Dull Thud

The sound of the wooden paddle banging against the flat bottom of the aluminum boat I was told it  would scare away the fish, usually by someone older, though I don’t know if it did. We always seemed to catch enough, if they were biting, and perfect silence didn’t help if they weren’t. I remember the mosquitoes, the smell of the water, the splash of breaking the water with a hooked fish, I remember sweating even in the middle of a summer night, I remember not minding any of it if they were biting and hating all of it if they weren’t.

Whoever said a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work only remembers the good days. Fishing, the bucket filling up with fish, the thrill of the tug on the line, the cleaning and cooking and most of all the eating. I never understood a fisherman who did not love to eat the fish more than they loved catching them.

I knew a fisherman in south Florida who loved to fish but did not even eat them, did not eat them at all. He was a nice fellow, and I was happy to eat his catch, but I don’t understand. I do love a good day fishing, but I would rather eat your fish than give away mine.

I can feel the cool water on my hand as I dip the oar too deep, the sun reflecting under my hat off the same water, the hardness of the metal bench seat by midafternoon. It all comes back with a dull thud, the offending noise, has turned into a time machine