Fish Out of Water

I didn’t want to come on this trip. I planned to spend this weekend wrapped up in a swirl of cotton sipping a hot drink with an audiobook whispering through my headphones while I napped beside the fireplace.

“It’s time we did some father and son bonding, don’t cha think?” Phil always managed to sucker me into doing things I had no interest in. Now I’m stuck here, in the middle of the woods with no bathroom, no electricity, and no way home until tomorrow.

“Does it have to be fishing?” I groaned. I could get past the camping; it was just a weekend after all. I liked being outdoors and I even enjoyed the tent camping at times. I brought two short novels along with me to read at bedtime under the light of a dusty battery-operated lantern.

“You bet your ass!” I shook my head at Phil’s enthusiasm. “That’s the way we always dun it in our family.” I twinged when he sucked his teeth. I would have been happy to go to a movie with him or hit up a video arcade, hell, I’d even be okay tossing around a baseball, but I hated the idea of fishing. I imagined holding one of those slimy things and shuddered.

It was our last night in the woods and in Phil’s family tradition was fish night. I had to help catch and then skin and gut and cook whatever was caught. Well, that was the plan anyway. I helped dad row the boat out to a spot on the small lake that he deemed acceptable. I laid my oar down, and dad did the same before handing me a sleek, black fishing rod. I can’t remember the name of the brand, but dad swore up and down that they had the best gear.

I feigned a smile and Phil flipped open the tackle box. The lures were shining, sharp, and sure. I watched them glittering in the hot sun and I felt my heart rate go up a little bit. I gulped and dad popped open a plastic container of dirt.

I twitched as the worms squirmed and tried to pull my head into my shoulders as they wriggled their bodies around digging into the dirt. I felt nauseous when Phil held the hook steady in his hand. I could see he was a man on a mission. But I wanted to be home. I felt sweat beads gather up on my brow and drip down the side of my face.

I wet my lips and gulped. Phil had spotted the perfect worm. “Plump and juicy," he said. I nodded but couldn't control the grimace on my face. Dad just laughed it off anyway. I grounded my teeth and closed my eyes, and he pierced the helpless wiggler with his sparkling hook. I winced and hissed.

I gasped and dad swung back his pole. I heard the sharp whoosh cut through the air and the worm plop into the water. I felt my heart sinker lower, but the air grew hotter. I felt numbness radiating from my toes to the tips of my finger and a piercing cold sting.

I saw my dad drop his pole and I heard him call my name. I watched as dad’s frame shrank to ambiguous shapes and shadows. I couldn't catch my breath. I sucked the air loudly and pushed it back out quickly. I gripped my chest right above my heart and glimpsed past dad to see his pole bouncing off the surface of the lake before slinking down to the murky depths.

“Eric!” I heard dad’s panic ringing through my head. And then I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was laying in the back of dad’s Jeep. The engine was humming, and I could smell the dampness of the wet tent. I don't know when the rain had started but I could hear the patter still beating against the roof of the car. I listened to that patter and kept my eyes closed until Phil pulled up to the emergency room entrance.

I was discharged two hours later after some IV fluids, and I was prescribed a low dose anxiety medication to prevent future attacks.

"Who the fuck takes drugs for anxiety?" I rested against the cold glass. I felt the wetness of the water droplets through the window. "Stupid fuckin' made-up yankee bullshit." I ignored his ill-placed muttering the whole drive home. That was the last time dad took me fishing. It was the last time I went camping with him, too.