The Last Big One

Dale drove down the overgrown drive to a house he could just barely see. Glimpses of the lake flashed through big old oaks on either side of the truck. He slowed a little to savor it, remembering his fond envy for the place. Not in a mean way, no, nothing malicious at all. He just wanted to live in a place like it someday. He smiled at that thought knowing down deep it might not happen. It was just too special, too individual. He would have to buy his own, or make his own, or build his own, not just step in here and take this one. It wasn't his to possess and he knew it. Somehow he felt the place knew it too.

He came to the end of the drive and turned by the mailbox he had built out of scrap metal and painted to look like a green and white bass jumping over the top of it. It wasn't pretty or really very well done, but Dad kept it because his son had given it to him. As he passed the postal monument to fishing he felt a little guilty that he hadn't spent more time on it.

The tires crunched on gravel when he turned and came to a stop in the driveway looking right into the garage door in front and the dining room window on the right. Dale could actually see the blue lake through the glass, through the living room, and across the porch. The windows did the house great justice, always reminding that the lake is just right here. Like it was saying, ‘go ahead, visitor, and stare at me all you want.’

He parked and stepped out making sure he had phone and keys and reached behind the seat to retrieve his travel fishing pole. It was an inexpensive way to fish wherever he found himself. Just a thing his Dad did that rubbed off on him. The pole telescoped and so made a small easy to carry pack. At the moment it had a spinnerbait on it as that was his preferred lure with which to scout whatever mysterious waters he might come across. He carried it with him following the driveway circling around the house to the walkway that led out to the fishing dock. The lake lot was kind of a pizza slice shaped place so the docks were on the point and one to each side. The one on the left was the pump dock, the middle the fishing dock, and the one on the right the boat dock. These docks were old and existed there way before Dad owned the place. He did add to them though, making them his as he made them more individual. They had his personality.

The boat dock on the right was the oldest of the three and the most intact from the previous owner. When Dad first bought the place there were two or three huge catfish heads mummified and nailed up on the inside wall. There were also old nets, ropes, sash weights for trotlines, myriad floats, and lots of old plastic bottles with unreadable markings on the sides. It was the leftovers of eras old ways to fish and to keep trophies. Days when money was tighter and fishermen made do with what they had. Nothing like today where most tackle is bought from the sporting goods store. Money just wasn't spent like that in the old days.

Dale stopped and sat down on the back porch steps to take in the view, his travel rod rested in his lap. The yard was covered in giant old oaks and a few cypress trees down to the water’s edge. Even on this warm early spring day, it was cool in the shade. He imagined for a second his Dad sitting in this very spot and being able to see out of his eyes for a moment. Instead of receiving some understanding, it felt strangely like he was prying in someone else's memories. Like he was picking up someone’s personal stuff that was never offered in the first place and looking closely at it. No matter how he did it, the motion would look bad and seem like he was searching for some long lost price tag, thereby judging the worthiness of everything, when he only wanted to see who made this thing, where it came from, how heavy was it, what was it made of. A small gesture to try and understand the man who owned it before now. Still, it looked bad, like meddling.

Dale broke out of his reverie and looked at the nearby neighbor houses to see if they were looking. Even after all this time he still felt like he was trespassing and should go report to them that he was there. It didn't matter that the house and property were legally his now. No, that didn't matter at all.

He stood, studied the yard, and made a face. Dad would have hated to see the grass barely alive since the sprinklers hadn't been turned on. Dale turned, climbed the porch and found the sprinkler control box, and plugged it into the wall. He covered his eyes a bit to look into the electronic window. It was on. Now to see if it was working. He adjusted the sprinkler switch to test run and waited, watching the yard. Nothing happened. He turned it on and off and tried again. Nothing.

He stood there for a long moment wondering what Dad would do. He then turned, walked down the stairs to the walk, and went out to the boathouse. The boat was long gone, of course, the wide straps hanging down from the top of the structure, but the building still housed mysterious little boxes, a few milk crates, various sizes of oil cans, ropes, floats, odd nets, and a water pump near the back. Thankfully, there were no sleepy water moccasins lying around.

Again, Dale was stopped by the feeling of intrusion. He was never invited back here because Dad took care of all this. There was never any need for him to know anything about it. He smiled for a second. Dad didn't know it would go down like this, leaving everything like a giant puzzle for his oldest son to figure out.

He looked overhead at the boat lift and saw that it was unplugged. He would leave it like that. He then edged around the small step, perilously narrow, since it was built to walk around a boat. He had to hang on to the cross supports to keep from falling in the water that lapped below his feet. He edged up to an old water pump that was obviously unplugged, the wires dangling. He knew Dad would drain it during the last winter. He had heard him talking about it, but he never actually detailed the process.

Dale saw a piece of plastic pipe with a rope on it hanging from the wall. He pulled it down and looked inside. It was attached to a wall support. He supposed his Dad used it as a bail for water. No other way to get water from below his feet up to the pump to prime it. About hip-high was a plain water spigot. He turned the handle and discovered that it was already on. He figured It must have helped empty the pump last fall. He closed it. Then on closer inspection found a drain plug missing from the bottom of the pump. Without that, the pump would never work.

‘Where's the plug Dad?” He asked the boathouse as he looked over every nook and cranny on the pump itself. He saw nothing that would help. He then looked at the floor where he was standing and saw only a piece of hose and the remains of an old paddle. He smiled. Pop could never stand to throw away something he deemed collectible. Maybe he hoped to build something out of it someday.

He turned to study the old gray wall itself. Pieces of rope, bobbers, old lures, fishing lines with stray hooks, an old paper can of motor oil. He reached up and tilted it to see that it was unopened. A genuine collectible antique. No telling how long it had been in that spot. A surprise find right behind the curve of the can. An old square head plug. Right above it on a small nail an equally small Crescent wrench. Dale grabbed the plug and very carefully with both hands screwed it into the bottom of the pump. He noted that his Dad had greased it up to make it easy to install and to keep it from rusting offseason. He looked for a rag and saw one on another hook. It was impossibly dirty and old. He had to be careful wiping his hands since the threads shredded into the air in a small cloud that rained down to the water.

He turned to a larger plastic plug on top of the pump and on top of the inlet pipe. It was hand tight so he screwed it out. He was suddenly scared of dropping the plug into the lake so he crammed it into his pants so his belt held it. Then he picked up the makeshift bail and dropped it into the water. It took a moment to lie over and fill up. When it was about half full he pulled it up and poured into the top hole on the pump. It gurgled and bubbled until all the water was gone. He repeated the process and filled the pump up to the top, hung the bail off the top of the pump, and installed the top plug, again with both hands.

He stood for a moment looking at his handy work. The pump should be ready to go.

“Is it ready to go to work Dad? Your grass is awful thirsty.” Dale reached up and plugged the pump into the wall outlet.

Nothing happened. He sighed, “Really Dad?” Then pulled the plug out and put it into the other side of the outlet.

Again nothing. He turned and sidled back out of the small walkway to the front of the boathouse. He wondered if there was power to the boathouse at all. There was a light switch by the boat entry area. The light didn't work, but that could just be a dead bulb. He turned and walked back to the boat lift and plugged it in, then tapped the up and down arrows. Nothing.

Dale sighed again. Hopefully, nothing was wrong with the circuit itself. He didn't have the time to search it out to fix it; he would have to call an electrician which was further problematic since he couldn't spare the time to hang around to supervise.

He walked out of the boathouse and up the incline to the other side of the property to Dad’s shop. He began to dig his keys out of his pocket as he walked. He hunted through them looking for an old worn one with a hen scratched S on it. Dale walked up to the old shop which was a nice word for practically a hoarders paradise, at least as far as tools, parts, nuts, bolts, is concerned. Dad had gathered up every conceivable thing that might have a future use in some manner. He was always repairing something a neighbor had thrown away. One man’s junk was definitely Dad’s treasure.

Dale unlocked the old knob and opened the door. He stopped for a moment to take in the jumble. There were barely organized items hanging from the ceiling to the stacked boxes on the floor. He saw the mass of hand tools hanging on the wall. Twenty or thirty screwdrivers presented themselves to him in every color handle. He walked over to them to look closer. A great many had been worn to the point that they should have been thrown away. Dale smiled. Dad would never have thrown away even a barely working screwdriver. Who knew when the blunt point might be perfect for a damaged screw head somewhere in the future? He turned to a secondary room with a cracked glass door, probably found in the neighborhood dump. Opening it allowed him to smell the full effect of sawdust of every kind, wood chips, paint, dye, sealer, and something old and musty. It was then that he noticed the whole place smelled old and musty. The floor was slightly mushy when he walked into the small space. It was Dad’s carving room. The work table itself was only about 3 x 3 and had an assortment of gouges, knives, razors, and other cutting tools unknown to anyone but an actual carver. Dale had only shown polite interest in Dad’s carving so he had never had much of it explained to him. There were grinders and sharpeners of all kinds on the right and an index file on the back wall full of tiny pieces and parts that would help make the little people Dad always whittled out of found wood. Living on the lake provided a trove of driftwood. There were several half-finished wooden people on the desk so he picked up the one he liked the most and put it in his pocket. The family could choose from the finished painted pieces. Dale liked the idea that Dad’s work wasn't finished. It made him seem less gone.

He turned to the left wall and there was the breaker box for all the outdoor stuff. Opening it he saw that all the breakers were flipped off for the yard lights and for the docks. He methodically switched them all on and walked out of the building and down to the boathouse again. As he entered it, he paused to flip the light switch. Still nothing. He then plugged the boat lift in and tapped on the up arrow on the controller. The geared wheel spun and the straps tightened. He smiled and hit the down arrow to loosen it all. Finally got power to the boathouse, but ought to change the light bulb.

“It all makes sense Pop, why have the power on at all in the winter?” He spoke to the air right above his forehead as if that would be the place his Pop might reside. He went back to the water pump and reached up to plug it in. He hoped the water he added previously to prime it was still high enough. The pump started and hummed, not showing much else for his labor. He turned away and walked carefully to the dock of the boathouse and beheld with wonder the entire yard sprinkling system shooting every which a way. While it was all working, a few of the sprinkler heads weren't moving in the circles they were supposed to make. He could fix those. He knew Dad loved messing with the sprinklers and had it all homemade. He would never have paid someone to do this kind of work.

Dale ducked and dodged the water sprinkles till he got back to the porch. It was about 10 am so figured he would let the yard soak up the water for a while yet. People were coming in a few days to look at the house. It would be nice to have shiny green grass when they looked at the place. Watching the water march around the yard he spied a sprinkler head that wasn't turning. He ran out and dislodged it from itself. It had a spring thing that actually kept the head turning that must have gotten stuck from lack of use. After all, it had sat there all winter doing nothing since the pump was off. Dale ducked here and dodged there making sure all the sprinklers were working. He laughed at himself as he mistimed one and got shot all over as he ran away like a boy. Winding up on the porch again he reached down and picked up his travel rod and began to plot the path through all the arching showers of shooting water to the fish house dock. It was the furthest out and so would also be the one that caused him to get the wettest. He ran for it. The dock itself was dry so he slowed down and tramped out to the fish house. He tried to slow down and walk quietly but his steps shook the whole thing no matter. There was the basket tied to the back of the fish house for holding the catch and keeping it live till you wanted to bring them in. In the case of not catching enough to make a meal, you could always let them go to catch another day. He noted the rope was old and frayed and resolved to change it on one of the trips if he made it back. He rounded the edge of the house at the end of the dock and brushed a huge amount of spider webs out of his face. Such is lake living that granddaddy long legs were everywhere close to the water. On the other hand, they probably removed millions of bugs from the vicinity. For people not used to it, the spiders were disconcerting.

He opened the screen door and walked into the fish house. The house itself wasn't very big, maybe 8x8. The inside offered quite a history of fishing equipment hanging from every possible square inch of space. Dale knew that most of it was found floating up after storms or laying on the side of the road. It's amazing the things that blow out of pickup trucks near lakes.

The rack by the door held Dad’s favorite fishing rods and reels, all of which were already rigged up with the best lures for the occasion. Dale saw that Dad had one rigged up with a dark blue plastic worm. It looked old and beaten up. He wondered how many fish it had caught. turning he looked at the rigging table that had all the hooks, weights, extra line, swivels, every color of plastic worm, and then a smorgasbord of different color crappie jigs. He saw a package of purple worms and took one. It was greasy and slick in his hand. He began to set his travel pole up, extending it and then running the line that had been wrapped around the handle for carrying. He carefully threaded it through the rod eyes, slipped on the weight, then tied the hook he found while rummaging around on the table. He then carefully ran the hook through the purple worm till the sharp end was hidden in the worm itself, but wouldn't give it an unnatural movement when pulled through the water. It had to be just right or the fish wouldn't bite it. He smiled to himself since it was something Dad had taught him a long time ago.

Finishing with the knot, he backed out the screen door and walked down to the corner of the dock. Out from this vantage point were the fish. No one knew why, but they were caught most often right here. Dale reared back with the rod tip well behind and over his head and fired the lure as far out as it would fly. It fell pretty close to where he had planned it, so he waited a moment for the lure to settle to the bottom, and then slowly, ever so slowly, began to reel it back towards him. He could feel every feature of the bottom of the lake transmitted down the length of the fishing line. Felt like moss one moment, reel a bit, then it felt like the lure was crossing over a tree limb. He waited after it fell on the side of the unseen tree limb and began reeling slowly again. He brought it all the way in this way with nary a nibble. He cast back out slightly to the right of where he had cast before and reeled back in the same, slow, deliberate manner.

Nothing.

He continued casting and reeling and occasionally glanced at his watch. He couldn't stay very long as he had a long drive back home waiting on him. Seemed like he had to drive halfway across Texas. He visualized Dad perched on this same dock, in this same spot, trying to catch a big one to call and tell Dale about. It was the way of fishermen. You couldn't just catch a big fish and not tell somebody about it. Dad had lived on the lake long enough that unless conditions were perfect he didn't fish. Too windy, wait till this evening, too hot, wait till tonight, raining, fish tomorrow. The day you fish doesn't matter when you live on the lake. There will always be another day. Dad’s days though, we're used up. His time here was finished. The thought sobered Dale for some time as he kept casting his lure here and there, mechanically now, not expecting any bites at all, enjoying the work of it. He quickly glanced at the sprinklers and back at his watch. He would tell the realtor that the sprinkler system was working and the grass would need cutting in a few days.

He sighed and reeled the lure slowly up to his feet and lifted it from the water. He tightened it up to his rod tip so it wouldn't get hung up on anything and took a big breath only to let it out as another slow sigh. He rested his gaze on the far horizon and watched a pleasure boat blink in and out of the waves as it motored by. It was so far out he couldn't see how many people were on it. He liked to think they were partying and having a great time. It was what the lake was for, enjoying.

Dale turned around and went back into the fish house. The screen door slammed after him. He tidied the rigging area up for no reason at all except the next fisherman might have an easier time of it. They would need that box of little chrome swivels or these different sizes of split lead sinkers. All the hooks in one spot, a few bobbers for the children over here, a small minnow net where they could see it. He would leave the antique rods up high on the wall for some future collector. He then paused and realized he was stretching this whole process out.

“Sorry Pop. I've done everything I can do. If it's not enough, show me. Please.” He spoke to the quietness in the little room right above his head. His eyes dampened and he started shaking his head no, that this wasn't how he wanted to leave this small holy place, his glance fell on Dad’s favorite rod and reel still rigged up on the stand. He reached over and hefted it shaking the tip to get the feel of it. The plastic worm looked beat up and war-weary so Dale grabbed another brand new one from the bag on the rigging table and threaded it on the hook. He then reeled the slack line up and placed the rod back on the rack. It would be ready for the next fisherman.

”Is that enough Daddy?”

He stood there for a moment to see if there was anything else he felt compelled to do. This was Dad and Mom’s place for so long they seemed to actually be part of it. He couldn't change anything much.

No messages from Dad or the universe that he could see, Dale grabbed up his travel rod and a few choice lures and opened the screen door. Somehow, during the load up and turning to get out, his shirt sleeve got caught on the new worm on Dad’s rod. He laughed out loud.

“Really Pop? Alright, alright.” He laid down everything and picked up the old rod and reel, unhooked himself, and took it out of the building then onto the walkway. He flexed the rod and felt the balance of it. It was excellent. Maybe he would take it with him after all. But first, he would make a couple casts with it. The sprinklers could run a few more minutes.

Dale reared back with the rod and made a long cast, as far as he could throw, way out past a distant tree stump. The breeze at his back helped the lure fly way out there. He let it settle and again began to meditate on the life of his father.

He had arranged everything to make this place happen. It was his dream home; a reward for working hard and doing without when necessary. Dale hoped his own work-life mirrored his Dad’s, but somehow, knew it couldn't. It was two different things, two different people, with one common denominator: persistence. He thought, ‘A hard-headed father raises a hard-headed son’ and smiled not knowing if he had just made that up or had read it somewhere. Dale knew he would do well, but he would do it differently from Dad.

His attention drifted out and away from the actual fishing and that's why he missed the strike the first time. When the fish hit the worm it caused an electric shock up the line to the rod and back to the reel, instantly snapping his attention to the front. He stopped reeling and let the lure lie for a few seconds, every muscle on high alert, as he tried to feel what the fish telegraphed. Slowly, he cranked the handle and brought the bait back in his direction. He paused again, then twitched the rod tip, which also twitched the purple worm on the bottom of the lake. He waited.

Nothing.

Dale cranked the reel ever so slowly till the lure surfaced the water at his feet.

”Dang Daddy!”

He allowed himself a wry smile and noted this is the difference between fishing and catching. Daddy had always told him to work on his catching. He stole another glance at his watch and cast once more even farther out. This was his last cast then he would be forced to say goodbye to the place. Time was running out.

The lure splashed, settled, and the ripples spread out till he couldn't see them anymore. He cranked, just barely, when the big one hit the lure.

As usual, when a fish strikes, Dale found himself frozen at inattention. He let the line lay limp. It didn't move. With another grin, he twitched the rod tip and instantly felt an electric shock through the line and all the way back up to the rod handle. He dropped the rod tip, held the crank, and yanked the rod back clear over his head. It curved and arced then dived violently back to the surface. Dale grunted as the fish pulled the rod tip all the way back down to the water’s surface, and then dipped into it. He was surprised he didn't seem to have the strength to hold the rod up. This was when the drag began to let out little by little. At this moment he realized, this fish was large; a big one.

He held the rod without letting any slack get in the line and watched the fish moving sideways. He yanked the rod again to make sure the hook was settled into the jaw and felt the fish pull away like nothing he had ever felt before. While the fish was underwater he had to visualize what it was doing. At the moment, he thought it was slowly swimming in a semi-circle at about the end of his casting length. It would shake its head every so often, but Dale’s steady pull was doing nothing to bring the fish any closer.

His drag clicked slowly indicating a large fish that maybe didn't even know it was hooked. Then his drag sped up and it appeared the fish was going straight away from him. He reached down and tightened the drag to the point that he began to worry the line might break. No telling how old this line was anyway. It had been on this rod for at least a year. The clicking continued for several seconds then slowed to a stop. Dale wondered what on earth he had hooked. A big old Opelousas Cat? Or a Grennel? Maybe a big old gar? Everybody knew at least one story of a giant hundred-year-old gar tearing up somebody’s tackle. On the other hand, Dad had mentioned a big one he had hooked a couple of times in the 30 plus years he had lived here. He said both times he thought he was hung up till it started to shake its head and move away. It could even be one of those huge loggerhead turtles. They got pretty big too. Dad said once he saw a flash of green and white in the water when it got close. No other fish is green like that except a largemouth bass in this lake. Plus, most of those other fish would never hit a plastic purple worm.

He reeled his line in slowly and figured the fish was coming towards him. Suddenly he found himself reeling like mad to take up the slack as fast as possible. Just as he got the line caught up the fish was within 15 or 20 feet out and kept on coming. Dale reeled up hard and tried to pull the fish to the surface. It didn't seem to notice, and kept on coming, making his drag click every so often when he reeled up tight. He lifted up on the rod again just as the big one neared the dock edge. Then slowly, ever so slowly, like a slow-motion movie, he felt his rod tip being pulled down towards the water, lower and lower. He desperately held the rod up as much as possible as it bent over till it touched the surface. Ripples ran away from the tip. Impossibly his rod bent more and more, now bending up underneath the wooden edge of the dock when finally, the tip broke the last 12” of the pole. The line loosened for a second then went tight again and snapped. Dale was holding the rod with such lifting force that the pole jerked straight up pointing in the sky. He let out his breath with an explosion, not realizing he had been holding it the whole time.

He stood for a moment looking at the pole and the water feeling his heart slow down from the battle.

”Damn, Dad! I never thought I would get a chance at the big one.” He leaned the pole up against the building and set down on the bench. He surprised himself that he was actually shaking a little and sat down on the dock bench. He stared into the air above his forehead.

“Lord, I've asked this before, but please take care of my Dad. He was a good man here on this earth and will make a good one for you in heaven.” His eyes dampened again.

“Thanks, Pop. If you had anything to do with this, thanks again, for everything.” Dale stood up and opened the screen door, carefully placing the now broken rod with all of its stories back into the rack. He glanced around the little fish house once more and shut the door firmly so the wind wouldn't catch it. Grabbing up his travel rod, he walked back down the dock, trying to remember everything about it, all the details. Then, facing the shooting arcs of water, ran like a boy and jumped and dodged all the sprinklers till he got back to the porch. Miraculously he became a man again, climbing the steps to the controller and shut the sprinklers off, and set them to come on every third day and closed the little door to keep the weather out.

He walked back out to Dad’s shop, stood looking through the door, still feeling like he was prying, and finally shut it and locked it for the last time. He walked to the front of the house and climbed in his pick-up. He dropped the travel pole in the passenger floorboard and cranked the engine, then remembered, and dug out the little unfinished carving from his pocket and placed it on his dash facing him.

“There you go, you can go with me Pop. Always.” He backed up the driveway and turned around to look at the blue of the water as it glistened through all the windows of the house and called out.

“I love you Pop!” And he drove off down the overgrown driveway with the blue of the lake flashing through the trees to what was his home now, so different, that seemed half-way across Texas.

End