Don't Order the Fish

“Don’t Order the Fish”

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

As we 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 was a twelve-foot metal craft. This would be our floating carriage with oak weathered oars that powered the boat.

From the trunk of our sea green colored convertible, I took out two fishing poles, a tackle box, and a pair of aqua blue life preserver cushions. As I carried our gear to the

boat, I asked Deb, my wife, 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,” I laughed. It’s worms.”

Deb 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! I can’t move! There’s one on my shoe!”

As I walked back to the car, I questioned if this fishing trip was a good idea. I

picked up the bait container and recovered most of the worms. We made our way to

the boat, and I helped her take a seat at the front where a life preserver and a fishing pole

were placed. A cushion and pole were set in the middle seat where the oars were locked. As I looked at Deb, 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,” I assured her.

As we positioned ourselves on the canvas preservers, I gripped the frayed rope tied to the dock, questioning myself, I wondered how long it’s been since this boat has been

in the water? I untied the boat, unlocked the oars, and began rowing. With each slap

of those water sticks, crystal droplets of water danced about our heads. The only

thing missing was a serenade.

Approximately fifty yards from shore, I let down the anchor, hoping this would be

a good spot. I pulled a crawler from the blue and white container and threaded it onto

the hook. Deb turned her face away and said, “How can you be so insensitive. That’s got to hurt.”

I thought to myself, 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 my face. “You do it! You bait the hook! I’ll catch the fish!”

I wrapped a worm around Deb’s hook, and again she turned away in disgust. I

was the first to cast a line in the water. It took a few tries for her to cast and release her line without crossing mine. We watched a loving duet of red and white bobbers floating together atop a clear, motionless lake, rather a simile of our togetherness.

Then, Deb’s bobber did a gentle curtsy, sending ripples followed by an ecstatic

plunge below the water. “Jerk the line! Set the hook!” I 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?

Deb jerked the line, forcing the bobber to surface, causing the pole to take a bow.

Something was on her line. But something was also at her feet. She screamed, “There’s water coming into the boat! Start rowing to shore!”

I knew what the problem was. In her excitement, her foot kicked the drain plug seated in the bottom of the boat, letting water rush in like a flowing well. I 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, we didn’t have

far to reach shore. Deb kept screaming. I kept rowing.

The scraping of metal against a stone bottom was heard from the bow of the boat. We had touched the shoreline. Deb’s finger resembled a cork in a champagne bottle still plugging the hole. She looked exhausted, but relieved. I wanted to laugh, but thought I’d better not. Deb slowly removed her finger from the drain area 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 redness and soreness it endured.

I noticed our fishing lines were still in the water and reeled mine in first, placing it beside the tackle box. When I started to retrieve her line, the pole bent with

resistance, so I knew there was something still on her line. Maybe this day wouldn’t

be a total loss. As I reeled in the line, I anticipated a prized catch such as 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 was not going

home with us. Though ugly, he still deserved a name.

I could see the gold hook deep in Charley’s mouth. Bullheads have a tendency to

swallow the hook. I took my long, needle-nosed pliers from the tackle box and started

to remove the hook. Deb 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 at the car.”

It was obvious Deb saw enough of this place... and fishing. I picked up the

fishing gear, walked to the car, and put it in the trunk. When I got in and sat next to

her, 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.”

Deb took my hand, smiled, and said, “Just don’t order the fish.”