Crack of Dawn

The crack of dawn, the birth of day, seeps sunlight through the slits in the curtains disbursing small pin like rays through the room. Its early, and when most people still snore heavily in bed, Timothy is leaving the house excited. His brown curls, contained in a wide brim hat littered with an assorted array of flies. Eyes wide and awake as he sips his morning coffee, marveling over the smooth aroma and crisp mountain taste, pure Columbian. His steps light and gliding as he packs his box and loads down the truck. Hes going fishing, and there is nothing in the world hed rather be doing.

Boat in tow, he tuned the radio to the morning AM fishing show to catch the early reports on his short drive to the bay. Betty from the dike pier was on reporting calm winds, two to four knots, and pristine water clarity. Overnight catches had been plentiful, limits on Speckled Trout and Redfish, along with scattered Flounder. Combine that with the strong incoming tide, the morning activities boded promising. Tim was excited.

The bay was perfect, he thought as he made his way down the dike to the boat ramp. The rocks already scattered with the lot of shore fisherman, and in the distance, he could make out the small specks of men wading along the shell reef. The sun, just barely over the ocean now, rippled in anticipation, rolling a long silver blanket across the water. The pathway to heaven, the road to happiness, he was going to follow it today. Thats where the fish will be.

He backed the boat and trailer down the ramp until the water rose to the level his expert eye decided on. Engaging the brake and stepping out of the truck, Tim was all smiles. He eased the boat back off the trailer and tied it securely to the wooden pier, strong, weathered hands tying the perfect knot. He was proud of his work, whistling as he climbed back into the truck and looked for an appropriate place to park. Gonna be a good day, I can feel it.

The trusty Evinrude 100 fired up on the first try. Tim revved the engine a few times, put it in gear, and backed slowly out of the protected dock. In the open now, he brought the throttle to full and the old center console Whaler lurched forward with ease, powerfully settling down to plane. The cool wind rushed his face bringing water to his eyes, but he didnt bother to wipe away the tears, it was part of the experience. The shrimp boats were out in full force, and he waved as he passed, dodging crab traps and reefs. Careening across the bay, he followed the light through the tidal gates and into an even calmer Moses Lake.

He worked the shoreline slowly, the boat at idle speed, barely moving, looking for the sign. Shrimp and baitfish scattered as he moved through them, flashes of silver, the pitter-patter of movement as they ran across the water. A good sign, the fish will be here. Predators stalked Mullet, an Egret on the shore poking through the grass, looking for food, before him, miles of untouched shoreline stretched forever. No houses, no plants, no disruption to the placid existence of the lake.

Cutting the engine, the boat glided, he hurried to put on his waders and boots as he eased the anchor down to the sandy bottom. In the distance, 80 yards, they were feeding. Dozens of Redfish tails danced through the water as they rooted for crab and shellfish. He was a hunter now, smooth as silk, easing himself down, working silently through the water. Pole in hand; he skillfully tied his favorite fly to the monofilament, perfecting his cast as he walked. Smooth, long strokes, teasing, he could see the shadows watching. The top-water fly buzzed the tails making a smooth landing, and was gone. Enveloped in frenzy, his reel screamed as he set the hook. Pure pleasure, it was the ultimate satisfaction, a momentous battle of wit and power. The Redfish stayed down, pulling, and Tim, with the precision of a ballroom dancer, worked his magic. Letting out line when the fish ran, working toward him when it rested, killing its stamina, willing its spirit, his hands worked unguided from his mind as theyd done a thousand times before. The human element out of its element, yet still master of the domain. The egret, which walked the shore, stopped to marvel the battle. Long neck stretched, one leg up, intently studying.

Redfish rarely surface. Pulling in great circles, long runs into open water, the line pinging as it rubbed across the strong scales. Occasionally a bulge would appear, a disruption in the calmness below where the line entered the water. Shoulders stretched and bulging, back arched, Tim handled every turn with precision, he was patient, the ever-diligent hunter. It was tiring now, reeling easier, the runs had become shorter and shorter. With the mastery, only he knew, Tim confidently gripped the giant at the end of its final surrender.

Bold and beautiful, the fishs shiny red armor held Tims reflection as he rubbed his palm over the length of its body. Admiring the beauty, the unique spotted tail, the crisp hard scales that he collected and used as guitar picks pulsed under his hand. The stringer slid easily through the gills and mouth, he would keep his first prize, but no more. He did his part to maintain the ecological balance, protecting his world for distant virtue. The rest of the day was about the fight, the never-ending battle of power, and like a grand master, he caught and released his students back into their home with the tenderness used on a newborn baby. The rest would live to fight again, perhaps a chance for a future bout.

The day had long stretched into afternoon, and Tim, surveying the sun, was making his last casts. His salt soaked lips, chapped from the wind and water, burned. The day was over, but not, Mary would be waiting as she is always. As the sun threatened to sink below the water, he made his way back to the boat. His face long with the sorrow of leaving, but his mind was thrilled with the prize, he gently placed his trophy on ice.

He took the long way home, circling Moses in a wide turn, digesting the beauty. With the water now gold with sun, shades of amber dissipating in the ripples of the wake, he relived the battles of the day. Each long fight, each rejected fly, savoring the ones that got away more than the ones that relinquished in defiance. Each massive soul remembered, each wonderful creature leaving its mark on a man who lived for their fashion, the structure of his soul.

The trip home too short, he pulled the boat into the drive and carefully cleaned the tools of his trade. Washing each reel, each piece of tackle, and every inch of the boat like the maid he wasnt. He stored each in its special place, before filleting his acquisition and carrying it into the house to Mary. He presented it on the experienced oak board as he always does, a Sunday tradition thats always the same.

The air of the kitchen full with dill, the over-abundance of Cajun spices mixed to perfection. Mary with her long, soft fingers received the gift with smiles. Only one? she asked, even though she new there was always only one. Through her light hair, the curls gave way to passive eyes; he knew shed never understand. However, hed told her many times before, as hed told many others before and after, a wise man once said, A man will fish his whole life not knowing, that is wasnt the fish he was after.