I went fishing for the first time.
I wouldn't say it was a smart idea. It didn't go spectacularly, but at least a fish was caught.
What made me think I could go fishing? The romance.
A small wooden boat with a box of colorful bait and a rolls of string. A long smooth pole and an empty lake. Ripple free, people free, full of thoughts and breaking light. Cold.
It lasted but ten minutes. I didn't have a box or a nice pole, I didn't have live bait either, just one piece of a translucent blue blob. But it worked, it caught a large grey fish, an unidentifiable type the length of my forearm. Dense and intimidating, its mouth opening and closing in silent calls for help. I too felt the need to call for help. I fight the urge to flail, to stand up and pace. Can't risk tipping the boat! Holding the heavy fish away from my body, hook still in mouth, my arm aching, I search the small lake lined with trees and homes. Alone. I look back to the suffocating fish and set it on the floor where it flops helplessly. I did not think this through.
As I quickly row back to shore, arms screaming with the urgency of not knowing what to do, the fish died. I cry. The suffering was cruel. I was been stupid, not romantic.
Only six in the morning by the time I arrive home. The fish fresh in a cooler of ice. I open it and carry the fish. It freezes then numbs my sore arms as I hug it to my chest.
Another dilemma as I stare at the dead fish on my kitchen counter. I know I have to scale it. Run a blade gently across the body over and over. Swoosh. A cut, red pools around the fish. I swear, flinging the knife into the sink and picking the fish up with my uninjured hand, away from the pooling blood. I set it aside, throw a towel on the blood and take care of the cut.
Minutes later I'm back. Again staring at the fish. Retrieving the knife, I start again. I will not give up on this fish.
This better be one hell of a fish breakfast.
- © Ash Huntley
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