Two men approach a small beach crevice. The sandy shore is tinted orange from the setting sun. The lake mirrors a pallet of soft oranges, reds and blue mixed together as if splattered onto a piece of glass. They set down their towels, tackle and worms on a white bench and approach a row of canoes racked close to the water. The rack is nestled between a small forest of trees and alongside four sailboats pulled ashore, chained together, and neatly packed away. They each grab an end of one of the hallowed aluminum vessel and drag it forward across the damp sand, placing the stern two-thirds into the lake. One man walks over to a handcrafted rack secured between two trees located behind the canoes and grabs a pair of paddles. He measures the length up to his chin and looks over at the other man, assuming he'd require a larger size.
"Should I put on a life jacket?" the taller man asks.
"Yeah, make sure it fits well though," responds the man by the shore, laying the paddles against the front and back seats of the canoe. He joins the taller man by the long white gate lined with blue, yellow and red life jackets. He quickly tightens his friend's jacket and then his own. The sun is sinking near the tree line, with only about an hour's worth of light left. They hear the cheers of young campers gathered at their weekly campfire. The cheers echo across the still lake, forming small ripples which quickly vanish into its totality. Hearing these cheers the two look at each other and at once become aware of their fleeting opportunity. One looks up at the sky to check the sun's position, grabs the fishing poles and steps into the front of the canoe. The other man grabs the worms and tackle box, places them carefully in the middle of the boat and pushes the rest of the flimsy vessel into the lake.
The boat wobbles for a moment and the taller man braces himself, tensing his shoulders, legs and face.
"Don't worry, Gal," the man calls from the back of the canoe, "it won't flip unless you really want it to!" Gal's expression lightens and he helps paddle them out.
"Yes, 'Zen Master'," he replies with a sly grin growing up the side of his face. His accent curves into a strong upward inflection as if always he were always asking a question. Their boat floats out and cutting through the reflection of the light orange sun on the water, creating a wake that spans beyond the circumference of the sun and vanishes. Though the chants continue from the nearby camp, the voices now seem to be coming from an alien world as if they had launched a rocket rather than a canoe. The chants continue echoing off the trees and ripple through the lake, reverberating off the thin steel plates of the canoe before returning to stillness, blending in with the conversations of the crickets and frogs. The men breathe a sigh of relief and smile into the reddish blue sky.
They paddle out about twenty meters before deciding to cast out. Gal struggles to keep his balance as he turns around for his pole and worm. The man in the back keeps his legs spread to properly distribute his weight.
"Make sure you pinch the worm," he instructs Gal.
"All right...," Gal pinches the worm, eyebrows narrow beneath his thick curly hair, in deep concentration. He takes off a fourth of the worm and throws the remaining torso back into the container. They place their worms on their respective hook and cast out. The faint lectures of their co-counselors can be heard coming from the distant shore, beyond four docks and a row of weeping willow trees. They're handing out merits to the campers for their accomplishments over the past two weeks. The two men in the boat try hard to tune the nearby commotion, keeping themselves in the stratosphere of their own activity.
Their boat slowly rotates clockwise in the water twisting their lines and torsos in various uncomfortable positions. There is no wind, nor wake, but somehow the boat still flows with the movements of the seemingly placid lake. Both adjust their fishing poles accordingly to follow the rotation. The sun slowly sinks behind the trees as if sand sifting through an hour glass. The two look up at the vacant tree line and try to focus their attention on the present moment. Their lines sit undisturbed, without a tug or sign of aquatic interest.
"This is really nice, we should have done this weeks ago," says Gal.
"I agree, but next time we should grab a six pack," they agree and Zen Master lets out a chuckle. He calculates the time their nights off begin, when darkness comes, the changing summer hours and the actuality of something like this ever happening. There's a slim chance. Aware of this, he soaks in the moment, continuing to listen to the subtle creeks and splashes of the wildlife on shore. Zen Master paddles out a little further. Gal fiddles with his line, trying to unwind it from around the end of his pole. Zen Master continues to row forward slowly, smiling as he watches his friend struggle with the line. They both inquire about the lack of mosquitoes, and smile gratefully for the rare evening of tranquility.
Zen Master stares off into the dark water reminiscing about the madness and wonder he'd witnessed over the past month. Long days, loud voices, stubborn kids, and daily trips on the same lake he seeks sanctuary. He considers beer options for the night ahead and weighs the price difference between the local bar and liquor store with the price of "good times" and "potential memories". He then wonders if Gal thinks in Hebrew or English while longing for his fiancé to join him at the bow of the boat. He looks down at his sandy feet, torn shorts and dirt covered legs and remembers how he hated sandy feet just four weeks earlier.
"I don't understand where all the fish are," Gal finally lets out, still fiddling with his line, "you would think coming this far out from the dock we would be able to catch something." His Israeli accent shines through when frustrated.
"Yeah, I see a lot of fishing boats out here during the day," Zen Master replies with a sigh, zapped back into reality.
"Maybe they're all asleep"
"That's a possibility." They are silent for a moment. It is almost dark now and they contemplate turning in. Gal reels in his line and places the pole gently behind his back bracing still from the rocking boat. Zen Master stares off a little longer, not ready to return to the responsibilities and irritancies on shore. He looks towards the beach and imagines the process of sneaking back into a pitch black barn to put away the worms and poles and finally reels in his line. They both pick up the light wooden paddles and begin to row back. The sun they had once cut across in the water was now gone. Only a black blanket of murky water remains. It's only interrupted by the small wake of the boat and the gentle paddling of the two men.
Posts
