August 2017, Chatham, Massachusetts
I place the heavy, dusty gray bin carefully on the freshly polished deck. Sunlight seeps through the tree’s dime-sized leaves, making the house look like it’s covered in glitter. Wind chimes sound in the distance. Mike walks over and hands me a Sierra Nevada. The condensation drips down the body of the brown bottle, pooling together with my sweat in the palm of my hand. I glance at my watch: 11 a.m. I smile and take a swig from the glass, watching Mike as he shuffles through layers of forgotten belongings: a blank notebook, a yellowed fishing permit, five small plastic boxes, three reels, a wrinkled vest and a wooden net.
“Ah, shit—some of this stuff is covered in mildew,” Mike says, resting a net and a vest on the deck. “Here, hold this,” he says, placing a box of beautifully tied flies in my hands. The bright color of their feathers pop out from inside the clear plastic case, demanding my attention. “Pete never washed this off,” he sighs, pulling out a reel. Its case is coated with thick, white speckles. “You should always rinse your stuff off after going out on the boat. The salt made the zipper stuck. I’m going to get fresh water to soak it in, be right back.” I sit and stare at the fly box in my hands, unlatching its corners and opening it slowly as if disarming a bomb. The boldest fly catches my eye. Turning it over, I examine the pink of its feathers; the clumsy, childlike stitching, the ridiculous strings of silver glitter running over its body. A laugh escapes as I watch the fly dance over the web of my fingers. My brow furrows at the distant familiarity of the thing and, shaking my head, I let it topple back into the box.
August 2000, Chatham
Her fingertips pinch the bright pink feathers, carefully avoiding the silver prick of the hook. This is her second fly-tying lesson. She turns and watches him as his strong, calloused hands gently weave the small threads back and forth underneath the bright light of the lamp. He looks down at her, giving an encouraging smile. The dimly lit wooden cottage smells of salt, and the crisp summer breeze drifts in through the screen door; the hour is beginning to turn golden. He hums along with the radio, singing “Scarlet Begonias.” She’ll remember this as one of those untouchable moments. Bright, pure, and fleeting—dusk itself.
May 1989, Adirondacks, New York
“Peter, you’re not being photographed for American Angler, make the fucking cast already!”
Peter knew the way he casted drove Mike crazy, because it was so different from his process: three perfectly timed, algorithmic loops—eyes on the fish ahead. Peter, on the other hand, would take several minutes to cast his line, hypnotized by perfecting the lasso of his own cast. He was obsessed with the consistent looping, allowing his wrist to fall into a rhythmic pattern, just like the ebb and flow of the river itself. He was transfixed by the fluid movement between his forearm and wrist, the grip his hand had around the cork at the base of the rod. The bright yellow line moved with a soft familiarity through his left hand. One, two, three, four, okay two more, five, six—look at that one, one more and then let the line go. Seven, eight, one more. Nine—shit—let’s make it even, ten. Release. Land, plunk. Pull. Easy, wait. Pull. Bite, easier still—snag—fish on, baby! Adrenaline coursed through his veins and, suddenly, the day seemed a little brighter. This was his process—and the cast was the most artistic part of it, begging to glow with an utter remarkability, just as much as the fish it snared.
July 1997, Chatham
There’s this picture on her bookshelf, encased by a fogged glass and a fading green wooden frame. Every time the photo catches her eye, she’s brought back to that weathered back porch where he kneels in the confines of this frozen image. His hat is crinkled white from summers spent battling sea spray and his large sunglasses with protective leather sides swing from his neck. He proudly hoists up the huge bass, pushing it away from his chest, like a trophy. He isn’t looking ahead, or even down at the fish, whose yellow eye is locked on the camera lens. He isn’t looking at his dog either, whose velvet black snout is angled up toward his grin. Instead, his gaze rests on his little, 3-year-old girl. Her sun-bleached white curls frame her innocent face. She grins, partially toothless. Her brown eyes glow with the same intensity of her father’s.
Looking at the photo years later, she would try to blur the image from her mind, closing her eyes and turning away from her reflection in the glass. The young girl in the photo now hears faint whispers floating through that thick, warm air; telling her that in that exact moment, the man who looked down at her believed her to be every good part of himself he ever knew.
August 2013, Chatham
There’s an incessant buzzing near my ear. I reach to snooze my alarm, but realize the sound is an incoming call: my grandfather, Popi. I blink my eyes open. My watch reads 10 a.m. I pick up the phone but clear my throat before I answer, hoping to avoid judgement for waking up at such a late hour.
“Hi Popi, how’s it going?” I croak. “Jesus, you just waking up?” Shit, I think to myself. I’ve been made. “Are you interested in doing anything today?” he asks condescendingly. My ears perk at his question and I sit upright in my bed. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I look out my window to see the clear sky beckoning a promising afternoon. “Of course I am,” I answer defensively, “What did you have in mind?” He answers with a rumbling laugh that creeps through the phone, “Get on that bike of yours and be over here in 30 minutes. I’m bringing what I’ve caught this morning over to the fish market, and then we’re going back out on the boat. Can you handle that?” “Way ahead of you!” I shout, yanking on a pair of dirty jean shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt from my bedroom floor.
—
“So how many were out there?” I eagerly stumble after Popi down to the beach where his boat is anchored, my rod bouncing on my shoulder. He continues down the path, thoughtfully crafting his response. “You’re going to be catching so many fish today, you’ll be begging to go home because your arms will be so tired.” I pick up my speed until I catch up to him. I fire back, “There’s no way! You’re lying.” He shakes his head and laughs. “I swear, T. I haven’t seen this many fish in years.” “Hey, Popi … ” I ask tentatively, chewing the inside of my cheek. “How about we take one of your fly rods out with us today and you teach me how to cast? Seems like a good day for it.” Without a pause, his response snaps through the air. “Agh, c’mon kid. Not today. Today is not the day. Maybe next time.” I know better than to keep trying to convince him. His words float away in the air, weightless. I blink away the hurt bubbling up from my chest, letting the sun’s rays beam down at my unprotected eyes. We walk in silence down the sandy path. His boat waits in the water, bobbing back and forth in the surf.
—
The waves slosh against the sides of the boat, spraying our faces with a playful mist. My sides cramp with a delightful exhaustion and the muscles in my face ache from grinning. Popi was right—there were too many of them. I throw back my line for one last lousy cast, and land a fish just as my lure hits the water. I laugh in disbelief—Popi has one on his line too. We’ve been catching fish every time we cast. Bass are jumping out of the water like popcorn kernels.
I reel my fish in and hold him by his lower jaw, clasping him between my thumb and forefinger. His mouth is sandpapery and wears down the inside of my thumb, causing my skin to fray. My fish is small—with charcoal stripes glistening down his side, shimmering scales reflecting shades of blues, purples, and greens. I’m careful not to touch the sharp spines along the fan of his back, knowing it will set my nerves on fire. I watch his eye as it darts back and forth, the pulse of his body wiggling under the pressure of my grip. I unhook him and watch as he swims down into the ocean. Popi turns to me with a knowing grin. “Had enough?!” he shouts. I sit on the edge of the boat, lifting my hands in surrender. “Popi, I can barely move my arms. I think … I think we need to head in.” He chuckles and releases the fish from his hook, setting his rod aside. “Alright,” he says, laughing still. I move to the back of the boat and open the cooler, where our keepers lay motionless. “Do you think we’ll have enough for dinner?” I ask teasingly. Popi lets out a holler and revs up the engine. As he plots what masterpiece he will cook tonight, I wonder how I’ll muster enough energy to hold up my fork.
August 2017, Chatham
“The key is to get a perfect loop—just like a lasso. Watch it go back, then forward. See how you can make it snap? Not too big, don’t let it die out. That’s what you want.” Mike stands in front of me in the side yard, rod in hand, moving the line in one perfect, fluid motion. He releases it and the fly drops right next to our target: my fluorescent pink running sneaker. “Okay, now try again.” He hands me the rod and I take a breath. Either my cast falls too short, doesn’t fall at all, or I lose the loop. It takes me a few tries to get into a rhythm. Finally, I stop thinking. My body wavers as I look up and see the perfect, sideways 8 that the bright yellow line makes as it streaks against the blue sky. I think I have enough line out and, finally, I let it go. The cast feels right. I open my eyes and see the fly land in the grass with an utter softness, right next to the shoe. “Yes!” I shout in excitement, looking around, only to realize I was the sole witness. Smiling to myself, I pull the line back in.
—
“God, you’re just like your dad.” Mike watches me from the porch, his coffee pumping steam into the air. “I can see how it’s addicting,” I say, watching my line go back and forth in the air, hypnotizing me. “It is,” Mike chuckles, “But you’re holding onto the line too long. Peter did the same thing. I’d have already caught a fish when we’d go out, and I’d look over and he’d still be making his first cast. I think it was that brief modeling gig he did when he was younger. It’s like he thought the whole world was watching.” He squints up at me, then looks down into the black of his mug, answered only by the sound of the line whistling through the air. A smile steals its way across my face as I watch it bound back and forth over my shoulder. I let it go, watching as the fly lands farther this time.
The shells in the driveway crunch, announcing a visitor. I don’t move my head to see. Each cast I get closer to my target, and I move it forward a foot for every five satisfying casts I get. I can feel myself getting better at it. I hear a harsh, familiar bark come from behind me. “T., what are you doing? Have you even been up to the garden yet? You know it’s your father’s birthday, right?” Idiot, I whispers to myself. Why does he have to be like this? “Hey, Popi,” I say calmly, “Yeah, I’m aware. I’m going up soon. Mike has been teaching me how to fly fish.” His boots thud up the steps, and a loud scoff escapes his mouth. “Hey, hey, hey—slow down, you’re going too fast.” I keep my eyes locked on the line streaking against the sky. “Mike said I was doing fine,” I respond, not making eye contact. “Give me that,” Popi growls, reaching for the rod. “No!” I snap, and stop casting. “I have asked you so many times to teach me, and I’m so tired of waiting. I’m sorry you aren’t ready, but I have been.” I turn my back to him and force myself to continue casting, biting my lower lip to distract from the guilt crawling beneath my skin. Like a wounded animal, he retreats to the house, muttering to himself as he walks away.
I stop casting and begin to take the rod apart, remembering how Mike so carefully constructed it that same afternoon, releasing it from the cold, steel case it sat in for two decades. He attached each piece so delicately that it felt like watching him put pieces of his own heart back together. I couldn’t help but think that no matter what any of us did, we would always be as fragile as the fiber rod I held in my hand, broken in places the naked eye couldn’t see—made up of tiny shards waiting to splinter off at any moment. We were all made up of these delicate pieces—constantly breaking down, pretending we could be so easily put back together again. I tightened the cap on top of the case and put the items back into the box, saving them for another day, one that wouldn’t be remind me how broken we all were.
October 2017, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“When are you going to break your fishing stuff out?” my friend asks me. I blink up into the sky. “Not sure,” I answer. “Just waiting for my waders in the mail. You guys going out today?” He takes a sip from his water bottle. “Yeah,” he says. “You should come. I think the gear house on campus rents out waders, if you’re missing some stuff. Just let me know.”
I nod. “Okay, I will.” I wave goodbye, feeling the lie stick to the back of my teeth like stale bubblegum.
November 2017, Colorado Springs
The case hides in the corner of my room, gathering the chill of the air as fall fades to winter. Sometimes I think it’s hissing at me, watching as I guiltily avoid eye contact every time I enter the room. I hope my father wouldn’t be mad at me if he knew I was keeping his rod hostage from experiencing Coloradan waterways. “Soon,” I whisper to it. “I promise. Just … not today.” I don’t expect anyone to understand. Hell, even I don’t understand.
I have this recurring dream that I’m on the river and I make a cast and then I’m him, Peter, my father. I’m casting in the Adirondacks in my wedding tux. I’m casting with Mike, telling him about how great it’s going to be when I can get my daughter out here with me. Then I’m out on the rips fishing in Chatham with my father-in-law and he’s telling me that my daughter, his granddaughter, caught five striped bass earlier that day. Then I’m me again. I’m pulling a trout on a river he may have never even heard of before. And my friends are excited because it’s my first fish on the fly. They’re cheering and laughing, and I’m smiling and shouting because I’m excited, too. Suddenly, I drop down to my knees and start to cry, letting the rush of the water fill up my waders, soak through my shirt, run across my skin, wishing it could wash away everything I ever knew.
I wake up. I look at my rod, his rod, in the back corner of my room. I brush my teeth and tie my shoes and grab my books and this time I let my rod, his rod, our rod, look back at me. We both kind of laugh at each other, and I swear, it’s like the thing knows. And it knows I know. I guess we have this mutual understanding that it may not be today, or tomorrow, but we’ll get out there. If we fall into the water, we’ll roll around in it, get up again. If we cry, fuck, we’ll cry a whole lot. And if our cast is too fast or too loopy, we’ll think a little less and feel a little more.
Five Months Later
I’m out there—on a river that shares my name. The intense pulse of the water does try and knock me down, succeeding at times. I finish my Sierra Nevada. Hours go by and the day shifts, the light gets softer, darker. I hear my friends drag their feet up the bank in defeat. I pull in our line and take the small box out from the vest I wear. It is not mine. I hold the fly that my hands did not make, yet love every fiber of it. I take apart our rod, one that I have only used twice. My dad: thousands of times. And just when that painful twinge of unsuspecting sadness strikes hard against my chest, I see something out of the corner of my eye. A big, beautiful rainbow trout glides beneath the dark pockets of the water. He slowly turns his body so that his eye meets mine, and it feels like he’s looking through me. And I could’ve sworn he winked at me—just like that. I head up to the road, grinning so wide that my friends cock their heads in confusion. They wonder why or how anyone could ever be so happy about spending hours on some cold river in the dark, catching no fish at all.