“Just a few more casts” he says, “and then we'll go home.” I walk down to the water’s edge, and it has become so dark that I can hardly tell where the bank ends and the water begins. The spey pole is brought to the forefront, and a big fish rolls not ten feet out as if beckoning a testing of metals. Soon I notice that he is no longer in sight, but has crept off through the woods, like a mischievous boy trying to elude mother’s eye. There must be some triumph in that feeling of escape and freedom, for he seems to do it so often.
When he returned back to camp from fishing this morning with a lamp on his head, I knew that the day had begun for him and the fish before sunrise.
Such passion and drive is certainly admirable. But now it is almost
6 PM, and the man has been fishing for more than 12 hours straight,
only stopping for the briefest of moments to eat and do what's
necessary. Always that look of anticipation in his eyes.
You find that you are ending what you thought was going to be a
few moments of relaxation, and respite only to be choking down a dry sandwich and hot coffee before being hurried back into the truck and pressing onward to the next fishing spot.
Once I thought that the day was ending and I was hopeful; but then the sounds at the back of the truck stopped along with the rocking motion. Now I sat here knowing that he was not returning to get on back to camp, but was only making a brief stop to trade in the fly rod for the spinning reel. I sigh. In complete darkness now, I wonder if the glow balls and strobe will be the next to come out.
You get to know the sound of a man’s wading just as you know his footfalls, and in the darkness I can hear him slogging his way toward the truck. “What have you been doing?” I ask.” Oh babe, I’ve had three fish on.” “What happened?” says I. “They broke off. They are stacked up in there like cordwood.” An expression I have heard more than once, but have yet to see.
He pokes his head into the window at me looking hopeful. “Get the glow balls and have at it” I say, not quite believing that the words have left my mouth.
The lantern is out on the hood now looking like some tiny lighthouse, meant to help him find his way back.
Calling to him across the water in which he is now into hip deep, I ask him to let me know when he has a fish on. “Just a few more casts” he says, “and then we’ll go.”
But really, there are just some promises that you can’t expect a man to keep; not if you love him.
~A Few More Casts~
for Mikey
