There were two guys in a boat on a pond. It was late in the day and the shadows were bold and the water was grey and the lone white cloud was appropriately reflected from this placid scene. I was driving. I glanced and in the moment of a glance I could see that the two men were fishing. I do not know their ages. I do not know their names or their stories and I do not know anything more than a glance of a moment, while driving. Yet, those few seconds created a few moments of a thought. I thought of peace and I thought of the image of escape and isolation, these anglers had found. It was a small boat and a small pond and a small moment in time. Yet, the shadows were big and the sky was bold and the moment of a glimpse was a large moment of reflection.
There was a guy walking towards me. I am running and the music is loud and my focus is not on the guy, but the fishing pole in his hand. We are on this trail. We are beside the river and the light of the day is bright and the air warm and the water is chocolate milk brown and the rocks are slickened with moss and slime and the wet of a river. For three beats of a song, I saw this guy and when I passed he smiled. Perhaps he had been fishing. Perhaps he was going fishing. And in the context of passing this guy and his fishing pole on this trail and by this river, I lost focus on the music in my ears and the pace of my steps. It was the curiosity of his journey, whether it was ending or beginning, and the solitude of a river trail walk that ran with me the next several miles. There was envy of sorts in that image of a walk and a pole and the aimless nature of following a river in search of a fish.
They were at a stoplight and one made the light and the other did not. I watched the scene and I noted the men inside the cab of each truck were older and the trucks were adorned with surf-fishing rods attached to the front bumper and they were headed east, as we all should. In a moment of observation, I watched the lead truck wait for the following truck. It was nothing big. It was quite small, actually. It was just a truck waiting for a truck because of the timing of a stoplight. Yet I thought about those four men and that the bond of fishing was so evident that they did not want to leave each other. Certainly, the roads are well traveled. It is rationale to think that they have traveled this way before. Yet the road well-traveled is best traveled together, even if that means waiting for fishing buddy that was slow to accelerate at a stoplight. I watched this for a moment and when the light turned green; the men in the cabs waved and so continued their journey together.
It may seem brief. It may seem meaningless. It may seem presumptive and assumptive and it may be the accelerated thought of fantasy with these images and scenes and moments. Yet really, I am ok with this. You see, fishing is about moments and moments are the blocks to a life and life is a building made of blocks and moments. In reality, there is nothing I would rather build a life with than those moments of fishing, even if they are observed in glance, seen in passing, or watched from the cab of a truck. Fishing is about glances and moments and escapes and creative imagery and sometimes it is about setting a hook and reeling a fish. Yet, it always rewards and always creates and always reminds, even if one is not engaged in the act of fishing.
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