As I rummage for a lure
in Dad’s old tackle box,
I relive the grand adventures
our fishing trips were.
Only now I realize the ways
he put my enjoyment
of the sport before his own.
How else to explain my seat
in the best spot in the boat
to troll or cast, or to observe
Lightning, our one-armed guide
on Arkansas’ Bear Creek Lake,
as he maneuvered round a cove,
paddle under the stump of one arm,
fly rod waving in the other,
the twitch of his popping bug
triggering explosions
from the dark green water?
Or the time he gave up the fishing chair
on a deep-sea trip in the Gulf
so I could feel the sudden strike
and powerful pull of a big one,
letting me crank the huge reel
till my spindly arms ached
and the stench of diesel fumes
and boat’s relentless roll
took their toll?
I handed over the rod
and rushed to the rail none too soon,
while Dad, who earned his sea legs
in the Coast Guard during wartime,
balanced on the rocking deck,
rod bent, line taut,
matching strength and wits
with the wily creature
tugging from the depths below.
