An Ode to Fishing in the Dark

On late summer nights, stretching long into the forbidden September doldrums, Lake Somerville removes itself from time. The black skyline outlined by a yellowing moon sits like a prop on a cosmic stage, and the creak of the marina slips out sound like the tuning of an orchestra. Once set, the curtains part, and the play begins:

An Ode to Fishing in the Dark.

We walked down the steep plank-way leading to the marina store, rods and reels in hand, along with a six pack of Shiner Blonde. The woman at the front of the park, sitting under yellow light swating bugs away from her purple mascara, had told us:

“There’s a ten dollar fee for fishing in the campground, hun.”

She didn’t look up from her long nails clicking away at a small phone, her words navigating their way around the gum she had been chewing for hours. We were instructed by the bored and tired woman to find the marina store to pay the fee.

The store was a floating structure near the shallow eastern end of the lake. The lights outside buzzed, partly from the tired chemicals depleted after years of use inside the bulbs, and partly from the armies of gnats and moths bravely burning on the hot glass. Signs were plastered on the outside walls, earnest attempts at fishing puns that fell flat on inexperienced eyes.

Inside, the store bulged with a dusty inventory that had waited patiently for years to be touched by the hands of guests. Lures, artificial worms, candy bars, maps, knives, hats, extra-large t-shirts, and beef jerky filled the beige metal shelves. The entire family of the operation sat behind the counter, eager for interaction. Engrossed by the scene, I didn’t notice my tall pole approach the hanging pole light-bulb, and it hit with a violent metal clang.

“Oh oh, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” the apparent proprietor said. He was wearing a teal t-shirt that hugged his bulging belly, and a hat with the brim tilted just slightly off center. His glasses were thick and hung low on the bridge of his nose, so that part of the frame hid his eyes and highlighted the top of his cheekbones.

“Well, here.” I leaned the poles up against an adjacent counter, to continue the conversation sans the light-bulb offender.

“Alright,” I looked back to him, “Hi!”

“Howdy,” he said with a smile.

“So I was told to come to the marina to pay to fish off the dock. Is that alright?”

“Yup yup, it’ll be five dollars a person,” he said, somehow squeezing the word ‘eye’ into ‘five’

“Alright.”

His wife was sitting at the register, aged more, but with deeper wrinkles where smiles lived.

“Do you go to A&M?” she said, looking at the logo on my shirt.

“Yup, I do. Just started grad school.”

“Oh good!” she smiled, “Did you get to go to the game today?”

“No, but I might be okay with that. Seemed like a hot day to be sitting in a stadium.”
“Oh yeah! That’s true, too hot for a game.”

“So what was the final score? Forty-something to twenty…”

“Yeah it was something like that,” the husband interjected, “Wasn’t really a game.”

“Well have we really played any games this year?” I said, conscious of the fact that I had referred to the team as ‘we’ for the first time.

The husband and wife both chuckled, and the husband slipped the ten dollars in the register.

“So,” I continued, assuming their concurrence on my last comment, “we can fish anywhere off the dock?”

“Yeah,” the husband replied, suddenly serious, “You can fish anywhere on the dock, and over on this end is the crappie house where they’re really bittin’.”

Nelson and I left the shop, and found a dark side of the dock near the gas pump. The wood planks under our feet shifted within the rusting metal frame, and sent occasional cockroaches up to the surface to inspect the disturbance. The spot we settled on was just outside the ring of light cast in a cone on the edge of the dock. Here, we were safe from the bugs.

Had it been a year since we had last seen each other, from the comfort of our little yellow Sabita? Or, had it only been a year? We talked once of the possibility of meeting in Texas, if I ever made it there, but the thought was as brief as fresh Bandra air. And yet here we were, talking again of life and its absurdity.

The worms we had purchased at Walmart sensed their oncoming doom, and when I opened the top of the thin plastic container, they dove into the clumpy black dirt, desperate to survive. I moved one clump to the side, and pinched a pulsating body. It flung about as I threaded it onto the needle, green ooze seeping out of its body. I don’t ever say it out loud, but I feel bad for the poor worms. Yet the regret is never enough to dissuade me; the promise of fish is far greater.

The first cast felt perfect. The pole started behind me, and as I flicked it forward and released the line, the catapult motion of the arch coupled with the snap of the pole and sent the pink hook soaring into the blackness of night. For a brief moment, it all disappeared, and I waited for its return to earth. Finally, with a plop 30 feet in front of me, the worm began its first free dive.

Across the lake, two headlights were bouncing along a dirt road. High energy country music bounced across the lake, and my ears strained to catch the song. The creak of the dock and the lapping of the waves were determined to keep the song from me, and so it remained a muffled clump of notes.

Between casts and sips of Shiner, we tried to fill the gaps left by a year of distance. We cast hooks and words out into the distance, and reeled in what we hoped would be success.

There’s a calming peace about fishing in the dark. The task becomes more abstract, and your eyes, desperate for something to look at, point to the stars. The same stars that fought through Bombay smog were now raining on our weary shoulders, on the side of a quiet lake in Texas. There were no rickshaws, no vada pav, and no traffic jams here. Just a couple of guys who held those memories, and spoke of them into the night. For the first time, Lake Somerville heard of the far away mystical town of Bandra, and the adventures we had there.

Maybe the fish were mystified too, because they didn’t bite.