The Dock

The gentle rocking was a tease for the adventure that would soon unfold once the children arrived.

The water was quiet - still like glass. The air felt crisp on this very early fall morning. I savored my mug of steaming coffee poured from the ancient, dented thermos. The lawn chair I had hauled down the dock from the boathouse moved slightly with the subtle motion of the water. The bucket of worms stood at the ready…dug from damp ground by the cabin late yesterday. I watched for the tell-tale bubbles of hungry perch. For now, it was quiet.

My thoughts went to my very first time fishing on an early morning from this very dock over 40 years ago. It was a memory etched in my heart. I could still see my aunt and uncle standing quietly with their poles. Though many years had passed since their death I could smell the cigarette smoke and feel their steady presence. We would eat our catch within the hour.

The ritual of catching perch for breakfast was a tradition to be passed along to the next generation of youngsters. Time would stand still after casting the line; a pregnant pause as the weight settled the worm-loaded hook. If fortunate…a quick strike would surprisingly break the stillness. Reeling in that 1st fish would make the early rising worth it.

The next hour, with children arriving, was a joyful frenzy as the perch, totally ready on this cool morning, struck the laden hooks as fast as I could take flopping fish off and re-worm. As soon as the lines hit the water the squeals of laughter from new, quick strikes pierced the day. A new generation of fishermen and women was born. Memories made.

Doesn’t get better than this.