A Cup of Conversation – by Michael Kell

As a young boy, I liked to sit in the bow of the small aluminum fishing boat. I liked the wind in my face and the way the boat’s design let me sit just a little higher than my older brother sitting in the center seat next to me. Most of all, I liked the space between me and the Captain, a space that let me daydream safely out of sight, at least in my own mind from the ever-watchful eyes of my father seated on the other side of my brother. Dad was no nonsense in every respect, a hard-working man who loved to play and cherished his time away from the grind. In childhood I never gave much thought to why he didn’t spend his free time with peers instead preferring the company of his boys. As a man, I now understand a great many more things including the timeless dynamics of a good father and his sons.

Recently I had a chance to re-visit the boat with my Dad, just the two of us. My beloved brother didn’t make the trip which was fine this time around. Older brothers have a way of detracting attention from father and younger brothers. I don’t know why but they do, especially first-born older brothers. In the early days, it was welcome relief to have the older running cover for the younger especially in the teen years. Now with Dad staring down eighty, I treasure the rare one-on-one with the Old Man. Time has a cold way of slipping away at unguarded moments, especially in the latter years when precious minutes cannot repeat and fade into only memories.

When I was eight, and not paying attention as I’d cast the rod too high and end up in the branches of a giant Sycamore along the lake shoreline, the Captain of the boat would pretend he didn’t see my dilemma and make no effort whatsoever to bring the boat around to relieve my bondage. Older brother would silently shake his head as I struggled quietly as possible to free myself from the unyielding branch. Just beneath the giant trees guarding the shore were huge bass lurking under the surface. We only had one shot at these lunker fish and trophy bass have no tolerance for eight-year-old daydreamers casting foolishly into the stratosphere. Dad had little time to take away from catching big fish by unraveling his son’s careless snags, yet whenever we would hang-up in the weeds after a well-focused attempt, Dad would always put his rod down and go free his sons’ from trouble. Lessons on the water, in the duck-blind, or on the golf course, were always the same. Life is best taught in the scarcity of words, by example and through consistency. In young adulthood, I struggled in the boat and found occasion to jump out a time or two and experience the chill of deep waters but rebel seasons are growing pains soon addressed by the humbling gravity of manhood.

Today, the tides have changed a degree or two and the years have taken a toll on an old man’s eyes and hands. Once-steely precision handling of rod and reel has given way to something less exacting. Now the errant cast of an old captain is absorbed in the inevitable passing of time. As the sun begins to set on the river of his years, trophies are of far lesser consequence except the trophy of precious hours spent with his youngest son. My father still out-fishes me, less steady hands and all, so the lessons continue and thank Goodness for that.

Posted July 10, 2008