The sun was setting, its reflection interrupted by slender strands of intermittent light and then dark ripples that lay like ribbons upon the otherwise glass-like surface of the water.
The scene was irresistible to my dad and I who loved these fishing trips together, brief though this one would be as there wasn’t much time before the descending darkness would blend sky and the mountainous far shoreline into one indistinguishable mass.
Almost sacrilegious was our motorized intrusion upon the beauty of where we were, thus we didn’t motor far nor otherwise loudly announce our presence.
Besides, we didn’t have much time.
Not bothering with the anchor, we drifted along in the gentle evening breeze, and in short order all hell broke loose when the tranquil setting was rudely interrupted with a shout, my shout, as I yelled, my pole bending double as something big down in the murky depths tugged hard on my line.
Instinctively I hollered “Dad!” while tugging back setting the hook.
It was a tug-of-war to end all tug-of-wars.
Seconds later dad had a strike, shouting “Me too!”, and now both of us were engaged in a battle at the very same time.
It was a battle to be first to bring our prize into the boat, and it was a battle to own the biggest fish bragging rights.
Neither of the big fish in the dark depths below, however, were inclined to accommodate either of us above.
Then, in less time than you can shout “Dad!” or “Me too!”, the fishing line of my pole became entangled with the line of the pole held by my dad.
Excited just moments before, I stared crestfallen as I watched the lines slicing frantically about on the water’s surface.
Everywhere the line from my dad’s pole went, the line from my own pole was tugged in that direction.
Clearly, my dad’s fish was bigger, dragging my fish here and there.
What happened next on the boat on the lake late that day with my dad I’ve never forgotten.
When each of us reeled our prize to the surface, it turned out there was only one fish.
A single large bass had taken both our baits, swallowed both our hooks, and tangled both our lines. It is a memory I have cherished ever since as that is how a father and his son are ever to be, their lives inseparably intertwined.
My dad for many years has been gone now but I can still see the wisps of his whiskers forming a wreath around his seafaring weathered face, furrowed brow and wisdom lines, etched and crinkled, wandering away from the corners of his eyes.
His gaze is reflective, as if lost in thought, looking out, somewhere, far into the distant past.
As I do, looking back to that twilight on the water when our lines became intertwined.
When we didn’t have much time.
But it was enough.
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