Small ripples lapped on the boat's side as the anchor line held firm. The gentle rocking made his eyes heavy, and he wanted to take a nap, but his days on the lake were running short, and every tug of the line was another possible trophy that he'd end up throwing back in the water to live another day.
He was brought up on this lake, as were his parents, in a place where nature reigned, and the city seemed a million miles away. When they passed just five months apart, he moved into the cottage some forty-something years ago. Math tells him he's lived there a total of seventy-five years and never changed a thing about it.
The hardwood floors were swollen in places as the lake's moisture took its toll. Kitchen cabinets didn't open or close as easily as they did when he was a kid, opening and closing a thousand times in search of a treat or a box of oat cereal. It showed character, he thought, like the pieces of driftwood hanging on the wall and the collections of small, smooth rocks his mom would find on her morning walks.
His line grew taut, and he jerked the pole up and hooked a monster of the lake, maybe the one legends are made of. It put up a fight as the old man grew tired and his arms felt like rubber. Then, without warning, the line snapped, and the would-be trophy dove deep and escaped. He sat there for a minute, cursing that no one would hear except maybe another fisherman around the point who saw what happened and held up his hands in a gesture of dismay.
He took his time securing his gear and pulling up anchor, then rowed the quarter mile back to the dock, also in need of repair. He thought about that and hoped it would hold up just a few more fishing trips, but he wouldn't bet on it. No fish for dinner tonight, he said to himself, but that was okay as he didn't really acquire a taste for it. Strange, isn't it? A kid who was brought up fishing almost daily for decades didn't like fish.
The daylight was sinking, and darkness would follow, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees, so he built a fire and took a hungry man's dinner from the freezer. Salsbury steak, mashed taters, green beans, and an apple crisp for dessert. Life was good, and no washing dishes either, just a two-point shot into the garbage can.
It didn't take long as the warmth from the fireplace filled the cottage with the smell of wood burning as he gave in to sleep sitting on his dad's favorite chair, something else he left as it was so long ago. He'd repaired that chair too many times to count with duct tape and pieces of cloth that ended up looking like a patchwork quilt. But he wouldn't change a thing.
The old man had three more fishing trips that all went well, except on his second trip, when the old dock finally collapsed, sending the small boat to the bottom of the lake and plunging him into the cold water. He was able to retrieve most of his gear, but some things were gone forever, and that was okay with him.
Now he sits in a chair at the foot of the lake tossing out his line. He saw the neighbor around the point, passing him by with his arms held up in dismay and a smile on his face. The old man gestured back with his middle finger held high, adding a few choice words from one fisherman to another.
The hardwood floors were swollen in places as the lake's moisture took its toll. Kitchen cabinets didn't open or close as easily as they did when he was a kid, opening and closing a thousand times in search of a treat or a box of oat cereal. It showed character, he thought, like the pieces of driftwood hanging on the wall and the collections of small, smooth rocks his mom would find on her morning walks.
His line grew taut, and he jerked the pole up and hooked a monster of the lake, maybe the one legends are made of. It put up a fight as the old man grew tired and his arms felt like rubber. Then, without warning, the line snapped, and the would-be trophy dove deep and escaped. He sat there for a minute, cursing that no one would hear except maybe another fisherman around the point who saw what happened and held up his hands in a gesture of dismay.
He took his time securing his gear and pulling up anchor, then rowed the quarter mile back to the dock, also in need of repair. He thought about that and hoped it would hold up just a few more fishing trips, but he wouldn't bet on it. No fish for dinner tonight, he said to himself, but that was okay as he didn't really acquire a taste for it. Strange, isn't it? A kid who was brought up fishing almost daily for decades didn't like fish.
The daylight was sinking, and darkness would follow, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees, so he built a fire and took a hungry man's dinner from the freezer. Salsbury steak, mashed taters, green beans, and an apple crisp for dessert. Life was good, and no washing dishes either, just a two-point shot into the garbage can.
It didn't take long as the warmth from the fireplace filled the cottage with the smell of wood burning as he gave in to sleep sitting on his dad's favorite chair, something else he left as it was so long ago. He'd repaired that chair too many times to count with duct tape and pieces of cloth that ended up looking like a patchwork quilt. But he wouldn't change a thing.
The old man had three more fishing trips that all went well, except on his second trip, when the old dock finally collapsed, sending the small boat to the bottom of the lake and plunging him into the cold water. He was able to retrieve most of his gear, but some things were gone forever, and that was okay with him.
Now he sits in a chair at the foot of the lake tossing out his line. He saw the neighbor around the point, passing him by with his arms held up in dismay and a smile on his face. The old man gestured back with his middle finger held high, adding a few choice words from one fisherman to another.
Mike 2026
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