The Fish Aren't Always Biting

We walked out onto the dock both carrying fishing poles and a rusty old bucket. We spent the first half hour of the morning digging for worms, laughing and throwing mud and worms at each other. Then we sat on the dock, lines in the water, and complained that nothing was biting. The fish weren’t always biting.

My dad was my hero. He taught me how to tie a hook, where the fish would most often gather, how to clean them, how to prepare and cook them. I loved them best when he would make a fire and we’d just sit them on the hot rocks by the fire. Then we’d just grab them in our hands and eat them like cavemen – or how I thought a caveman might eat them.

He taught me many more things…fishing was just my favorite. We had many days like that when I was younger – sitting on the dock or walking around the lake trying to find where the fish were hiding, but the fish weren’t always biting. Then we’d just sit. My dad wasn’t a big conversationalist, but the silences weren’t uncomfortable. I’d watch him leaning back on a rock in silence, enjoying the peace of the summer, the lake, hanging out with his son.

There was this one time my line jerked and almost ripped the pole out of my hand. I’d never felt a tug that hard. I looked at my dad with eyes that must have looked like they were popping out of my head – like the characters in the Looney Tunes cartoons that we would watch together. When I looked at him, I saw that his eyes were popping out of his head, too! I reeled, and I reeled, and I reeled. I was picturing the monster fish that I was going to pull out of the water, the photo of me standing next to this behemoth that had to be taller than I was. I never found out. My line snapped. I had never felt such disappointment before. I tried not to let the tears escape that were welling in my eyes. I thought I had done a pretty good job of it, but Dad knew and saw the disappointment. He took me out for ice cream. I got Rocky Road.

My favorite time to fish was right as the sun was setting. Everything was so peaceful, and we’d watch as the fish would surface to catch the flies that would land on the lake. We were always hoping that we’d snag one of them. But the fish weren’t always biting. We’d sit, mostly in silence, and watch as the stars would pop into view one by one. He taught me some of the constellations, and we’d watch for shooting stars and try to find the moving satellites zooming across the sky. We would have a contest as to who could find more. He usually won. The mosquitoes would eventually ruin the night most of the time, and we’d pack up our stuff, put out the fire, retrieve our catch for the day (or no catch) and walk home.

The walk back to the house was usually silent, too. I’d listen to the crunch of gravel under our feet, the insects that were singing, chirping, thumping, buzzing, and the rustling of bushes when we’d disturb some small animal along the path. If we were lucky, we’d hear the hoot of an owl, and then we’d stop and try to find it’s silhouette in the night sky. Other times we’d stop and listen to the coyotes howling, and I’d step just a little bit closer to him – just so he wouldn’t be scared, of course.

Why is there never enough time? When you’re young, time seems eternal. There’s too much of it. You’re always waiting for something – a birthday, a holiday, the next chance to get out to the lake. For the older ones, there’s not enough time – dreading the next birthday, the turning of the calendar, the knowledge that time has an end. It’s rare that we just enjoy the moments that we find ourselves a part of. My dad and I seemed to be able to do that at the lake. We weren’t worried about school and homework, work and bills, the chaos of life, or even next week. We were just together…even if the fish weren’t biting.

Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma is the technical name for what I have. I don’t know what all of that means. I’m only 10. All I know is that I have a tumor on my brain that can’t be operated on. Time doesn’t seem very eternal to me, although I can’t really comprehend death. Every time I think about it my mind keeps going back to the lake – walking down the path with my dad, throwing worms at each other, laughing, silence. I don’t care if the fish aren’t biting. I want to go again.

My dad is sitting next to my hospital bed. He’s been sitting right there, just like he is now, for a long time. I see tear streaks on his face. I wish I didn’t. His big hands are holding mine. His head is bowed. I know he’s praying even though I can’t hear him. He prays a lot. I’m sorry that I’m making him sad. I told him that once, and it just made him cry more, so I keep it to myself. I love my dad.

I close my eyes and picture the lake, the calm water, the dock. I let myself hear the crunch of gravel, the sound of a line being cast into the water. I feel the wind as it gently kisses my skin. I smell the grass, the woods. I look over and see my dad leaning back on a rock, enjoying the peace of the summer, the lake, hanging out with his son. He smiles and closes his eyes. The fish aren’t biting today. I open my eyes and look at my dad. I think he knows where my mind has been. He smiles, leans back, and we just sit there in silence.