Don't Order the Fish

                           "Don't Order the Fish"

It was the summer of 1970. They were newlyweds, Chad and Erin, a couple in love going fishing for the first time as Mr. and Mrs. 

As they approached the waterfront at the end of a narrow dusty two-track, a slight breeze carried the smell of lake weeds and fungus bordering the sloped banks. Tied to a wooden dock, a twelve-foot metal craft awaited as their floating carriage with a set of weathered oars that powered the boat.

From the trunk of their sea-green colored convertible, Chad took out two fishing poles, a tackle box, and a pair of aqua blue life preserver cushions. As he carried their gear to the boat, Chad asked Erin to bring the cottage cheese container tucked away in the Styrofoam cooler. 

She asked, “What’s with the cottage cheese?”

“It’s not cottage cheese, it’s worms.”

Erin dropped the container. The lid popped off allowing some of the crawlers to find refuge as they separated blades of grass in their escape. She screamed, “The worms are getting away! There’s one on my shoe! I can’t move!”

As Chad walked back to the car, he questioned if this fishing trip was a good idea. He picked up the bait container and recovered most of the worms. They made their way to the boat, Chad helped Erin take a seat at the front where a life preserver and fishing pole were placed. A cushion and pole were set in the middle seat where Chad would operate the oars. 

As he looked at Erin, she sat as still as a statue and asked, “Do you think this boat is safe? It looks . . .”

“Old? As long as it doesn’t take on water,” he assured her.

As they positioned themselves on the canvas preservers, Chad gripped the frayed rope tied to the dock questioning himself, I wonder how long it’s been since this boat has been in the water? He untied the boat, unlocked the oars, and began rowing. With each slap of those water sticks, crystal droplets of water danced about their heads. The only thing missing was a serenade.

Approximately fifty yards from shore, Chad let down the anchor hoping this would be a good spot. He pulled a crawler from the blue and white container and threaded it onto the hook. Erin turned her face away and said, “How can you be so insensitive? That has got to hurt.”

Chad thought to himself, Be careful now, and said, “Honey. Sweetheart. Think of it as putting spaghetti on a fork. Now you try it.”

A pole and line were shoved in Chad’s face. “You do it. You bait the hook. I’ll catch the fish.”

Chad wrapped a worm around Erin’s hook, and again she turned away in disgust. He was the first to cast a line in the water. It took a few tries for Erin to cast and release her line without crossing Chad’s. They watched a loving duet of red and white bobbers floating together atop a clear motionless lake, rather a simile of their togetherness.

Then, Erin’s bobber did a gentle curtsy sending ripples followed by an ecstatic plunge below the water. “Jerk the line! Set the hook!” Chad shouted. “Get that fish in the boat, and I’ll take you out to dinner.” A rather odd proposition, but would it be enough to turn a day of fishing into a candlelight dinner for two?

Erin jerked the line forcing the bobber to the surface causing the pole to take a bow. Something was on her line, but also at her feet. She screamed, “There’s water coming in the boat! Start rowing to shore!”

Erin knew what the problem was. In Erin’s excitement, her foot kicked open the drain plug seated in the bottom of the boat letting water rush in like a flowing well. Erin said, “Let me come back and fix it.”

“No!” she yelled. Instead, she improvised her own fix by inserting one of her fingers into the opening to slow down the flow of water. Fortunately, they didn’t have far to row to shore. Erin kept screaming. Chad kept rowing.

The scraping metal against a stone bottom was heard from the bow of the boat. Chad and Erin had touched the shoreline. Erin’s finger resembled a cork in a champagne bottle still plugging the hole. She looked exhausted but relieved. Chad wanted to laugh, but thought, he’d better not. Erin slowly removed her finger from the drain plug and said, “Don’t say a word.”

After I helped her out of the boat, she sat on the bank with no intention of helping me take the fishing gear to the car. She rubbed her finger trying to bring relief to the soreness and redness it endured.

Chad noticed the fishing lines were still in the water and reeled Erin’s in first placing it beside the tackle box. When he retrieved her line, the pole bent with resistance. Something was on Erin’s line. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a total loss. 

As Chad reeled in her line he anticipated a prized catch, a pike or bass. Not so . . . It was an ugly whiskered black-faced bullhead from the catfish family. Sorry, God. He really is a hideous creature. It was obvious, ‘Charley’, though ugly, deserved a name, was not going home with us. Chad could see the golden hook deep in his mouth. Bullheads have a tendency to swallow the hook. He took a pair of needle-nosed pliers from the tackle box and started to remove the hook. 

Erin said, “I’m going back to the car. I can’t watch you rip his throat out.”

“His name is Charlie.”

“I don’t care if his name is Prince Charles. I’ll see you in the car.”

It was obvious Erin saw enough of this place and fishing. Chad picked up the fishing gear, walked to the car and put it in the trunk. When Chad got in and sat next to Erin, she asked, “What did you do with the fish?”

“I let him go. I’m sorry this day didn’t go well. But you know what honey, we are still going out for dinner.”

Erin took Chad’s hand, smiled and said, “Just don’t order the fish.”