Papa Jim
Papa Jim
I took my dad fishing last fall just before the coming of winter. We woke up early in the morning before the sun rose and the air was wet with frost. In New Hampshire, the autumn leaves glow during the day and sulk during the night, and as the sun began to rise over the stillness of the lake; the surrounding forest was stuck in an uncertain place in between.
We had a small boat, a Boston Whaler, docked in a single slip on the shore of Newfound Lake. The boat was old and had a coat of rust on the bottom of the hull with washed out paint on the sides.
My dad always told me great things age with grace.
My grandfather bought the boat when he was my dad’s age and he named it after his own father.
We walked down the knoll from our cottage and I carried the cooler filled with tackle bait and beer. My dad carried the poles.
“Thanks for getting up so early, I know you hate that,” my dad said as we approached the dock.
“Where do you want the cooler?” I asked. We arrived at the boat and I helped my dad on board.
“Hand me the ropes, will you?” he asked.
My dad wore a black fleece with a baseball cap and khaki shorts. He wasn’t a big man, standing just shy of six feet with a broad frame and a once bulky chest.
“Can you hand me the ropes?” He asked again.
I untied the knots on the dock and threw him the ropes. After I dropped the cooler onto the back of the boat we took off.
Heading towards the middle of the lake, the small boat sliced through the black waters and the morning mist. My dad stood tall with his eyes frozen forward and he wore his cap like any great captain would.
“This feels about right,” my dad said to himself as he turned off the engine.
We were stopped in the middle of the lake surrounded by the breath of autumn.
“You ready?” he asked. An overwhelming sense of excitement rang in his voice.
“All right, Dad.”
“Relax, I’m only kidding,” the boat gently rocked and my dad switched places with me as he grabbed the fishing rods, “let’s fix up these poles.”
I had only gone fishing with my dad two other times, both when I was little. We spent every summer of my childhood on the lake. Some years I went to overnight camp, sailing and growing up with young and wild boys alike. During the years I did not go to camp, my dad would teach me boating and football and the importance of hard work. He would tell me to keep my head up and my feet wide and he once gave me a poem that his father once kept.
“He’s a smart man, your dad,” men would say, “as smart as they come.”
“Thanks,” I would say.
But we only went fishing two times during those years and after my mother’s suggestion I took him out once again.
“Where did Mom pack the sandwiches?” my dad asked.
“They’re in the cooler.”
“Perfect,” he said.
We ate our sandwiches as the sun began to peak through the autumn mist. The shore around us in the distance was lined with a circular haze and the water below was still.
“Well, let’s start fishing!”
After fixing our bait that smelled like raw fish and sea salt, we found ourselves some seats and casted out our lines.
We talked for hours about sports and television and before long the time was noon. The boat remained calm in the water.
“Hand me a beer, will you?” my dad asked.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” I handed him a bottle and opened one myself.
“Forget tomorrow, how bout this day? Huh?” He replied.
“Yeah, it’s pretty nice out.”
“This is such a great lake,” my dad said.
The low hum of motorboats vibrated in the near distance.
“Are you nervous at all?” I asked.
“You know, you grew up on this lake,” he said.
“I know.”
The metal hull squeaked in the soft current of the water.
“How’s school going?” he asked.
“School’s fine,” I replied.
“You meeting any girls?”
“Yeah.”
“You dating anyone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you gay?” he grinned.
“I just don’t want to date anyone right now.”
“You know, I was dating Mom in college, can you grab me another beer?”
I reached for the cooler and I took out two more bottles.
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“Isn’t that weird to think about? I was your age.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to find a girl who’s smart, that’s what’s most important. Smart and funny. That’s why Mom is so great.”
“Well Mom’s taken, Dad.”
My dad laughed as he finished his beer and he reached for the cooler.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“What about the operation?”
“What, I can’t have another sandwich?”
And so I gave him a sandwich.
“And how about a beer while you’re at it?”
“We should probably head in soon, though.”
“Oh, come on! Stop it!”
“It’s just that Mom told me—“
“What? Can’t a father have a beer with his son?”
“Yeah, Dad, you can.”
The fishing lines remained in the water and a cool autumn breeze blew off the shore - a shore that was flush with foliage. Time passed as did the tin foil sandwiches and glass bottled beer.
“You still playing basketball?” My dad asked.
“Not as often as I used to.”
“Remember when we used to play in the driveway? When you were a kid?”
“Yeah, that was fun.”
My dad leaned in with a smirk, “I used to kick your ass!” he said in a light, soft voice.
I laughed. “Yeah, okay, Dad. You wish.”
“And guess what,” my dad continued in a whisper, “I can still kick your ass!”
As we sat on the Boston Whaler the air became colder and damper and I put on another jacket.
“You know what I was just thinking?” My dad asked.
“What?”
“I can’t believe we still haven’t caught any fucking fish!”
We laughed loudly as our fishing lines stayed as still as the water. The cooler was almost empty. The laughter soon died and we were consumed in silence.
My dad looked at me and smiled.
“You’re a good son.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
We headed back into shore and the sun was almost completely gone. We had been floating for the entire day.
The autumn leaves trickled down onto the water as the late day air blew with a briskness that bit our faces.
When we arrived back at the dock, there was an older man there to assist us. As he grabbed the ropes to guide us in, I helped my dad out of the boat.
“Hello, Rick,” my dad said to the man as he stood on the dock.
“Hello, Jim, how are you feeling?” the man asked.
“I feel great Rick, I feel great! How is your family? Is your family all good, I hope?”
“Yes, yes Jim, all good.”
“That’s great, Rick, that’s great,” My dad gave a pat to the man’s shoulder and gave him some money for his assistance. The man thanked him and tied off our ropes.
As we walked away from the shore and back up the knoll, my dad grabbed me with his arm.
“If you remember one thing I tell you, remember this,” he said carefully, “every man has dignity, every man.”
“Yeah, I know, Dad.”
“Everyone has a family to care for, like Rick, he has a family. Never take away a man’s dignity. Never take his pride.”
Before we reached our cottage at the top of the grass-covered knoll, my dad lost his footing on the gravel path and fell to one knee.
“Shit!”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he grunted, “I’m fine.”
I helped him back to his feet as his hands shook and we found a nearby bench. We sat down to rest and my dad turned to me.
“Oh boy,” he said out of breath, shaking his head. I looked at my dad and then I looked at the trees and the grass and the leaves around us, “never grow old, never grow old, Matty, it’s not worth it.”
My dad sat quietly and he stared off into the nothingness before him.
“You’ll be fine, Dad.”
The sun was now gone as the purple sky stretched across the lake. The autumn leaves had lost their glow and the Boston Whaler rocked steadily against the wooden dock. The sound of ripples lapping against pebbled shores whispered in the distance and I looked at my dad.
He looked at me as he smiled while tears formed from the sharpness of the wind.
The wind eventually died yet the tears remained as the rusty Boston Whaler gently rapped against the wood. The shadows of dusk rolled into the night but I could still manage to read the name of the boat. It was painted in black and it read Papa Jim.
