Sam pumped and pumped but it was no use. The ball was dead flat. He wanted to swim with it as a substitute for the disintegrated styrofoam kickboard, the victim of a summer’s fun for a few too many kids.
He had to use something. The kickball would have worked if it didn’t have that hole in it. Now his mother would make him wear that orange life vest. “Even if I’m just jumping off the dock?!?” he would plead. “Especially if you’re jumping off the dock!” she’d retaliate.
His father didn’t pay much attention one way or another, other than to get angry when he saw the kickboard demanding, “What did you do to it?” When Sam explained it was how he found it, his father told him to throw it in the garbage. “And all those pieces, too. I don’t want them lying around. We’re here for two weeks and I’d like to keep it clean.” Sam did his best to say tried to say there were too many bits but his father wasn’t listening. “Just do it.”
It could have been a near-perfect summer vacation if it had been summer. But they were here in early fall. There was a hint of color in the leaves and the lake was quiet; most of the summer places had closed up by now. Their rental cabin was right on the water. It was as rustic as they come, with chinked log walls and a fieldstone fireplace with a massive moose head looking over the main room. There were even guns on the wall which Sam was told in no uncertain terms were to be left alone. Still, his father would take them down and tell Sam the caliber and what they were used for. “Yeah, this is a 30-06, old but it’s in good shape. You’d get a deer or maybe that moose” and “12 gauge, double barrel. Ducks and geese. It’s seen some I bet.” And then there was the .22. “They used to call it a boy’s gun,” his father explained. “There’s a box of rounds there too. Maybe we’ll shoot it.”
“Can we, please?” asked Sam.
“Maybe, we’ll see, “ said his father.
“Dad, please oh please oh please. It’s a boy’s gun. I bet a little kid got to shoot it!”
“Stop it, I said we’ll see.”
“What can I do to shoot it? I’ll clean up my room better. Can I do a chore or something?”
“Forget it. I’m sorry I thought of it. I said stop.”
With that, Sam’s father picked up a newspaper, dropped into the creaky old Morris chair with its worn, dark green velour cover, and started to read. Sam remained standing over his father, looked at the guns, and then back to his father. After a while, he gritted his teeth and went outside to walk around the lake’s shore.
They were in a quiet cove, all the other cabins shuttered for the season. They’d been told it was one of the deepest parts of the lake, really a kettle hole more than a cove, with big fish down deep. “Monsters! Real monsters,” said the old caretaker who’d let them in. “You don’t want to swim too close.”
“Really? Are they that big? What type of fish are they? Can we see them?” asked Sam.
“Heck no, son, and you don’t want to. They stay quiet mostly when folks are around, and if you hook ‘em, why they’ll break your line if they don’t yank the rod right from you. My father once hooked one, back before the war, fishing at night he was. It nearly pulled him in. Said the thing could taste the blood from a cut he got slicing bait. Brought it right to the surface he did. Its mouth was wide as a bucket, with teeth the size of nails. Looking at the thing he dropped the rod down to the water and it chomped right through. One of those old bamboo contraptions and betcha it would be worth some money today. My dad had that busted rod up at the dock for years but he rarely told the story. No one believed it.”
“I believe it,” said Sam.
“Leave the man alone,” said his father who then asked about the fuse box.
“It’s okay, it’s fine. I was the same way at his age. Curious means he’s a smart one. I wanted to know. I believed it. Still do. Still do.”
Down at the dock was a canoe and wooden rowboat that, his father discovered, was too water-logged to get anywhere, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He’d load it up with his fishing gear, push off heavily from the dock, and strain at the oars, saying “damn it” under his breath and start fishing. Sunfish was all he got, sunfish and an occasional pickerel.
Sam had a little rod of his own. A Zebco that couldn’t cast very far, but then there wasn’t much need in their cove. He’d dug worms in the poor excuse for a garden near the cabin using a technique his friend Roy’s father had taught him in Cub Scouts. “Sam my boy, soak the ground with a hose or get there right after a big rain. Push the shovel end into the ground, in a soft area. Yeah, just like that. And use a stick to bang on the handle. They feel the vibration and come up. I suppose they’re curious to know what’s bothering them. You can also fill a bucket with water and add shampoo. That gets them moving too. Take only what you’ll need. That way you reserve the rest for later.”
Sam had been fishing since they arrived at the camp. That, or jumping off the dock. There weren’t any other kids around and he was bored but did like fishing. From the dock, he caught dozens, literally, with his worms. And every time he hooked one he yelled out “I caught one!” His mother would look up from the book she’d be reading, smile, and say, “Put them back now and wash your hands when you’re done.” His father might look from the rowboat and hold up one he’d caught or frown and continue his fishing.
One morning the father said he’d had enough with the stupid rowboat and would go rent something decent at the bait shack.
“Can I go too, please? I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
“Oh do take him. He’s just been hanging around here and we really haven’t done anything,“ said his mother.
“It’s my vacation, too,” said his father.
“Well take him for a while. Maybe you can motor over here and drop him off, but it’ll be fun for both of you.”
“Damn it,” said his father. “I wanted to be out by myself for once. Oh well, but just back here, got that Sam?”
“Yes, thank you thank you thank you. Can I steer? A little?”
“No. It’s a motorboat. C’mon, let’s go.”
Sam was bouncing on the backseat of their wagon, excited to be doing something away from the cabin and on a motorboat, too. He imagined a sleek shiny fiberglass machine that could tow a water skier or one of those bass boats with all the contraptions he’d seen at the big sportsman’s show. His father had crawled all over one that one, checking its features and looking at the technical details. Sam was surprised when his father asked about the price, his car’s towing capacity, and thrilled when his father concluded with, “Do better on that price. I’ll think about it.”
“Dad, are you serious? Are we getting that boat?”
“Ha, did I convince you, too? No, we’re not getting a boat. We’re getting a flashlight. The coupon said ‘free Coleman light’ to serious buyers. I had to show I was serious, right?”
Sam’s smile disappeared. “I guess so,” he said then with some excitement, “I’d love a flashlight.”
“Who wouldn’t? Convince that guy you want to buy a boat!” His father was laughing when he said that. Sam tried to laugh, too.
They drove to the dock where the rental boats were stowed. A young man was working on an old Indian Silver Arrow outboard, just pulling the cord as they approached. The motor roared to life. “Beautiful, just beautiful,” he said. He turned toward Sam and his father. “Good morning gents, what can I do for you?”
Sam’s father eyed the rumbling Indian with a mix of suspicion and envy. “That’s an old thing,” he said.
“Yes, it is. It must be 70 years old if it’s a day. I pulled it from the storage barn and have been at it since last summer, rebuilding it from propeller on up. I’ve put about 125 hours into her!”
“Hell, if you’d worked those hours you could have bought a new one.”
“At least!” said the young man, “and a boat to go with her. But then I wouldn’t be able to boast that I restored a genuine Indian and that would be a shame.”
“I don’t know about that. Anyway, we’d like a boat. A motorboat.”
“You could work for 125 hours and own one, or rent one of these fellows,” he said as he waved his hand towards several old wooden boats with their outboards lifted out of the water. “They’re old but I keep them in shape, and they won’t leak a drop. You’ll like the sound, too. The wood’s at home in the water. We’ve got some aluminum ones, too. But they get hot in the sun and when you’re up and running the water bangs so loud it scares the fish. And the fishermen I bet. Wood, now the wood sounds like a quiet thud, like a footstep, or maybe a moccasin. These boats were made by a local guide, genuine Abenaki, and he knows fishing.”
“Dad, let’s get a wooden one. I like the sound they make!” said Sam.
“You’ve never heard them so how could you know?” said his father.
“But the man said….” Sam didn’t say anymore.
“You can call me Wes. And the fella’s right. He’ll like the sound; everyone knows a thud from a bang. Especially the fish.”
“Well, I don’t know. How much for a few hours?”
The young man pointed to a hand-painted sign; boats and motors, $25 – half-day, $40 – full day. Worms 10 -$2. Nightcrawlers 10 – $2.50. Rental rods included.”
“I’ll go for a half-day. If I stay out longer, it’s okay?”
“I’d like you to be more definitive. We worry about guests not being familiar with the big lake and if they stay out longer than planned, we have to go after them. And weather’s coming in tonight. Maybe sooner. Keep an eye out. ”
“Well, let’s say half-day with a really good chance it’ll be longer. “
“Your call Mister. Any particular choice?”
Sam’s father looked about and said they all looked pretty much the same. “Which catches the most fish?” he said half-jokingly.
“It’s the fisherman more than the boat, but I like that one at the end.”
Sam asked why. Wes explained the sun had burned off some water in the hull. “Less for me to bail!”
It was an old wooden one, painted in a dark green, with a flat bottom. It floated low in the water due to all the water in the hull, especially at the stern. Wes knelt on the dock and started to bail. “I’ll be a minute,” he said. “Why don’t you get yourselves some life vests and maybe seat cushions.”
“Do we absolutely need life vests?” asked Sam’s father.
“State law,” said Wes, “and common sense. This is the north country, and the weather can change on a dime.”
He continued to bail as Sam walked on the dock and saw something half-submerged in one of the canoes. “Mister, maybe this’ll help.”
“Leave him alone Sam, he doesn’t want to play guessing games.”
Wes looked to Sam. “You’re a genius you are. Bring her over here! That’s the pump! Where was it?”
“In that canoe,” said Sam. “It looks like my bicycle pump and I figured…it might be a water pump. From the hose on it.”
“Good thinking on you and good luck for me!”
He placed one end of the hose in the boat, stood up, and pumped away as water gushed from the other end. In less than five minutes the boat was dry.
“See Dad! I helped, I knew it was a pump.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said his Dad, lugging the cushions and vests down the dock.
Wes finished pumping, put the motor down, checked the gas, and pulled the cord. It roared to a blue smoky life. “All aboard,” he said with a smile. He hoisted Sam up and into the front of the boat. “It’s the best seat in the house,” he said. “You’ll feel all the bumps and get splashed, too” Sam’s eyes brightened.
Wes offered his hand to the Dad who waved it away, tossed the life preservers onto the floor, and tripped on the mooring rope as he fell in. “God damn it,” he said.
“Are you okay Mister? Here, let me help you.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just watch where you put those stupid ropes. Christ, right where people walk.”
“I’m sorry about that but it’s how we keep the boats secure. Can I get you a bandage? You cut your knee a bit.”
“I said I’m fine. Just untie us.”
“Sure thing. If you need anything, just come back and I’ll fix you up. Let me just get a first aid kit.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Sam watched all this from the bow but said nothing. He knew his dad was in one of those moods where you couldn’t win for losing. His mood changed as the boat left the dock and they raced onto the empty lake. They’d have the lake to themselves. And the fish.
“Look there, Dad!” Sam pointed to a big splash near some cattails. “There’s a fish.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sam kept looking, his hand positioned as if saluting to shade his eyes. He saw an osprey plummet and grab a fish near the shore. “Dad, lookee. That eagle got one. It’s an eagle I think!”
“Maybe so.”
They motored on and then stopped while his father cast his rod and handed it to Sam. “Just watch the bobber and don’t yank until it goes under. Got that? Don’t yank it.”
“Got it,” said Sam.
He watched the bobber hoping. His father, meanwhile, was spin casting and having a time. “Whoa! Got another!” He reeled a hefty pickerel, his third of the morning.
“Dad, can I try what you’re doing?”
“Not yet, not yet. You just watch…..Christ I got, wow, this is big!” He reeled in a three-pound small-mouth bass. “Man what a day.”
Sam looked down and thought there was a bit more water in the bottom of the boat and said as much. His father looked down and said, “You’re dreaming. If you’re worried put on that life vest.”
Which Sam did. It was stiff and smelled of mildew. Sam had trouble adjusting the straps and asked his dad to help. “Come over here then.” Sam edged over the middle seat and splashed a bit. “Dad, are we supposed to have this much water in it?”
“It’s nothing,” said his father. “That guy just was lazy about pumping it all out. Should have used a sponge.”
His father pulled in the straps and said, “Now back to business.” Sam sat watched his bobber when it started to jiggle back and forth. “Dad I got one!”
“No you don’t, he’s just playing with you. Let him take it under and then pull back, get ‘em on that way.”
Sam kicked lightly at the lapstrake siding and leaned over to pick at some punky wood on the floor. A trickle came and he tried to press it down. His father hadn’t noticed, and Sam said left well enough alone.
The bobber went under, and Sam pulled back, but the fish go off. “Dad, I lost it and it took my worm.”
“Aw, bring it over here then.” He put on another one. “Can you cast it yourself?”
“I think so.”
“Well then go ahead.”
Sam held the rod back and cast. The line hit the water in a series of loops. He looked to his father. “Reel it in slowly and try again,” his father said then turned to cast his rod. Sam did, recast, and managed to get it a bit further out His father, meanwhile, caught another fish. “Oh boy, oh boy! This is great.”
Sam lost a worm again, picked more at the punky wood while his father replaced the worm. He tossed the box to Sam. “You do it next time. Just put the hook through the worm a couple of times, and don’t hook yourself.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” said Sam.
They went at this for a couple of hours. Sam was thrilled to catch a few sunfish, and he managed to take them off the hook without help. His father said, “Tell their mama to start biting next time.” Sam yelled that with his next cast.
They motored about, in and out of coves, when Sam saw their cabin. “Dad, look! That’s our place.”
“Well what do you know,” he said and turned the boat towards their dock. Sam knew what was coming, knew that arguing wouldn’t help, but had to ask, “Dad, are we going in?
“Not we, my boy. You. I want a little alone time and, anyway, you’re not catching many fish, it can’t be much fun.”
“That’s okay. Really. I just like being on the boat. Let me get a can or something and I’ll get the water out. I won’t be a pain or anything.”
“Sam, I just want some daddy time, okay. Maybe I’ll come get you when I’m done and motor you over to the boat dock. What do you say?”
“Okay.”
The dad pulled the boat to the dock and Sam jumped out. His mother, hearing the motor, came onto the porch overlooking the lake and looked at Sam at the end of the dock making a half-hearted cast. “They could have had a day of it,” she thought.
Sam looked back as his father motored away, full throttle, and gave a wave. He trudged over the dock towards the cabin. “Catch anything?” his mother asked. “Just some sunnies. But dad caught a lot. He had on the right bait.” He again looked to the boat but could only make out the vee-shaped wake and the fading rumble of the motor. His mother’s eyes followed his gaze.
“Well, look, you still have your life vest on. Maybe we can get a boat of our own.”
“REALLY! Dad won’t be angry?”
“Why should he be angry? He’s having his fun, let’s have ours.”
Sam kept on his vest when he got into the car, but couldn’t get his seatbelt around it.
“Just leave it, Sam. We’re just going around to the boatyard. Our secret. “
Wes smiled as they walked down the dock.
“Now you look familiar! My pump boy and savior. You must be Mrs. Pumpboy. But where’s Mr. Pumpboy?”
“He wanted to fish alone. Way out on the lake somewhere and dropped me off at home.”
Wes looked to the west. The sky there was the color of steel. “He shouldn’t have done that without telling me. I’ve got two people registered for that boat and god forbid there’s a problem we’d be looking for two people. But, no matter, you’re here. So what can I do for you?”
Sam’s mother explained they wanted their own boat for a while so that Sam could catch some fish. Wes looked back out and shook his head. “I don’t like the look of those clouds. Expecting weather later tonight but those are coming in pretty quick.”
Sam looked down at the water, disappointed again. Wes was watching. “Tell you what. Take the rowboat for a bit. Just stay in sight of me and that flagpole. If a red flag goes up, you come in or I’ll get you. Fair?”
“FAIR!” said Sam. “Mom?”
“Okay by me.”
“Super. Now you don’t need to go far at all if you’re fishing. Those cattails over by that point are a good spot. Just fish off the weeds. You’ll see. You’re the only ones out today anyway.”
“There’s my dad.”
“Oh yeah, mustn’t forget about him, but he’s off somewhere and won’t bother your fish. Here’s a trick. When you catch the big ones, keep the rod tip up and let them play. It’ll keep the line from breaking. ”
Wes ushered them into an aluminum jon boat with an electric motor explaining how simple it was to use. “Let Sam give it a try.” “Mom?” pleaded Sam. His mother had a smile in her eyes. “Sure.”
She pushed off the dock while the young man pushed with a pole and Sam twisted the throttle gently to get going. The boat veered back to the dock, bumping into it. Sam looked up to the young man expecting to be yelled at, but the young man was laughing. “Try turning it in the other direction now that you’ve learned it’s got reverse! Here, like this.” They spun into the lake, did some circles, and Sam maneuvered it to the dock as the young man jumped off. “You got it, son. Now go catch some dinner!”
They drifted along the cattails and Sam’s mom baited the hooks on the two rods Wes had given them. She cast one, handed it to Sam, and baited the other and cast that, too.
“Got one!” shouted Sam as the bobber went under. He pulled up on the rod, hooking the fishing, and reeled it in. A small pickerel. His mother handed him the other rod while she took the fish off and threw it back. “Bring your big brother over,” she said.
“I got another, whoa!” said Sam when a few minutes later the bobber went deep and the rod bent. The fish pulled it to the left and the right taking line out as it headed towards the weeds. “Keep the rod up, Sam,” his mother urged. “Reel slowly.”
He did, and when the fish got close to the boat, it charged back out. Back and forth it went, tiring itself and Sam. When Sam brought it in his mother yelled. “Holy moly! Look at the size of that!” It was a large-mouth bass, a good 20 inches, and fat as a football.”
“Let’s let it go, Mom,” said Sam.
“Good idea. We’ll catch it next year when it’s even bigger!”
Several fish later, they heard a horn blow. Looking up they noticed the red flag flapping in the stiffening wind and Wes motoring over. “Sorry to call you in, but the wind’s picking up and those clouds you know. How’d you do?” he asked. Sam could barely get out the words, stuttering about the bass and how they let it go. “A true outdoorsman,” he said. “Putting them back is the right thing if you don’t plan to eat them. I like that.”
As he tied the boat to the dock and lifted out the motor’s battery, he looked out the lake squinting to see into the distance. “Hold on for a sec.” He jogged to the office, returning with a pair of binoculars, scanning the lake. “Don’t see him,” he said. “If he doesn’t come in soon, he’s going to be one wet father of my Pumpboy.”
“Is he okay?”
“Give him some time. He can see those clouds, too. Might just call the local ranger if he’s not back in a few.”
On the far side of the lake, Sam’s father unhooked another fish and slammed it against the gunwales, stunning it and then tossing it into the hold with a half dozen others. They flapped about in the water that had collected, half alive. “Keep ‘em fresh,” thought Sam’s father as he cast again.
The wind picked up and pushed the boat further down the lake. This was national forest land; there wasn’t a cabin in sight. The boat was tossed about in the building waves and only when one rogue splashed into the boat did Sam’s father realize how much water had collected in the bottom. He saw a leak bubbling in up near the bow, spreading shreds of punky wood around the bottom.
The water was now over the soles of his shoes, allowing the empty bottle of Dr. Pepper to float back and forth as the boat turned in the wind. It was, he sensed, time to go in. He pulled the cord on the motor. It turned over, briefly, before sputtering out. He pulled again, but it was taut, frozen, and he hurt his hand as it flew off the handle. He tried again. And again. “God damn it, “ he said to no one but himself. “God damn it!”
He tried to see the marina, but he’d gone miles off. He’d have to row back, at least try, unless that guy – what was his name? – came and got him. He should. He said he would. It was his job. Les, that was it. His name was Les.
He was trying to fit the oars in their locks when the little boat was lifted by another large wave knocking Sam’s father into the still flapping fish and forcing him to drop the oars. His pants were soaked now and he was asking himself if that wave had brought in so much more water. He got back up to see the oars in the water, a few feet behind the boat. “Damn!” he yelled to the sky. “DAMN!!”
The one oar was close. He grabbed into the water, retrieving it and soaking his shirtsleeve. He moved over to the other side, the windward side, to get at the second oar. It was a good 20 feet away as the wind pressed against the side of the boat, pushing on it while that oar just stayed in place. He tried to reach it with the other oar, slapping it on without a hope of getting to its twin, until he lost both his balance and the one oar.
More waves splashed water into the boat even before the rain came. Two of the fish were no longer flapping in agony, but swimming about in water that was over his ankles. He looked about for a bucket, found none, and tried to bail using his cupped hands. Each time he leaned over to do so, another wave brought in even more water.
The wind was blowing harder. It was taking the boat and its shivering occupant down toward the farthest end of the lake. The boat seemed to barely move, weighted down with water, inching with the wind. He looked around for something, anything, and thought he saw in the distance a motorboat bouncing up against the waves coming towards him. He stood up to wave the orange life preserver as a signaling flag and yelled, pleading, “Help” to the boat which seemed to have slowed to ease its progress through the rough water. He stopped when he realized the boat was a rock.
The wave that hit him wasn’t huge, but it was enough to topple Sam’s father over the side. He gulped in lake water and sputtered to the surface, twisting around for the life preserver now floating some 10 feet away and the boat, swamped to the gunwales. He dog paddled to it, holding the side as it started to slip under, and noticed the two fish he’d caught swimming, leaving a trickle of blood from where he’d hooked them.
He wanted that preserver more than anything else. He needed it. Sam had his, he was wearing it. He’d be fine. But he needed that one. He was dazed, but determined and flailed forward, the waves cresting over him every few feet. The preserver kept pace with his glacial pace. He was losing it, he knew; his swimming became feeble, disjointed. He was seeing things, boats, preservers, Sam waving, his wife shaking her head. There’d be hell to pay. He almost smiled at the hallucination. It was a huge fish, a massive Northern Pike, its teeth baring in a mouth opened as wide as a bucket.
“It’s good to see you, Sam. Your mom wrote to say she was renting the cabin again. How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, okay is good. Good enough anyway. I’ve thought a lot about you.”
“That rod was the best birthday gift I got. How did you know I wanted one?”
“Oh, I just knew. You were so keen on fishing last year, when, you know. When it happened. Sorry to have mentioned that. I’m such an idiot.”
“No, it’s okay. I mean, it’s funnier for people talking about it. Like they’re, Mom says, awkward, but I’m okay. It’s hard. Harder for other people than even me.”
“You’re quite the fellow, Sam. Teaching me stuff.”
Wes pointed down the dock to a wooden motorboat, whose newly painted dark green hull reflected the sunlight off the water.
“That’s my boat. Built over the winter and kept it at my house. I didn’t want the tourists insisting on renting it.”
“It’s beautiful! Look at the wood inside!”
“Yup, varnished three times. Epoxy on the seams.”
“What do you call it?”
“Look on the transom.”
Sam walked quickly over and read the words: ”Sam’s Choice”
“Yup. So what do you choose?”
“Huh?”
“Well, do you want to man the oars or steer the motor? We’re going fishing.”
Sam caught eight that day. Wes didn’t even put a rod in the water.