Gone Fishing

Perfect mornings always started with a pole in one hand and a tackle box in the other, walking in the cool air before sunrise, hearing the birds warming up their wings and starting to call to each other. You’d wade through the wet, dewy grass to get to the water’s edge, find somewhere in the mud you could stand without sinking. I like to be still and watch the water before I started setting up my rod. A lot could change day-to-day and it didn’t make sense to just start casting and hoping for the best.

The right tackle would always make the difference between landing fish all morning and going home empty-handed. Line thickness, weights, lures, rod, reel; everything played its part. Today hadn’t changed much from yesterday, but I had a feeling that the fish would be closer to the bank, so I changed the weight out accordingly. My hands were a little stiff and cold, but the sun was on its way up. I would be warm soon enough.

I cast a little too far on my first throw, overcompensating for the stiffness in my muscles. The line sailed through the air and the lure plopped half way into the river. Strangely, I had a bite almost immediately. I played the line a little bit, keeping tension, but with a sudden jerk the fish left me unbalanced and I tumbled headfirst into the reedy water by the riverbank.

I struggled to get my face up out of the water. The mud was sucking and deep and I couldn’t get my hands down onto anything. I found a bunch of reeds and pulled hard. My body was too heavy and too stuck in the mud. I sunk deeper with every effort to shake myself loose.