I lift my sunken head. The gleam of
the sun fills the corner of my glasses and illuminates the surface of the lake
in a glistening sparkle. The endless clamor of the city, from where I live is
filled with the sounds of cars honking in frustration, people rushing though
their crammed schedules and thick black smoke would constantly rise from the
stacks of the buildings. What was missing in the crowded city life was the
presence of any nature long since removed, destroyed, and paved over to hide
what once flourished. But nature has its own voice of harmonic sounds playing
in unison. The gentle wind rattling the leaves, with the waves rolling smoothly
into the abundant rock scattered shoreline creating that stereotypical sound of
waves washing ashore of overplayed travel commercials, joined with the buzzing
drone of the morning flies hidden behind the early morning conversation of the
birds passing high chirps and tweets back and forth. I look at my grandfather with droopy edges of
my lips. He’d let me take a shot at catching a rare Northern bass, so few in
our lake. And I messed it up. The wrinkles on his face spread like the opening
curtains on a show to present a smile on his face and he releases a deep
chuckle. Settling down, our noise is overcome by nature’s tune.
Grandpa baited my hook, by
squiring a fresh worm, now ready to cast out again. My carefully chosen dragon
green fishing line shines in the sun’s rays with a vibrant yellow-orange bobber.
The blood red fishing rod coated with dirt and cobwebs. He flexes his rather
large arms and slices through the air like a swordsman. The bobber floats on
the gentle waves just visible. Grandpa pivots toward me, and hunkers down into
his rough leather seat. The boat rocked, creating moderate crests of waves
splashing. Just as it was before, our sounds soon fade back into nature’s
peaceful hymn, now joined by the call of a loon.
The loon’s call sounds of a high
pitched owl hoot that lasts much longer. As I glanced to my right I manage to
spot the loon, which looks like an oddly painted zebra. It dives beneath the
surface of the water. Grandpa shouts in a blasting voice, “You got one!” I’m
determined not to waste this moment. I brace the arch of my left foot against
the steel hull of the fishing boat and begin reeling in the line. Fighting the
throbbing of my right arm and the Northern bass, the unstable boat rocks
savagely, harassing the water. Giving a powerful heave the green scaled bass is
ripped out of the water. Fishes’ tail flails back and forth like a pendulum,
attempting to break free. The aggression on the bass seemed endless. Outlasting
my prey I begin to reel my prize in. Grandpa prepares the net to capture the
Northern and I yank the rod back with all of my strength. The fish flies again.
This time landing in the water logged net submerged in the water. The sounds of
battle have seized, and I hear the loon’s call once more.
I notice the sharpened fin
tracing down the Northern bass’ back. Grandpa removes the hook embedded in the
tissue of its cheek, grips the bass in his hand, and places it into the
submerged cage. Trapped in the manufactured plastic cage the sporadic thump of
the bass’ tail beats against the enclosed walls. The sound of the many high
fives pierces the air, while the hoot and hollering of our victorious
celebration blow drive off all other noises. Packing up the gear we set off,
back to the cabin leaving the empty lake. Without conceding nature continues
its song.
