I don't even like fishing. Yet here I am, at the end of this dock, tangled.
After I free my line from itself, I dig my fingers in to the soil of the plastic container. The night crawlers dance to the top.
"We're running low so tear them in two."
I nod my head and take the worm between my two hands and rip. I whisper, "sorry pal" and throw half of it back in the soil.
Andy nods approvingly. He loves to fish and he's good at it.
I cast and slowly reel in, watching my bobber glide across the waves. Andy doesn't use a bobber and the only reason he's on the dock and not his boat is to appease me. I know he'd rather be out there but I don't like being stuck somewhere without an easy escape.
At dusk, Andy points to a man in a boat about 50 yards out from the dock. "That's where we need to be", he says. That's where they'll bite.
I remain on the dock as Andy paddles out to the drop off. I watch as he pulls up one, two, three a half dozen small mouthed bass in to his boat.
The last strings of pink and violet danced across the water. I took my last cast. The bobber splashed, I slowly reeled my line in and BAM! The pull was unmistakable. I was stunned and forgot to set my hook. I yanked back on my pole and felt the weight. After a small struggle, I had him face to face with me, dangling and spinning, gills grasping.
I noticed his dark black eyes, I noticed the gold of his scales and I noticed the hook that he had swallowed. I looked in the tackle box for the pliers. They weren't there.
I took my left hand and slid it back over it's fins and held it tight. With my right hand I attempted to maneuver the hook free. I tried this several times, each time yanking it's intestines closer to it's mouth. Eventually, it's gills were seeping blood and it's eyes were bulging out. When it was all but dead I yanked the hook free. In my left hand I held the still fish, it's blood running down my wrist.
I tossed the fish as far in to the water as I could. I lay down on my stomach and reached my hands down over the side of the dock to rinse off the blood.
"Fuck this, fuck fishing". I walked back to the cabin.
Later, Andy too came back to the cabin. He had caught and cleaned 8 bass. He would grill them up that night.
At dinner, my father turned to me and said, "I saw you got one, but threw it back."
I sunk in my chair, "it didn't work out".
Andy looked over at me with a sympathetic smile and said, "after you left the dock a seagull came and ate your fish".
My relief must have been visible, my dad clapped his hands over his plate and said, "circle of life".