The
coffee maker gurgles to life at 3:30am. Lights blink and steam begins to
whisper its song of roasted fragrance.
Before the alarm radio turns on, I am up and feeling my way down the
hallway steps, grasping the handrail with one hand and bracing against the wall
with my left. I know I am sleepy and do not trust my feet on the polished
wooden steps. I fill my favorite steel thermos, a gift from the Norbert
Buchmayr Society, with the pungent French Roast and add a dash of real maple
syrup. Within minutes I am out the door,
headed to the truck and surveying the night sky, looking for signs of weather.
It looks like a clear day, the stars are still shining brightly and there is a
wisp of wind from the Southwest. The pressure appears to be steady but the
forecast is for clouds moving in and a barometer to be dropping later this
morning.
In
the truck, I search for my favorite old radio station, WWVA 1170am, from
Weirton, West Virginia, which sometimes comes in on clear nights all the way up
here near the Canadian border. There is something magical about radio waves
that carry that far and I enjoy the crackling sound reminiscent of my radio
youth of the 60’s. I chuckle to myself as I think “Times were simpler then”,
recognizing that my grandparents used those same words when I was growing up.
For them the world was changing in fearful ways; communism was a threat, kids
played “rock and roll” and shook their bodies violently, as if convulsing in
some primitive animalistic mating ritual. We could trust those we elected to
office and our country was the world leader in productivity and prosperity.
Now, my generation fears what the advent of video games where kids learn to
kill without empathy will lead us. Government and corporations are blended
together in one authoritarian entity dictating to us what we hear, see, feel
and eat. The world is frighteningly complex. Just like it was for our
grandparents.
But
as I drive through the pre-dawn, with the window rolled down I can smell the
lake turning over its summer depths and wafting inland. I inhale deeply. I
swear I can smell the fish and the seaweed. It calms me.
Pulling
into the boat access, I am alone. I wander down to the shoreline and breathe in
the blessing of pre-dawn on the lake. Headlights pierce through the canopy of
maples and oaks and reflect off of the lightly rippling surface of the lake in
sparkling crystals of light. My friends have arrived, towing the old Hawk 18’
center console boat. We greet each other with our traditional teasing. “Barely
made that 15 minute rule! I was gonna’ leave without you!” I say to Chris. Our friend from Michigan, Rudy replies, “That
would have been tough to do Carleton. Seeing as how we have the boat!” “Yeah,
well. Details like that won’t stop me!” I reply. A round of “How are ya’
Bro’s?” breaks out at once between the three of us, like long lost brothers.
We
launch the boat from Chris’ little Volvo wagon as he swears again that he
doesn’t need anything bigger. There is a nice ripple on the water and a very
slight shade of dark purple and green in the horizon to the East. The motor
fires to life quickly and Rudy shoves us off the wooden dock. The smell of the
outboard mixing with the fresh, clear water is intoxicating. As we pull out of
the bay I am reminded of the scene from “The Perfect Storm” where George
Clooney’s character describes the joys of pulling out of the harbor, “the fog’s
just lifting. Throw off your bow line, throw off your stern. You head out to
South channel, past Rocky Neck, Ten Pound Island. Past Niles Pond where I
skated as a kid. Blow your horn and throw a wave to the lighthouse keeper’s kid
on Thatcher Island. Then the birds show up; black backs, herring gulls, big
dump ducks. The sun hits ya’. Head North. Open up to 12 (knots). Steamin’ now.
The guys are busy; you’re in charge. Ya’ know what? You’re a goddam swordboat
captain. Is there anything better in the world?”…I am lost in revelry,
pretending I am a swordboat captain. It’s universal. Whatever boat you run,
whatever lake or pond you pull into, whoever your crew is, you are a part of
the Universe and you can feel your soul swimming in the dawn’s first light.
We
pull out of Converse Bay and head South past Garden Island with the cliffs of
the Adirondacks catching the first golden glows of the sun. The spray from the wake is sparkling as drops
of water fly in an arc from under the hull, wave after wave of compounded
beauty. I’m sitting on the bow grinning as I take a pull of the travel mug of
coffee and swear I am in heaven already.
Rudy and Chris are looking off in the distance, alone with their
thoughtsand focused on this moment of transcendence.
Chris is piloting his boat with a deft
hand. Our faith in our captain is undaunted. We know that he has seen his share
of storms and steadily maneuvered through heavy seas. We are bound together by
a sense of supreme contentment, alive and aware of the present.
Slowing
the boat down to 2.6 mph Rudy and Chris turn their backs to set the
downriggers. I grab the wheel. A brief
discussion of which lures to use is quickly decided. Cop car down at 33’ and a
Sausage and Gravy cheater down halfway to the ball on the port side. Starboard
will be a Michael Jackson at 40’ and a Strawberry Milkshake for a cheater. On
the port side, just ahead of the rigger, we play out a tadpole diver with a
brokeback Rapala 100 pulls back. On the starboard side we feed out a lead core
flyline with a Magog smelt imitation. Between sips on the coffee and jokes
about jelly donuts, we all keep an eye on the rods. And then we wait.
As
we are drifting in our conversation to the dangerous territory of politics, the
flyline on the starboard gunwhale begins to sing. It whizzes. We all turn
around quickly and someone yells “Holy Crap!” Rudy begins to laugh. He’s up to
his tricks again. He likes to reach behind his back and tug the line real fast.
We all laugh and are caught up in the moment, when the starboard rigger
releases. This time it’s for real! “Fish On!” I yell. Rudy is closest to the
line and grabs it, raising the rod over his built-for-a-center football
shoulders. “It’s a pig!” he says as the rod begins to thump downward in a heavy
pulsing action. Rudy steps back and reels in line, when suddenly; the line
starts spooling out of control. The big fish is on a run. He dives heading for
the abyss of Lake Champlain’s 300’ bottom. I hear Rudy say a quick prayer that
he doesn’t go all the way to the bottom.
It is a moment of connectedness that transcends our short lives. His
prayer echoes in silence off of the Adirondack cliffs. He waits patiently for
the reel to stop screaming and gently at first, then forcefully, horses the rod
over his right shoulder and reels down hard. Whatever it is, it’s heavy.
As
if time were suspended, we all watch with amazement at the power of this
piscatorial king of the deep as the fish fights to stay down. Minutes pass by
like hours, all of us wondering if the 8 lb test line will break. Rudy
skillfully plays the beast, letting him run when he wants and dive when he
feels the urge. We all know that the trick to boating a behemoth is to tire him
out and slowly work him to the rippled surface.
After
four minutes of wrestling, the fish finally surfaces and rolls hard on his side
to shake the hook. Rudy keeps his line tight and, once again, wrestles for
control. The beast of the deep begins to tire. Like a large saturated tree
stump, Rudy reels him in to the stern and steps back for Chris to net his
trophy. Chris swipes under the exhausted fish and finds that he barely fits in
the net, bending the pole. Into the boat he comes, eyes blazing with fury.
Rudy unhooks the spoon from his jaw with
a pair of pliers and hoists the fish up to his chest. Even against Rudy’s
massive torso, the fish looks like a monster. “Holy Mackerel!” I exclaim. “To
be correct, Carleton, this is a holy laker!” retorts Rudy.
Pictures
are taken and Rudy is crowned King for the Day.
