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Carbon

James Bates

    From about fifty yards downstream Dad called to me, “Remember, Derek, ten and two. Ten and two.”
    “Okay!”
    I held my new carbon graphic rod reverently in my hands and positioned it straight up at twelve o’clock like he’d taught me. I took a breath and let it out. Around the calves of my hip boots the crystal-clear water of the Abahoochie River was rushing fast from the spring melt off. The air in the valley of the Beartooth Mountains was scented with a mixture of pine and sage. If I was old enough, I’d say it had the aroma of heaven, but I was only a kid. What did I know?
    “How’s that rod feel?”
    “It feels great!”
    And it did, too, like an eight-feet long magic wand. I already treasured it. Buffed to a high gloss and gleaming in the sun, the black rod with the cork handle was a gift from my father a few months earlier for my tenth birthday. We were finally getting to use it.
    I carefully let the line out like we’d practiced, and chanted to myself, Ten and two. Ten and two. Holding the rod in my right hand, I got the line going and flipped it back and forth, back and forth, stringing it out and setting up a rhythm while visualizing a clock face in my brain. Ten and two, ten and two. I kept my arm straight, using just my wrist as I whipped more line out, the rod’s shiny black surface reflecting the concentration on my face. I wanted more than anything to prove to my dad I could be the kind of fisherman he wanted me to be.
    Earlier that morning we’d tied a green gaddis fly to the leader line, and, as I watched it sail over the river, I envisioned a huge brown trout hungrily eye balling the tasty morsel, waiting for it the fall into its waiting jaws. I was conscious of my heart beating rapidly. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face from under my baseball hat but needed to keep the rhythm of the cast perfect and true so I dared not wipe it off. Instead, I concentrated on keeping my breathing steady, like Dad had taught me. Dad. Where was he?
    I took a quick glance downstream in his direction. He’d quit fishing and was watching. This was the first time he’d taken me to Montana with him on his yearly fly-fishing trip.
    “You’re old enough now,” he’d told me when he’d given me my new rod.
    I looked at Mom to gauge her reaction. “Just be careful,” she said, turning away and lighting a cigarette. My feeling was she was not happy about the trip but was doing her best to accept that I was growing up. Or something like that. Anyway, two months later I was with Dad in Montana and having the time of my life.
    I focused my attention on my cast. Ten and two. Ten and two. I had over thirty feet of line played out. It was time. As I brought the rod forward, I gave a final flick of my wrist and watched as the line sailed out over the water, the unfurling monofilament leader reflecting in the sun. Time seemed to stand still. The blue sky and the snow-covered mountains in the background framed the scene. The crystal-clear water rushing by my feet played a musical chorus that filled the air with song. High overhead, I swear I heard an eagle call. It was a perfect moment.
    After hanging in the air for what seemed like eternity, the fly finally settled onto the river. In an instant, the swift current grabbed it and took it downstream past me. The green gaddis bobbed on the surface like a spinning ballroom dancer. I kept my attention focused on it, all the while waiting for the inevitable strike; the slamming hit of a big brown trout hungrily eating my bait and resulting battle between us for me to bring him to shore.
    Heart pounding, I watched. And waited. And watched some more. And waited.
    Nothing.
    Eventually the spell was broken and the truth became clear: I’d catch nothing on this cast. I looked toward Dad. He shrugged his shoulders, gave me the thumbs up sign, and yelled, “Next time.”
    Encouraged, I reeled my line in and cast again. Yeah, I thought to myself. Next time. Next time I’ll get one. And I went back to it. Ten and two. Ten and two.
    We ended up catching and releasing six trout that day. I’ll never forget what a wonderful time we had. We’d set up our tent on the sandy shore next to the river, and when it was too dark to fish, we sat around our campfire and talked, just like the cowboys did in the dime comics I read. He showed me the night sky and told me about the milky way. We spent two days there and I never wanted to leave.
    “We’ll come back next year,” he said, that last morning while we rolled up the tent. “You can count on it.”
    At that moment I felt I was the luckiest kid in the world.
    But that was our last time fishing together. I few months later he was killed by a massive heart attack. I think I cried for a week.
    That graphite rod was made of carbon, one of the strongest bonding elements in nature. Last fall, when my son turned ten, I gave it to him and taught him how to cast, just like Dad did with me. This spring I took him fishing. We went back to the Abahoochie River where Dad and I fished. We camped, too, just like me and Dad. I’ve got those memories with my dad and now I’m making them with my son. So far so good. We’re already planning to come back next year.



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