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The One That Got Away

Donald Reed Greenwood

    We anchored in a shady cove at 10:00 AM, the Sun hyperactive since dawn. The July temperature, colluding with the humidity, was intent upon reducing our hope of success to an obsessive delusion. We hadn’t had so much as an indifferent peck at our array of underwater offerings for over an hour.
    Tim selected a medium-weight rod-and-reel combo and a Texas-rigged, chartreuse plastic worm.
    I watched him; his determined focus, possessing unwavering confidence in a steep, rocky incline, with trees precariously perched above, roots gripping random, rocky crevices. It spoke to him: A deep drop-off; a cool haven for a piscatorial lord.
    Tim and I spent endless hours angling on Smith Mountain Lake. He possessed an uncanny sense of where the big fish would seek solace from the heat of the upper depths, and which lures would tempt them.
    I sat in the companion chair of Tim’s bass boat, awaiting the result of his cast. He fixated on aiming his lure into a constricted, concave indentation within the ledge.
    Tim tipped the rod back, and with a deft flick of the wrist, let the imitation bait carve a smooth arc into the air.
    The counterfeit worm broke the plane flawlessly; dead center.
    I counted the seconds as the braided line, drawn by the motion of the weighted lure, slowly disappeared into the opaque depth, the line going slack. Tim, his senses heightened, let it idle, then gradually reeled in the line, reducing the limp.
    His line was nearly taut, a slight laxity remaining.
    The bait loitered motionless, seemingly for an eternity, until Tim initiated his slow retrieve; a circular cranking motion, interrupted by an occasional jiggling motion, courtesy of deft hands, having an intention of their own, immersed in teasing out a strike from a finned-overlord, potentially reigning over this little aquatic kingdom.
    I observed Tim intently; the slow retrieve, a sudden pulse of the line, a pause, then repeat; a virtuoso at work.
    Abruptly, his rod and line deformed into a steep parabolic curve. The suddenly strained line veered to starboard. Tim felt the determined resistance, rearing the rod above his shoulders, the line absorbing increasing tension.
    Tim’s demeanor instantly transitioned from a zen-like state of concentration to a furious, yet controlled overdrive. He feverishly monitored his drag, as the fish initiated a muscular run. Once it paused to recuperate, Tim began reeling rapidly, his motion smooth and consistent.
    As he worked the fish toward the boat, Tim clamored for action, snapping me out of my fawning trance. I ineptly grasped the net, and barely captured his prize. Tim shot me a look of incredulity. We eased the fish into the boat, and weighed it.
    The beast topped nine pounds; its length twenty-seven inches.
    A deep-bellied, irate largemouth bass.
    My best effort? A four-pounder. Unimpressive.
    I’d always been humbled by Tim, the most intuitive and prolific angler ever.
    Tim loved the water. He was either suiting up in chest-high waders to fly fish for trout, or arising at a ridiculous AM hour, intent on racing to the boat launch on Smith Mountain Lake, beating the sunrise, waiting to breathe the morning mist rising into the nascent sunlight; his passion unwavering.
    He’d get irritated on the rare occasion when the line on a rod-and-reel kinked beyond salvation (typical of me), but that emotion was transitory. Once Tim cast the rig he deemed to be perfect for the moment, into the spot he considered ideal for the the moment, a slightly upraised inflection in the lips of his tanned face formed an understatement of pure joy. I was jealous of his uncanny success, simultaneously mocked by Tim’s annoying smirk, as he observed me fumbling to grab the net.
    Unlike Tim, I’m no early riser, but he was relentless. Time and day were immaterial.
    Inevitably, his nagging insistence dragged me out into the morning darkness.
    I’d loiter like a card-carrying member of “The Walking Dead” at the boat launch, attempting to activate my eyelids. His movements bordered on manic precision; backing the boat trailer into the water, getting gear in exact placement, with all the rigs to anticipate all possible conditions, whether ultralight rods or “Lunker Sticks,” equipped with buzz baits, topwater lures, weighted plastic worms or hellgrammites.
    If there was a name for it, he had it.
    However, I was the Chef de Cuisine. Ham-and-cheese sandwiches and Route 11 chips are my forte. Cleanse the palate with cooler-stocked craft beer. Welcome to Heaven.
    Tim was silent as a sleuth. He used his outboard motor sparingly, favoring his quiet, battery-powered trolling motor.
    A fish locator? Superfluous gadgetry. Tim studied the water, the shady shorelines, the darkened hues of drop-offs, and the weather like familiar pages of a beloved book.
    Once we embarked, and Tim sniffed out that sweet spot, my irritable sleep deprivation vanished. Furtively, we’d ease into one of his secret coves. Often forgoing the first cast, he’d eyeball the precise rod-and-reel, hand it to me, indicating where to cast, and how to retrieve.
    I plead guilty. Precision isn’t my strong suit.
    Dutifully subordinate to The Master, I did as instructed; occasionally successful, but never triumphant.
    Unfailingly, Tim reeled in the most fish, including monster Stripers and Bucket Mouths.
    Just a typical day on the lake for Tim.
    I can’t say that I truly minded. My solo excursions qualify for a series of “Don’t Do This!” videos on YouTube...........
    I should cease these nonsensical musings.
    There was one excursion, firmly imbedded in my mind, forever a flash of revelation that, no matter how long I live, will remain as vivid as if it happened mere seconds ago: A late summer day, the landscape drought-afflicted for three weeks; not a hint of precipitation in the long-range forecast.
    Still and brazenly hot; a sun-drenched, cloudless, August dog day. Floating below leafy canopies, offering cooler shadows, made the stifling heat stoically bearable.
    Tim was as intense as ever, but there was a trace of incompatibility with his usual manner. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what sensory clue directed me to that conclusion.
    He seemed more perfunctory than enthusiastic. I’m not implying that he didn’t want to be on the water. Quite the contrary.
    Tim felt compelled to be on the water.
    His customary smirk had disappeared; the muscles in his face strained. Were his obsessive forays a form of escape?
    From what?
    I pondered the question obsessively that day.
    His wife Jill was wonderful. Together, they presented the visage of consummate companionship, and I’d never detected an inkling of friction between them.
    My wife Maggie and I socialized with them frequently. She never overtly mentioned anything to me, other than to whisper that Jill might be uneasy with the time Tim devoted to his fishing excursions.
    So typical of Maggie, making vague pronouncements, expecting me to read between the lines; a clever tactic that wives use to hold sway over clueless husbands.
    Was she inferring that I was contributing to a marital strain?
    While Jill and Tim presented the facade of the perfect couple in our company, it eventually dawned on me that there were, in fact, clues of unease floating in plain sight: turns of phrase in conversation that inferred happiness, but actually cloaked irritation and disappointment.
    As best man at their wedding, I nearly dropped the ring, so struck by their visage; both incapable of breaking away from locked, romantic gazes into each other’s eyes. How had their caring bond become unshackled?
    Did Tim find emotional sustenance in the outdoors because he found it lacking at home? Had they both mistaken infatuation for love.
    Was it his mistake alone?
    None of that matters now.
    My memory returns to that stifling afternoon, anchored in one of Tim’s favorite coves, casting deep-water lures, retrieving so leisurely that watching paint dry would have been a blur. The heat of the day dimmed my senses to a distracted stupor.
    Then......
    My rod and line suddenly formed a steep parabola, a replica of what I witnessed countless times on Tim’s. I had hooked something very muscular. My line shifted port-side in a deliberate fashion, the bow drifting with the movement. The unwary daze was erased; watch your drag, I told myself. Too much, and the line snaps, too little and the line strips off, allowing the fish to snag the lure on an underwater obstruction, and escape. Concentrate.
    Time became irrelevant and unmeasurable. Beyond warring with a primitive will, I have no other recollection. I blocked out all sensory input, including Tim’s. I have no idea how he might have implored me, in his didactic tone, to use his fine-honed techniques to expertly play this prize, possibly a state citation.
    My sole remembrance: As I eased my trophy toward capture, I realized I’d hooked a striped bass, which I estimated to be over forty inches long and weighing more than twenty pounds.
    Not that an angler would ever exaggerate.
    But where was Tim? I didn’t hear his voice, zealously instructing me how to land the biggest catch of my life. Why wasn’t he at the bow, shouting instructions in my ear?
    I eased my trophy toward the boat, needing his aid to land this monster. I seek-peeked in every direction, expecting Tim to be near, firmly gripping the net. I couldn’t land this behemoth alone.
    With those shifting glances, I was struck by a stunning revelation.
    There was no Tim.
    Where was he?
    The possibility that he accidentally fell into the water was absurd. In the event of that unlikely occurrence, the sound of his body breaking the surface of the water would be shattering. A deliberate act of suicide? Impossible.
    Maggie had hinted at Jill’s frustration, but I refused to believe that any rift between those two would lead Tim to something that drastic and irreversible.
    Then, I remembered my unease, observing Tim’s seriousness of purpose that morning. Something about him was different.
    No, that perception was fallacious. What was different was me.
    Tim didn’t exist.
    The epiphany overwhelmed me. A wave of indecision immobilized me. What would I do?
    Confusion flooded my brain.
    All those images of Tim, of his piscatorial prowess, his perfectionism, I conjured it all, deluding myself with wishful thinking, obscuring my own personal problems.
    I had ignored reality. Even worse, I’d horribly warped it.
    Emotion swirled in my mind, unable to give him up. Of course Tim existed. But how did he disappear? Was he seeking sanctuary from a broken marriage, or was he a contrivance, an excuse for ignoring my own? Was I the one who was experiencing marital fracture, and was Maggie dropping not-so-subtle hints, deliberately directed toward my behavior, not a fictitious Tim? Was Jill a mental figment, a useful accessory, like Tim, for the rationale that I used to justify denial of the truth?
    All those memories of their wedding, of their friendship, the good times together. Just a mental fabrication; a foolish, self-serving delusion.
    There are occasions when the illusion creeps back, when the fantasy insists that Tim grasped an opportunity to forever seek the peacefulness that eluded him; an escape into the ether, a magician’s vanishing act. A voice inside my head whispers:
    You’ll never be certain.
    When those thoughts surface, I cast them back into the depths of that rocky drop-off. I remind myself; they’re obstacles; shove them aside. I face an arduous task, with emotions to repair, trust to re-establish.
    Above the surface of the drop-off lies a long, rugged ledge to ascend.
    Reconciliation is a difficult endeavor. Absent caring commitment, “I love you” are hollow, disconnected words.
    I awoke to that reckoning on a stifling day, adrift in a watercraft no longer belonging to an apparition, suddenly alone, forced to choose.
    I had no option but to wrestle with that leviathan, will my weary arms and numbed hands to summon the strength, wrestle the hook from the creature’s gaping maw, and release it, allowing it to fade into the opacity of the deep pool.
    Just as I have with Tim.

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