John 21:1-14

Plop!

“That’s exactly where I wanted that. There’s gotta be one there,” I muttered to myself. It had landed about two feet from shore in a protected pocket behind a stickup. My casting had been on point all morning, something I was keenly aware of.

The morning was silent, save for the sound of bird calls and the occasional rustle in the brush onshore. I looked up to see if I could spot any wildlife roaming on the steep hills covered in rocks and dry growth, but the fog was far too thick to see more than three feet from the shoreline. The water was placid, not a ripple on the surface except for the concentric circles emanating from where my lure had just sunk beneath the surface.

It was so good to be back out on the water, the smell of desert sage filling my nostrils and stirring my memories, an entire lifetime encapsulated in a scent.

Plop!

When I was a kid my dad would wake me, telling me it was time to get ready and that breakfast was ready. I would stomp downstairs while I rubbed sleep from my eyes and tried to figure out when in my excited tossing I had actually fallen asleep the night before. There was nothing quite as exciting as the night before a trip to the lake.

This morning I hadn’t woken up early, because I had never fallen asleep. I had eaten dinner the night before, my stomach finally unknotted enough to keep down my wife’s delicious food. My nerves were still a wreck, the skin around my fingers picked raw and hair falling out at alarming rates every time I showered. After lying for hours in my bed, trying to convince myself sleep would come, I decided I would go, so I rose and began the ritual.

Plop!

I trudged downstairs and started the coffee, grabbing a quick bite to eat. Since I had missed out on a week’s worth of food, I figured I should try to eat any time the thought didn’t repel me. Then I went back upstairs to get dressed, checked my backpack to see if anything had changed since I had checked it five times the night before, and brought my rods downstairs to the garage.

My coffee poured and in my hand, I turned on the outdoor light, went to the side yard, and stood beside the boat for a full five minutes before proceeding. It had been so long since I had looked at her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she floated, and the chipping blue paint on her side spoke to how long it had actually been since she had last frolicked in the water.

Three years of dust and debris flung into the air as I pulled back the cover, bunching it in my hands and throwing it onto the gravel behind her. I half expected to find a nest and a litter of critters somewhere inside, but as I cautiously climbed up and looked her over, I found the coast was clear.

Plop!

I hadn’t really expected the motor to start, and was fully prepared to go anyway and use the oars. But once I had primed the motor and yanked the pull cord, she turned over on the first try. I was shocked, until I looked more closely and saw fingerprints and oil smudges on the engine. I guess my cousin had kept his word and maintained the motor while I was gone. A small miracle.

I killed the engine, not wanting to wake all of the neighbors before dawn, and loaded the gear into the boat, making sure it was all buckled down like my dad had shown me after we lost a cooler on the freeway when I was twelve, one that I may or may not have been responsible for loading. I had to scamper along the highway, picking up our lunch amd various snacks. I hadn’t lost anything since.

Plop!

Once I had arrived at the lake and backed the boat into the water, I parked the truck and returned to the dock where I had tied the boat up. It was still pitch black, so I strapped on my headlamp as I climbed in and sat on the swaying seat.

Three years. Three years since I had been on this water with the intent of catching fish. I looked out into the pitch black night, and could see the shoreline in my mind. The high mountains rising away from the water, the access road running around the lake a hundred feet up, the boulder where I had caught an eight pounder on my fourteenth birthday, that inlet my dad liked to call vortex cove, the stretch of shoreline he had named Fists of Fury. So many of my childhood memories were on these waters, countless conversations, jokes, arguments and more, all had been shared here, floating past the shoreline hoping to catch a big one.

Plop!

I cranked the motor to life, backed away from the dock, and twisted the arm extending from the engine to open up the throttle. As I skimmed across the glassy surface of the lake I grew up on, I breathed deeply, noting the light beginning to fill the sky as salty water streamed down my face. It was so good to be home.

I decided where I wanted to go and aimed the nose of the boat towards the outline of a point I couldn’t yet see. I began to notice that, thought the light was growing, the visibility was not. A thick fog hung to the surface of the lake and stretched skyward, making it so I could only see about five feet in front of the bow. I didn’t slow down though, because I knew with utter confidence that I would pass by the point with ten feet to spare. Sure enough, thirty seconds later I could just make out the shoreline as I passed the point and turned the boat north up the first arm of the lake.

Plop!

I had pulled up to this run, slowing down to make no wake, then bringing her all the way to idle before I cut the engine and drifted towards the steep, rocky shore. I liked fishing the rocks, it’s where the bigs one usually sat and feasted, though my dad swore they were in the reeds. I grabbed my rod and checked my line once again, making sure I liked the knot I had cinched the night before. Still good.

I dug a bag of flukes from my backpack, having chosen only five different lures to try. My dad had always insisted on three huge bags of lures and hooks and weights and gear, and I always had to carry them. I decided that I’d only ever take one bag, and I stuck to it. Though I did learn from my dad and packed three baggiess of each lure I had chosen. What if the fish were liking those that day and I needed extra?

Plop!

As I moved down the shoreline, I became aware that the light was getting brighter, and the fog would be burning off from the top down. Full sun would be on me real soon, and as the day grew hot the bite would slow down. If I could only get a few passes at this run I’d hopefully catch a few before they swam deeper into hiding. It had been three years, I’d like to have something to prove I still knew what I was doing.

I don’t know how much time had passed already, but I knew I was getting hungry. I reached into my backpack and grabbed a peanut butter and jelly I had made that morning. Stretching my arms over my head, I looked up above the water for the first time since it had grown light. The fog was gone, and in it’s place I could see flashing blue and red lights lined above me on the access road, belonging to at least fifteen cars. I heard the sound of distant motors on the water.

I took a bite of my sandwich, then set it down. They could wait.

I didn’t know where the body was.

And I missed him more than they would ever know.

Plop!