Into the Fog

My father shook me awake and while I struggled to focus in the dark, he whispered, “Come on. The fish are waiting.” I sat up and pivoted. I scooched across the bed until my feet touched the cool, wooden floor. The squeaky springs of the bed ejected me toward the bedroom door.

It was still dark outside, damp, and through the fog I could barely see the silhouette of my father preparing the boat from the dock. From inside the musty cottage where my mother and sisters slept I could hear Smokey, our black lab. She was barking because she went most everywhere with my father, but apparently there would be no invite to go fishing on the foggy lake at 5am.

“We need to go before the dog wakes everybody up.” My father ordered in the darkness. “Did you pee?”

“Yes.” I lied as I stepped onto the dock. My father handed me a life jacket. “Put this on. You remember how, right?”

“Yes.” I lied again. I pulled the life jacket over my head and was immediately hung up in the straps. My father wrestled me free of it and pulled it down roughly over my head. He jerked the strap tight around me and clasped the front. He handed me a towel.

“Dry your seat. I don’t want you crying about a wet butt.” My father stepped into the boat and untied us. He leaned over and with a grunt he gave a shove that spun the boat in the direction we were apparently going. From up in front he started the motor and we sputtered our way out onto the lake and into the fog. I took a look toward the cottage and noticed a light on. Smokey’s barking must have woke my mother after all.

When we were far enough away from the cottage, my father throttled the engine. The cool air blew my hair while the fog moistened my face. I held my arm down off the side of the boat and touched the warm spray of the lake. After a few minutes of driving straight out into the mystery, the nothingness created by the fog, my father made a sweeping turn with the boat and cut the engine.

“This looks perfect. Whatta ya think?” He asked, already going for the anchor. I looked around. I could barely see my father, let alone determine whether or not it was a good spot to fish.

“Perfect.” I lied again.

With his foot, my father pushed the carton of worms toward me. “No bobber today. It’s too foggy. I got your line set up with a couple sinkers. Let it sink to the bottom, then reel it tight. Cool?”

“Cool.” I said, minus zeal. Although I sort of liked going out in the boat, that is where my hankering to fish fizzled. I hated touching the slimy worms almost as much as hooking them on the hook. I hated waiting for a fish to bite, I hated the seaweed that more often than not fooled me into thinking a fish had bit, and I hated touching the floppy fish on those extremely rare occasions I actually caught one. I hated the taste of fish too, I should add. But mostly what I hated, hands down, was the attitude my father took when we fished. He became like this stranger, this bossy know-it-all I hardly recognized. He became the coach of a team I had no business being on and I was certain to do exactly nothing right when I went fishing with my father.

The anchor line was taut as the boat quietly bobbed in the water. The fog hadn’t budged and the only sound was the crank of my father’s reel as he pulled his lure through the water. He looked so cool standing there in the fog smoking his cigar. I had to pee but I knew that was out of the question.

“How deep is the water here?” He asked me.

I was caught off guard and went with my usual response. “I don’t know.”

“You dropped your line to the bottom, right? How deep is it?” He prodded.

I shrugged. “You dropped the anchor. How deep is it?” I asked nervously.

Without looking my direction, my father hissed. “You can be a wise ass, you know that?” He took the cigar from his mouth. “I’m trying to help you. Different fish live at different depths. You may be in water that is too deep for a worm.”

“Oh.” I said, faking interest. “I would guess twenty-two then. Twenty-three at the most.” I could feel his sideways glance. I could tell he was not sure if I was messing with him or not. I was, but it was mainly because I had to pee.

The rising sun cast a glare across the fog now, making it even harder to see anything. We had probably been out there for an hour or so and I felt a couple tugs on my line, most likely from seaweed. My father was still standing and casting, although he had changed lures many times and had mumbled some lesson about lures I was undoubtedly supposed to hear.

I was staring out over the water when I heard the strangest sound. The water was moving, like maybe a fish was on the surface. But I could also hear breathing, almost gulping for breath. My father reeled in his line and did not recast. Whatever it was it had gotten my father’s interest too, and it was swimming directly toward us. We both leaned toward the sound and the little wake that preceded it.

“What the hell is that?” My father asked.

Then, through the fog, she appeared.

“Smokey!” I yelled. “Dad, it’s Smokey!” Never in a million years did I expect to see our dog out there, a good half mile from shore. Not to mention we were completely invisible in the fog.

“Good God!” My father yelled as he moved to the side of the boat. “Help me get her in here.”

I reeled my line in as fast as I could and set my pole aside. I moved beside my father. I was very concerned about how we would get this 90 pound dog into the boat.

“I will grab her first and pull her up. You need to help get her over the edge and into the boat.”

“Okay.” I said with no confidence. As Smokey came to the side of the boat, my father grabbed her collar. He leaned in and prepared to hoist her out.

“One, two, three!” He pulled hard and got her part way out of the water. Her fur was soaked, adding more weight. “You gotta help me, David. Grab her!”

I knelt down and tried to grab onto her. She was waterlogged and slippery and my life jacket was hindering my efforts. My father set Smokey’s front feet on the edge of the boat, causing the boat to tip considerably. My father took a quick break before we would haul her in. I patted her head and looked into her deep, brown eyes.

What happened next would leave an indelible scar on my young psyche, a scar so deep that I can recall this story with the clarity of yesterday. My life would change forever in that next moment, on that foggy morning in the 1969.

Smokey’s eyes met mine, then a look came over her. Her head jerked back, her mouth opening wide. She let out a wail of such agony that it made me scream out. My father held Smokey tight but she was thrashing so hard he couldn’t hold her.

“Help me!” He yelled. As I reached for her, she took one last look into my eyes, then she vanished beneath the dark water. My father almost went overboard before he lost his grip on her collar. He stared for a moment into the depths, then he looked toward me. I think it was the first time he actually wanted an answer from me, but my mouth just hung open, emitting a continuous moan. That was all I had.

My father got to his feet and in a flash his shirt was in a heap in the bottom of the boat. He kicked off his sneakers and moved to the edge of the boat.

“Daddy, don’t!” I cried. He was in the water with a splash before my words came to rest. It was as if I was watching a movie play out before my eyes, a movie that I was much too young to watch. I knelt at the boats edge and waited. I was hopeful as I watched the bubbles. But then, nothing, silence. I remember peeing my pants.

There were some boats and scuba divers and some guy yelling through a megaphone, talking frantically, as though there was still hope. But my next clear memory, truly, came three years later. I was twelve and a kid in school told me that another kid had told him I had killed my father. I told my mother and she said I knew better than to listen to stupid kids. But I didn’t know better. In fact, I knew nothing. There is no knowing when you are numb, and I had been numb for what seemed like forever. I heard they found half of Smokey’s body two days after she went under. I remember my mother crying into my grandmother’s lap, saying something about wishing she never let Smokey out of the cottage. And I remember the smell of cigarettes in the therapists office where some man with thick glasses asked me questions I had no answers for. Other than that, nothing. Bubbles and pee.

I do know the fog still gives me the creeps, but so does a lot of things. I see Smokey’s eyes and I wish I hadn’t heard her being bitten in half while she looked at me because that makes me think I failed her and then I think what it may have been that bit her in half and then I think of my father. Always those thoughts in that order. Then I thankfully go numb and it is there I find my quiet comfort. When my wife asks me what I’m thinking about, I say “Nothing.” That’s all she needs to know. And that is ultimately what I am striving for, to think of nothing. That is all I have strived for since I was that wise ass young boy on that foggy lake.