He forgot his rain gear though he luckily had, or at least he thought he had, an umbrella stashed somewhere on board and besides, he didn’t really have time to prepare further for this moment of opportunity.
The fish were calling. He would go. He just knew it. He would answer. This was going to be his day.
No time to go all the way back home to get his thermos of coffee (forgot that too), or a change of clothing (wasn’t raining when he left and he hadn’t checked the weather), he hopped on board the boat he keeps at the marina and headed out.
My brother reminds me of a dog named Dharma as poetically described by Billy Collins.
Here are the opening lines:
“The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her dog house
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.”
That sounds like a great way to live, admirable really, but at some point when it comes to humans, my brother among them, and they decide to go fishing, even on a short-notice, what-the-heck hunch and a whim, a bit more thoughtful preparation would seem to be in order.
Hat: somewhere. Umbrella: think so. Money: not necessary. Keys: I got here, didn’t I?
And so forth.
Not only did it start raining, but it also began blowing. The water was rough. He dropped his line and huddled under the umbrella (yes, he found it).
Then BAM! BAM! BAM! FISH ON! And not just any fish. He could tell right away. As King Salmon went, this was the one he’d been waiting for.
In leaping to his feet to grab his pole before it was either (a) pulled out of the downrigger sleeve; or (b) broke, he lost his only rain protection.
Like the parrot-headed umbrella without the flying nanny Mary Poppins attached, my brother’s umbrella cartwheeled and spun about, at one moment dashed against the rough seas, the next snatched from the clutches of the waves and thrown violently airborne, spinning and shredding, it’s spine all that remained – that he could see anyway in the brief moment his eyes, wide with wonder at the disaster in the skies, then aghast at the sudden turn of the pilotless boat, rocking, threatening to toss him too to the elements, rain soaking, wind chilling, fish tugging!
It was a Moby Dick and Ahab sequel!
Actually, I – the writer of this story – wasn’t there so I really don’t know what happened out there and can only surmise and improvise as to what this fish story may have been really like but I do know this.
That’s a whale of a fish!
And that is my sometimes forgetful brother.
Postscript:
My brother and I have always been good-naturedly competitive. As a kayaker, he thinks he’s faster than me, a rower. But of course, I beg to differ.
And it’s true in fishing too. That’s a picture of his big fish he caught last August.
And here’s mine, which I had mounted.
On a trailer.
Love you bro!
I don’t see any Dallas Cowboys logo on that fish.
Must not be Al.