Fishing for Idiots and Compliments - Calvin Yardley

How will this affect the local trout population? How will the groupers react to this information? What of the guppies, the goldfish, the cat- and dogfish?

Questions so seldom asked, considerations so often ignored. We’re off the hook, so to speak, because those little suckers beneath the water will let anything fly; they haven’t the words or the whiskers to stand up to us, as large as their mouths may be.

You see, a week ago, we received permission from the Fish & Game warden, Seamus Bassart, to start fishing as we please. What better way to ring in the new year than to perfect our craft as master anglers, veritable lords of the bait and bauble, sinker and so forth? My friend and I stepped into our fishing boat, loaded to the teeth with crooks, spears, dynamite and nets, and got to work after a few cans of beer between us.

He was a fan of the classic bamboo fishing pole, my buddy. An antique he dredged up from some backwater purveyor of “Treasures First, Trash Second,” and fixed up over the course of a few winters. Nice line and nice reel he had on it now, very much not original to the period nor the piece, but hell if it weren’t a damn fine pole. The sort you can dance around all damn night, reeling and hooking in everything with a pulse.

Fish, mainly. And me, if he ever fucked up his backswing and snagged my ear, like he did that one time in Otego.

Sitting in the boat, he managed to catch a couple of trout without issue, whistling that old jingle from that old commercial that the both of us were too old to remember. He turned to me and snickered, that old joke of ours: “This won’t be good for the trout population.”

And it surely wasn’t, seeing as he got ten more by the end of the hour. Meanwhile, here I was, not a fry to my name. I even tried the goddamn dynamite, and the only thing that floated to the surface was a crock of flotsam.

“I remember why I don’t go fishing with you no more,” I sigh, striking another match on my heel and holding it to the fuse, letting it go a while before chucking it overboard a ways away from us. It plunks into the water uneventfully, a wholly inoffensive “bwop” as it falls below the water line.

I wait a moment, and my buddy braces himself for the jolt. Nothing.

“Damn it, really?” I bellyache, turning to him. “This dynamite you brought is crap, man.”

“Well, certainly ain’t helping that it's from 1982,” he jokes, taking a swig of beer and pulling his hat over his eyes, going back to his whistling.

“I thought it works better if it's old?”

“Hell, that most certainly ain’t true for us. Why’d it be so for bombs?”

We both cackle, shaking the boat from our mirth, him yanking on his pole, prompting a fish to fly out of the water and into the boat. He strikes it on the side of the head with the butt of his rod, taking it out of commission, and smirks at me real smug-like.

“Dunno, boss. Think I might have you beat here,” he grins, casting his line back out. “Bring us back in at your leisure, journeyman. Too many more trout and Mister Bassart’s gonna be cross with me.”

“With me, y’mean,” I grunt, stashing my things beneath my seat and tugging on the oars, starting us back towards the docks. “You’ll pass it off as me having caught all them trout,” I grunt in between strokes, tilting my head at the bucket of ice and fish, “and I’ll be the one who gets my permit struck.”

He snickers, reeling in his line. “Not much of a difference it’d make, Ishamael.”

“Shaddup.”

He’s seated on the rotting wooden picnic table now, still whistling away while I fix up the fish. Wrapped in foil, cooking over a charcoal grill with a lemon and some thyme I brought with me. Soon enough, they’re done, and equally as soon, we’re digging in, crummy little plastic forks that he stashed in his bag, left over from some takeout that he can’t remember the flavor of.

Best damn food the either of us have had in weeks, months maybe. “Best food I’ve had all year!” he jokes, a whole 3 days into the year, drawing a groan out of me.

“I’d bet, ya damn fool. Not like you’re getting fresh fish in that old folks home,” I jab back, snickering.

“Wouldn’t you know, Ish? We're shacked up in the same shithole, you and I! Food’s like cardboard and the staff’s like a wet blanket,” he chortles, taking another swill of booze, slamming the can onto the table. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“What, the crummy food? Or the staff?”

“The ‘us shacking up’ bit, Ish. I’d go there with me.”

“Ahab, we’re both senile.”

“Better than just the one of us!”

We both cackle, finishing off our fish as the sun dips behind the horizon. Soon enough, night falls, and our little galavant is done. What a shame it always has to end.

These fishing trips with Ahab are the only thing I’ve got to look forward to anymore. Such is the life of an old bastard.

Calvin Yardley is currently a senior, and will be graduated at the time of publication.