car in the driveway.
With arched eyebrows, she inquired: “Catch anything?”

“It was a lovely day,” was his reply.

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