Fish Story

Frank stared at the bloody mess in the sink and wondered how he was going to explain this. – Nate Clinard

There was no way Cheryl was going to believe all this came from one record-setting northern pike. Thank God she was hitting the outlet mall today with the girls. Frank looked over his shoulder at his three college buddies chilling on the leather recliners watching football. They had left him to deal with this monster of a fish. Which still wasn’t cleaned. The pike eyed him angrily from the bottom of the sink very dead and very stubborn. Frank sighed, wincing at the cuts on his hands and arms. He wasn’t quite sure any more how much of that blood was his. He picked up the fillet knife and went back to it.

***

The next morning, Frank, Chuck, Mike, and Pete stumbled out of their rented lake house into the quiet of just before dawn. Clutching thermoses of coffee, fishing rods, and tackle boxes, the four men trudged down the dock to the rowboats and canoes. A soft mist was rising from the lake water into the cooler air. Frank hung back a bit, breathing in the scents of green lake water, sun-soaked wood, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. He and the guys anticipated this annual trip every year with endless texts and emails. As much as Frank loved his old fraternity brothers, more and more he was treasuring stolen moments of alone time. Maybe it was hitting his forties, but Frank was seeking peace and quiet more often. He loved his wife, but he found himself getting up an hour earlier just to sit in the quiet house with a really good cup of coffee.

The guys had a short heated hushed argument over who would be in which boat. Mike thought himself a professional fisherman. Pete and Chuck liked to fool around, revving the outboard motor just to be obnoxious. Frank decided that this morning, he was going out alone. He appreciated the fun Pete and Chuck brought to the party and the seriousness Mike regarded the sport, but for whatever reason, today was different. Maybe it was wrestling the pike into grillable submission the night before. Frank waved off the rest of the guys and chose a canoe. They teased him and with a couple of shoulder punches, and then the men were off to their separate parts of the large lake.

It took Steve several tries before he remembered how to navigate the canoe, his Boy Scout training finally kicking in just before he capsized. He glanced down at the fishing pole and tackle box in the bottom of the boat. He’d need a quiet spot if any fishing was going to happen as Steve didn’t trust his balance after that close call. He paddled along the shore, peering through the mist, looking for an inlet or pool. At last, a pair of weeping willows hung silent and mysterious over the lapping wavelets. Steve could see a stretch of calm water just glimpsed through the still branches. Perfect. Pete and Chuck would never find him.

The damp willow leaves caressed his shoulders as Steve paddled through them. He was reminded of the bead curtain of his college closet, also green and friendly. The willow branches parted to reveal a small inlet fed by a trickle of a creek in the distance. Peaceful. Silent. It was too early for the dogs and kids of the cottages lining it to be up and about. Steve let the canoe drift toward the tiny stream as it burbled down a pile of tumbled rocks. Here was a deep pool, perfect for a nice quiet dip of the hook.

Within minutes, Steve was sitting back, line in the water, doing nothing more than watch the bobber meander in the gentle current. He reviewed the trip so far and found his hands tightening on the rod, making the bobber dip. No, this was a spot for serious thinking, not frustration and petty annoyances that seemed to pile upon each other. Somewhere a bird called, and Steve wished he knew what it was. That’s a good hobby, he thought, birding. Nice, simple, in touch with nature. Water weeds swirled in the depth of the pool as Steve wondered what was required to take up birding. A pair of decent binoculars and an identification book? It couldn’t be simpler. Far more relaxing than navigating the egos of three other guys and the gossip of three other wives. The bobber dipped furiously. No, he pondered, study the water, leave it on the other side of the willows. He sighed.

Suddenly the line jerked! Steve scrambled, had a bad moment with the edge of the canoe, and regained some sort of balance as the fishing pole did a herky jerk dance in his hands. Steve reeled for all he was worth and prayed the line held. He had something big and feisty on the hook! Reel and pull, reel and pull, don’t fall in…there! Steve glimpsed a bright shimmer of silver twisting in the green weeds. A few more pulls and out soared a huge, magnificent salmon, arcing neatly into the bottom of the canoe. He nearly dropped the pole in the drink, and he did sit heavily in the bottom, water slopping in over the side. Steve had never seen such a fish!

Silver scales rippled into shades of rose and peach as the huge fish shimmied and gasped. Steve could see old scars and chunks of missing fin. This was an old salmon, one that had gotten away many times. How could he be so lucky

“Well, your troubles intrigued me,” said a deep wise voice.

Steve looked wildly about but there was no one on the smooth lawns or the rocky shore. No one but him and the salmon. He looked at the fish and realized it was staring at him.

“I’ve got about a minute before I drown in all this air,” the voice said. “You’ve caught me. Congratulations. What are you going to do now?”

Steve gulped as he tried to pick up his jaw from the bottom of the boat. Good think he was already down there or he’d’ve fallen in. The fish was talking. “Uh, uh, uh, wha?” was the best he could do.

The salmon flipped a fin. “Surely you know the legends?” Steve shook his head. “Oh, for…nothing about the wise salmon, the all-knowing salmon, the fishy giver of gifts?” Steve shook his head again. “I don’t have time for this,” the salmon give a ripple, a shrug? “Get the hook out and toss me back. Then we can have a proper chat.”

Steve’s hands were on the tackle box and before he could think, a pair of pliers in his hands. He knelt over the huge salmon, pliers around the hook before he paused, and a part of his brain kicked in. “Wait, how do I know you’ll just swim away?”

“It’s a risk,” agreed the salmon.

Steve sat back on his heels, lake water dampening his knees. A talking salmon. Well, really, a gasping salmon that looked more and more in distress. “I don’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered under his breath and deftly pulled out the hook. Getting the fish back in the lake was a rocky affair and ended with one salmon back in the pool, and one fisherman soaked to the skin.

“Thank you,” said the salmon gravely as he wriggled in a small circle. “So, now that we are back in our allotted places, what can I do for you?”

Steve leaned against the gunwale and rested his chin on the hand gripping the edge, willing his heart to stop pounding. “Um?”

“I can’t grant wishes or anything, but I can offer the wisdom of the ages,” commented the salmon.

“I, er, what?” Steve wasn’t getting more articulate. The fish waited for him to collect his wits, accept he was talking to an animal, and formulate a coherent thought. Its tail waved slowly, keeping its pearly body in place. Steve took several deep breaths. “How do you change your life?” he finally blurted, helpless to stop himself.

The salmon regarded him thoughtfully. “Why do you want to? No, never mind. That was terribly Midwestern of me, answering a question with a question. I’ve clearly been in Wisconsin too long.” The fish harrumphed. “There are many ways to change your life, but all involve some degree of pain. You decide whether the pain is worth the change and the growth.” 

Steve pondered that for a few minutes. “I think I hate my life,” he whispered. “I love my wife, but the rest, seems, well, increasingly empty.” This is what he’d been turning over in his mind on those early mornings with the quiet sounds of the house and cup after cup of expensive coffee. “How do you pull yourself out of a rut so deep you can’t see the top?”

The fish considered the question. “One step at a time. Maybe it’s a tiny step, and maybe some days it’s a leap.” They sat for a moment in the stillness of the morning as the emerging sunlight sparkled off the water. “What do you want?” asked the salmon.

“Peace,” answered Steve without thinking. “Meaning. A life built, not just expectations followed.”

“Well, then,” replied the fish. “It seems you have your answer.”

“But,” started Steve, yet the salmon, with a last flick of notched tail, had disappeared.

Steve pushed his fishing hat back and rubbed his eyes. What had happened? He looked around at the tiny stream happily bouncing down mossy rocks, trim green lawns, trees starting to turn the barest hint of their autumn splendor. His butt was cold. And wet. He was sitting in the bilge in the bottom of the canoe. Still had the fishing pole and tackle, though.

Steve slowly climbed back onto the canoe seat. What a beautiful spot, he thought, too bad the fish weren’t biting. He paddled wobbly out of the silent inlet, willow leaves catching at his shoulders. It had been a good spot for some thinking, though, and Steve found he’d made some decisions, somehow. It was time to talk to his wife. As a brisk breeze frothed the lake waters, he navigated back to the dock, a bittersweet smile lingering in the corners of his mouth, determined to make a phone call that would change everything.