I got a wild hair to go fishing. I blame
it on my new car…a Subaru Outback. I decided to embrace my Oregon residency by
buying their unofficial state car. I believe it’s in Subaru’s computer chips to
want to drive to a fishing hole, a remote trailhead, the beach, or even Idaho.
The first road trip was, indeed, to Idaho where I spent my birthday with my best
friend and her kids. More on that later.
I wasn’t sure
if my pontoon boat would fit in the Subaru, nickname Cross-eyed Sally. To be explained.
The last time I used my pontoon boat alone I owned a pickup truck. The whole
kit and kaboodle fit in the bed in one piece. All I had to do was drag it out
of the bed and into the water. With some creativity, the pontoon boat frame and
bladders, oars, motor, battery, life vest, tackle box and cooler all fit in the
back of the Outback. I left just before dawn. When I started little red Cross-eyed
Sally in my carport, I laughed as I saw the headlights on my fence, calibrating
themselves, moving from side to side and eventually stopping, facing forward. The
salesman told me they’d move with the steering, turning as I went around
corners. Seriously? I learned to drive on a stick shift Ford with no AC, vinyl
seats and a ride that’d make you cry. And this one’s headlights move! Ruby Suby
didn’t seem to be catching on as a nickname, but Cross-eyed Sally just might.
A ninety-minute
drive and fifteen minutes assembling the pontoon boat later, and I was on the
water at Lemolo Lake, nestled in the mountains at 4000 feet. A cloudy mist
still hadn’t burned off the lake at that hour. Forty-five glorious degrees and
I was underdressed in my shorts and tank, but it felt good to be cold for a
while. Roseburg summers are hotter than I can stand. Two casts and ten minutes
later, I had two fish. Well, hell, I thought. At this rate I’ll be headed home
in thirty minutes. Thankfully, the fish weren’t swallowing the bait and every
fish I pulled out was hooked only in the lip. I turned back the little guys so
I could keep fishing. I wanted to enjoy trolling around the lake, watching the
sun rise higher in the sky, and listening to the sound of nothing.
Sitting in my
little boat, with nothing but the sound of an occasional passing car on the
road above, or the muddled voices of people in the rare nearby boat, I was forced
to just be. I rarely allow myself to just be. I usually have Alexa playing Jelly
Roll, among others. “I am Not Okay” has become my anthem. I have the TV on,
either watching or not, a crochet hook in one hand and yarn in the other.
Sometimes an audiobook playing while I have a paint brush in my hand. I don’t
idle. I don’t do well when I idle.
I looked out
over the smooth-as-glass water, the only ripples caused by a distant boat
towing a skier around the middle of the lake. I recalled my weekend visit to
Idaho, to see my bestie and celebrate my birthday. It had been a few years since
I’d seen her kids, who aren’t kids anymore. Teens to young adults, and one who
is married and has a baby of her own. She was six years old when I first met my
bestie. Too many times on the weekend I reached for my phone to take photos of
the “kids” when I realized why I wanted photos. My husband would like to see
how the kids have grown, I thought. The kids who called him Grandpa John. He has
been gone 21 months and I still want to text him photos, still want to tell him
exciting news, or reach for him when I have bad news. My bestie told me after I’d
returned home that she had been watching me. She’d seen my smile, but behind it
contained such heartache. I thought I’d done a better job of hiding.
Loading up my boat,
going fishing alone was me trying to find a life, a life without John, a life
on my own. It was me trying to join the human race again. I forced myself to
talk to some fisherman at the boat launch, when in truth I was hoping for the
superpower of Invisibility so I wouldn’t have to engage. Loading my boat, going
fishing alone was me reminding myself what I used to enjoy, what used to feed my
soul. But as I sat on my pontoon, watching the sun rise higher in the sky,
feeling the tug of a bite on my line, I couldn’t help but think about fishing
with John. We spent many hours on Lemolo Lake together, with my parents, later
with just Dad, sometimes just the two of us with the Boxers in Dad’s boat. We
camped there when we lived in Tucson and spent our summer vacation in Oregon. It
was our slice of heaven. I saw his huge smile when he reeled in a two-pound
trout. I cooked fresh caught trout over a morning campfire and John would say, “Holy
crap, I didn’t know trout could taste that good.”
A slight
breeze picked up and there were ripples on the water. Dad always said fish bite
best when there were ripples on the water. But this morning on Lemolo, I think
I could have dragged my toe in the water and gotten a bite on my purple nail
polish. The bite was on. I caught ten, released five and kept five. I trolled
around before I went back to the launch, just to give myself time to eat my ham
sammich and drink my Pepsi before loading up to drive home. It was only 9:30,
but lunch time when you eat breakfast at 5:00.
I drove slowly
out of the launch area, sunroof open and my window down. I wanted to stay in that
moment forever. The moment of remembering who I used to be, what I used to
love, what used to feed my soul. I smiled as I felt the sun, not too hot yet,
on my shoulders. Behind the smile was heartache. It’s there to stay.
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