My Fishing Pole

Flame orange life vest buckled snugly around my chest, I sat in a rented rowboat with my uncle and my father. My new Zebco rod was perfectly sized for me, and its pushbutton spin reel made casting easy. I reeled in the lure with gentle jerks of my wrist meant to make it appear lifelike, then cast it out again.

I wondered how deep the water was where we were. Neither of the grownups could say for sure. I leaned over a little and peered downward. A couple of feet below the surface the water was a cloudy olive drab, and after that it went opaque with shadows.

Snags were an inevitable part of fishing an Adirondack lake. Normally, persistence paid off, but when it didn’t, the line had to be snapped or cut. This time it was really caught, and I couldn’t work it loose. It was a favorite lure, though, and I wasn’t willing to give it up without a fight.

My uncle rowed toward the snag. I kept the line taut so it wouldn’t get tangled in the oars. He circled slowly, thinking we might be able to free the hook from a different angle. It wouldn’t let go.

I miscalculated the effect of the waves on the boat’s motion, and felt a sudden tug. My heart snagged in my throat as I fumbled with the reel to let out more slack. But I was too slow and my prized Zebco was yanked clean out of my hands. It drifted down into the shadows and disappeared.

My Dad was born at home because the hospital was a luxury his parents couldn’t afford. He learned to love the outdoors at an early age, and in due course became a Boy Scout. After high school he joined the Army, where he learned to peel potatoes and fire a bazooka. When he got home he married my mother and went to work bagging groceries. Around the time I was born, he got hired by IBM, and spent the next thirty-some years punching the clock for Big Blue. He was a pipe smoker, a wood carver, and the scoutmaster of my Cub Scout troop. He was and is a Yankee fan, a Ford driver, and a dyed-in-the-wool Republican. At six-foot-two plus, and well over two hundred pounds, he’s rarely been described as graceful. And yet, it was grace I saw in the powerful, implausible quickness with which he shed his clothes and entered the dark water.

Patiently, methodically, again and again, he dove down in search of my lost fishing pole. In between, he’d surface and tread water while he caught his breath. His reddish-blond crew cut and broad, freckled shoulders were almost incandescent, bobbing in the slate-green lake. He kept at it, curling downward and vanishing with nary a splash, like a pale sea lion in Sears skivvies. My eyes must have been saucers. My thoughts were a swirl of despair, wonder, and admiration. My uncle grinned at his big brother, and egged him on.

Long after a less stubborn (and frugal) man would have given up, unbelievably, my Dad found my fishing pole. Up through the airless shadows he surfaced, prize in hand. He swam to the boat, and returned my Zebco to me. As far as I was concerned, it might as well have been Excalibur. He told my uncle and me he’d meet us at the campsite because he wanted to swim in.

We tied the rowboat to a tree trunk, and watched my Dad breaststroke toward us through the waves. Once he reached shallow water, he went flat against the rocky bottom, and pulled himself along like a crocodile up to the edge of our campsite. Thankfully, since his white underpants were obviously not a bathing suit, and since some neighboring campers had become interested, he stayed beneath the cover of the waterline until the last minute. My mother waded out with a beach towel, and wrapped it around him as he stood up.

The Virtue Of Cigarettes

My grandmother sat on a large rock, smoking a cigarette and sipping a can of beer while she watched us play in the lake. She was concerned that we keep an eye out for fishing lures and broken glass. Treading on either one could swiftly ruin an entire vacation.

Although the campground boasted one of the finest white sand beaches in the Adirondacks, we opted for the boat-launch that day. It was nearer to our campsite. Rangers kept it clear enough to get a boat in and out of the water, but it wasn’t really meant for swimmers. Aside from the paved launch strip, the bottom was complicated with slippery rocks and fallen branches. Its small beach was pebbly and rough.

My dad was in the lake with my brother and sister and me. My sister stayed close to him for the most part. My brother, on the other hand, swam like an otter, alternately disappearing underwater and popping up where he wasn’t expected.

As a rule, I preferred exploring to swimming. A rotten log bobbing among the lily pads caught my attention. It was heavy, but still had some float left in it. It made a decent submarine when I pushed it lengthwise below the surface.

It was rare for my grandmother to be in the mountains with us, since she was fond of modern conveniences. Not that she was fussy; in fact, she was very comfortable with all sorts of outdoor activities. She was the one who’d taught me how to put a nightcrawler on a fishhook. But I got the impression that she’d “roughed it” enough in her life and wasn’t looking for her leisure time to be rustic.

When we got out of the water I noticed six or seven small reddish-brown bumps on my feet and ankles. I didn’t know what they were, but they made me feel uneasy. My Grandmother took a closer look, and said, “Oh Scotty, you got bloodsuckers on you!”

My instinct was to scratch them off with my fingernails, but she stopped me. In a deliberately calm voice she explained that they had to be removed very carefully; otherwise, their mouthparts might stick in my skin and cause a bad infection. I tried with all my might to cling to my composure.

My dad hustled back to our campsite for the first-aid kit and a saltshaker. My grandmother said she knew what to do. I trusted her, but couldn’t watch. The familiar smell of her smoke comforted me a little.

I remember the heat of her cigarette near my skin as she methodically backed the leeches out of me. Even if I got burned, I thought, it would be better than having those blobby little monsters fastened to my body.

One by one they let go, and were deftly flicked into her beer can for safekeeping. I held still and waited out the eternal seconds. She periodically took a drag to stoke the cigarette. It probably helped steady her hand too. She finished the procedure without once touching the tobacco embers to my skin.

My dad had returned in time to see the last fiend vanquished. He dabbed Mercurochrome on the tiny odd-shaped wounds. Then I could exhale again.