Tetragrammaton

Wisps of apparition vapor float along the murky lake water. They pass through the banks and trees dissipating like ethereal shadows off toward the netherworld. At 6:10 a.m. a grapefruit sun rises punctually.

The summer solstice has warmed the lake like a baby’s bath. Large fluffy cumulous clouds divide into smaller clusters as the sun burns off the moisture in the air. Strong odors of dirt, mud, decay, and fish permeate the lake area.

Around the bank, a gray heron watches the water from atop a felled tree. The weather worn trunk stretches out along the surface of the water like the withered arm of an old lady reaching to turn off the alarm clock.

The sunlight accentuates the bird’s textured feathers, eyes and elongated bill. At the sharp crack sound of a tree limb breaking, the large bird escapes to the sky. The take-off movements are reminiscent of a lumbering aircraft — slow, strong-flapping-wingbeats, legs drawn, neck extended, then up, the bird tilts to a 45-degree angle straightens out and disappears over the tops of the trees.

Several pairings of concentric circles appear like eporvesant targets on the lake’s surface. Underneath those circles and bubbles are fish, turtles, maybe a cottonmouth snake. At the fork, the lake becomes a river and the currents become faster and choppier.
The narrow path along the bank lush with Indian Paintbrushes is where I stake out a spot, right under an oak tree.

I study the water as more circles appear on the lake’s silent surface. Slowly the lake is awaking from its sleepy slumber. Mockingbirds, osprey and warblers chirp a cacophony of A-tonal melodies. My immediate area starts to come alive; bushes sway with movement, splashes of water from jumping fish can be heard, a snake slithers from the bank into the water causing a V-shape of waves that ripple across the lake like an oscilloscope.

Hooked, the night crawler recoils as I pierce the thick part of its body. I slide the worm through the hook’s bend on up the shank. I make several passes through the worm as I bait the hook. I feel the worm’s pain. I watch the body exude white mucus around the pierced entries. The creature withers and turns, recoils trying to get off the hook.

I cast my fishing rod into the oncoming current about four feet from the bank. Slowly reeling in the slack, I rewind the line back into the reel. I pause, then gently tug the line and check the tension, and see if the worm is still attached.

Loud splashes from the other side of the bank distract my thoughts and concentration, and I can see the whitish underbelly of what looks like a large bass. A few feet up from the splash another fish repeats the same movements or maybe it’s the same fish?

With a voracious grab, my fishing rod is almost yanked from my hand. As soon as the fish hits the hook it twists and wiggles fighting to free itself from the hook. I give the fish a little slack then slowly tighten the drag, I reel the fish out of the water.

It’s a crappie swinging madly to the left and right. Its body stiffens as I reel it completely out of the water. I get a tremendous guilt feeling knowing the fish must be angered at being caught. But then again, does a fish know anger? I wonder.

The spiny fins are flapping non-stop like a hummingbird’s wings, and the head moves left, right, left right. The fish continues to struggle against the hook. Once the hook is removed, I put the crappie in a bucket with some water. Soon the fish lists to the side, calm, gills expand, contract, slowly dying, our fight is over.

The next strike is even quicker. A channel catfish, maybe six-inches at best hits another of my worms. There’s hardly a fight. The fish bares the steel hook inside its mouth and hardly moves about. With thin black whiskers slicked back the fish looks like a dignified Spanish officer that’s been captured in a pincer movement. His earth tone colors and chest poofed out, the catfish has an heir of nobility while conveying a notion of – you’ve caught me, but I am not scarred of you. I remove the hook and release the fish back into the water.

With the morning far behind the rest of the day yields no more catches. The water proves too warm, sun too bright, and far too much human noise around the lake. My rod, bait bucket and gear in hand, I backtrack for home along the same worn paths I came in.

By contrast, my trip out is different then my trip in. Temperatures are in the hundreds, humidity is high, and no clouds to obscure the sun. The birds have moved on. The only sounds are motorboats and the repetitive din of a million cicadas.

Trash and debris are scattered along the paths now: squashed beer and soda can litter, pilfered plastic worm containers strewn about, discarded balls of fishing line strangle the brush, a pile of human feces festers stench, a fresh severed catfish head is covered in flies, Taco Bell wrappers…

It’s the end of the woods. The trashed paths lead me back to civilization. I notice a shiny SUV. Out tumble six men armed with coolers, bags of Jack-in-the Box burgers, rods, and tackle crash through the wooded paths with manic glee. I look back to see if they brought the TV.

Our metaphorical lake is filled with millions of human fish. Some get caught, released, others move downstream with the currents, sometimes a big seining net comes along, and there’s a few who never stray.

Around the lake two complete anglers sit with fishing rods in hand. One uses shiny lures to entice you to swallow his hook. The other angler uses no bait at all — patiently waits for you to come to him.

And, like a good fish, I elude the inevitable — the temptation that’s poised on the end of a hook, or maybe yet escape the hook altogether — perhaps, just float soundlessly, endlessly, dissolve and become one with the water.