Three
Old Fishermen
They
were both fishing in the evening as the sun set to my back,
And
I watched, trying to figure out for myself who was the more
Successful,
that is if the definition of fishing success is actually
Catching
fish because from my experience it may not be the case.
I
never saw either catch any fish, though the pelican could have,
Being
so far away, certainly been packing them away in his beak,
For
it was made for him special to hold more than his belly can,
But
I couldn’t see, and so, set my mind imagining his failure in
Tandem
with the man to my right. I watched him for hours, sitting,
Beer
in hand, line extended out into the surf, waiting, so patiently
For
exactly zero bites. Though I didn’t know for sure, I imagine,
He
was so patient because the rest of the world moved so fast,
This
extended moment was a break from it all, to sit, with nothing
More
to do, than to get to sit and wait, and that somehow the reel
And
rod made it active enough to be considered doing something.
He
couldn’t simply say, “Hey Honey, I’m going to the beach to do
Nothing,”
and it had been years since heading to the beach to drink
Beer
(as the only attraction) was an acceptable pastime, and fishing,
Therefore,
was somehow something enough, and so there he was
Sitting
and waiting. In the time I watched him, I never saw him cast,
Nor
did I ever see him reel. In fact, I never saw him raise the rod,
Jiggle
the line, or bring in the slack enough to check for a bite. No,
He
just sat, and waited, taking occasional sips. He didn’t even drink
Aggressively,
but rather seemed to wait for that, too, with no need
To
rush the buzz. Like an Old Bull, sauntering slowly down a shady
Hill,
knowing that what he sought awaited, so he must seek other fruit
Than
fish. I wonder if the pelican shares such silly notions, for his
Fishing
ritual, is at least as ancient as ours, if not more. Could he,
This
avian symbol of insentient freedom, fish to escape, to pass time,
To
rewind, to clear his mind, to seek and find, something sublime,
Like
we do? His inherited ritual is much more active, gliding, this way,
Then
that, just above surface of the water, when something flashing
Beneath,
catches his eye, just enough, and he rises up, just enough.
He
gets that perfect angle, and dives, disappearing for a moment,
A
fish for a split second, before emerging back to the surface, floating,
Wings
tucked, like a duck, perfectly still. Is there something to turning
Into
what you want to catch, for a moment? We don’t do that, instead
We
send our surrogate to lure our prey, a little wiggly worm, or squid,
Or
some plastic fish replica, shiny and bright enough to hide a hook.
I
wish I could have seen whether he hid some fish in his beak because
Then
I would prove my preconceptions about birds, like other animal
Species,
that they do not fish for fun, but for food. As fun as it looks,
The flying
and the diving, alone and part of a V, it’s necessary to life,
And tied
directly to surviving. Do we feel that when we fish, despite
The
sport, the escape, or is the escape just that, an escape from life’s
Imposters,
for a moment of the real? I don’t think my fisherman, beer
In
hand, was seeking such things, but I was—when I headed to the beach
As
the sun was sinking behind me, facing my shadow stretching ahead,
Watching
a bird and a man fish, seeing with much more than my eyes,
Allowing
my imagination to soar, to sit, to dive and to ponder—seeking
A sense
of the sublime, and found it in a connected empathetic moment
Of place
in my mind, and I will take it with me the next time I go fishing.
No comments:
Post a Comment