Joe didn’t respond. His eyes widened when the fish jumped. After a second, they slid half-closed and Joe slumped even more. If his hand weren’t propping up his chin, Joe looked like he would slump into a puddle at the bottom of the boat.
“Do you understand, Joe?” Alan asked.
“Uh-huh,” Joe said. Joe’s stomach gurgled.
Alan looked over the edge of the boat. The morning sun was bright enough to show him that the engine was mired in mud and weeds. Alan pushed the paddle down in the muck and tried to push off. The boat was stuck. His new transom flexed when Alan tilted the motor up. The prop came out of the water draped with dripping weeds. The boat floated free. Alan pushed off and sent the boat towards the deeper part of the lake. He paddled gently to get them moving towards the stream’s inlet. Joe let the view change in front of his eyes—he hardly moved.
“I’m going to try again over there,” Alan said.
“For that big one?”
“Sure.”
Alan gave the paddle a few more good swipes and then picked up his pole. He eyeballed the spot where they’d last seen the fish. He figured it was a long shot—the jumping fish was clearly interested in bugs on top of the water, would it even care about a fake worm? Alan sent a booming cast right to the spot he envisioned.
“Nice cast,” Joe said.
Alan smiled. It was the same tone that Joe had used earlier to encourage Alan when he couldn’t cast more than a boat-length.
When the fish hit, it was unlike any other feeling the pole had given him. The pole was alive and dancing with the fish’s retreat. The reel croaked angrily as the line pulled.
“Dad?” Joe asked. He sat up straight, watching the spot where the fishing line intersected the water. “I think you got one.”
“I think you’re right,” Alan said. “You want to reel it in?” He held out the pole with both hands, afraid to trust it to just one.
“No, you do it. It’s your fish,” Joe said.
Alan tried to turn the reel as he pulled back to keep pressure on the pole. It was no good. The tension prevented him from turning the little crank. All he could do was let the pole move up and back and reel it in when the fish provided some slack in the line. It became second-nature in an instant. Joe leaned over the side of the boat, watching the fish flash as it neared the surface and then dove again.
“You’ve almost got it,” Joe said.
Alan let the tip of his pole dip near the water as he reeled in the rest of the line. The fish breached and Alan lifted it out of the water. It flailed at the end of his line, bouncing up and down. Alan set down the pole and grabbed the clear line just above the fish.
“Wow,” Joe said.
It was about the size of Alan’s flat hand and it had a black marking behind its eye, lined with red. Its fins and gills flared out. They looked spiky and sharp.
“Can we eat it?” Joe asked.
“I think this one is too small,” Alan said. “Take a picture so we can look it up later.”
As Joe used his camera, Alan rooted around in the plastic bag to find the pliers he’d bought. He ran his hand down the line and tried to grab the fish from the top, to push back the spines. The fish thrashed as his hand closed.
“Ow!” Alan said. “That thing is sharp.”
He tried again with the same result. His fingers were bleeding.
“Maybe you should just cut the line and let it go that way,” Joe said. “I don’t think you can get it off of there.”
“No, Joe, that wouldn’t be fair to the fish. We have to be humane,” Alan said. He grabbed again and this time didn’t flinch when the fish thrashed. He held it still and used the pliers to back out the hook. Alan let the fish tumble back towards the water. It squirted off into the deep as soon as it broke the surface.
Alan rinsed his hand in the lake. The cold water helped to numb the cuts.
“You try, Joe,” Alan said.
He didn’t finish his command before Joe was casting. Joe used Alan’s rod—perhaps trying to capitalize on Alan’s success. A few casts later, Joe announced that he felt a nibble.
The boat drifted down the stream. Alan pointed to spots near the edge of the weeds and Joe tried to land his lure where his father pointed. When Joe’s fish hit, the pole doubled over and the reel screamed.
“Dad, I can’t hold it,” Joe said.
“Sure you can, Joe. Just keep pressure on it. Reel it in when it comes back to you,” Alan said. “Don’t let it run for the weeds. You don’t want it to get caught up over there.”
“How do I stop it?”
“Just keep pressure. Keep pulling back,” Alan said. He used the little paddle to move the boat closer to where the line pointed. As Alan shifted the boat, Joe picked up the slack. “Keep pulling.”
Joe fought the fish until sweat stood out on his brow. His little arms were trembling.
“I can’t do it,” Joe said. “You take over.”
“It’s okay, you can finish. Just keep pulling.”
The pole rose and disappointment flashed on Joe’s face. He started to reel in the line without resistance. Alan expected to see a broken end come up out of the water.
“Did it…” Alan started to ask. He didn’t get to finish his question. The pole bent again and Joe struggled to hang on. He picked up the slack once more and the fish leapt from the water. Joe turned the crank furiously as the fish came out again. It looked enormous. The pole couldn’t lift it from the water. Alan grabbed the line and helped Joe lift the fish. The line dug into Alan’s tender hands.
“Holy cow,” Alan said. “That thing is enormous.”
“Don’t touch it,” Joe said.
“It’s okay,” Alan said. “I don’t think this one is sharp.”
The fish was a completely different shape than the one Alan had caught. This one was long and cylindrical. Its mottled brown and green scales faded to tan on its belly. Alan gripped it just behind the gills. It was almost too slippery to hold. Alan braced the fish between his knees as he worked the hook from its mouth with the pliers.
“Look at those teeth,” Joe said.
“We could eat this one, I think,” Alan said. “It’s big enough. Here—you have to hold it so I can take a picture.”
Joe held it up horizontally with both hands while Alan captured the image. The fish thrashed and Joe launched it towards the stream.
“You didn’t want to eat it?”
“No,” Joe said. “Not with those teeth.”
“Wash your hands over the side,” Alan said.
After they cleaned up, they left the poles sitting in the boat. It seemed that one fish apiece was their limit. Instead of starting up the motor, Alan just used the paddle to keep them in the middle of the stream. The gentle current moved them slowly back downstream.
“So you understand what I was saying about humanity earlier, Joe?” Alan asked.
“I guess.”
“I’m saying that even when your anger calls and you feel like you have to do something or you’ll explode—that’s when it’s most important to exercise control. You can’t be simple, like the fish. We live in a society with rules. It’s how we get along without killing each other. It’s what makes us civilized.”
“I know,” Joe said. “I get it.”
“Good,” Alan said.
They started to take the last turn. Alan saw their little dock off in the distance.
“But that’s only true for humans, right?” Joe asked.
“No, Joe. You have to treat animals humanely too. You wouldn’t mistreat a puppy just because it wasn’t human,” Alan said.
“But if something is evil it doesn’t count, right?” Joe asked. “People in movies are always fighting things that are evil. It’s okay to kill evil things.”
Alan shook his head as he spoke. “No. No, Joe. What are you talking about?”