No Prize Catch Today

A Story by bigfootprint

This will be a fine day for a fishing trip to Franks River -- a nice birthday outing.

Chapter 10: No Prize Catch Today

During his childhood and adolescence, Devon had always suffered an undue portion of discomfiture. Troublesome health issues had left him stressed and irritable, a condition that gave him a short fuse. His siblings had strained his patience with their endless teasing, horseplay, and even cruelty. No one noticed the extent of Devon’s emotional baggage. Even his younger peers found him an easy mark, confused and intimidated by his father’s insistence on no fighting, no matter what. They had harassed and teased Devon for his 11 years, playing on his tendency to tears when riled up. Thinking of endless cruelty sent the familiar tingle across the back of his neck.The friction kept him stunned and sad most of the time.

Somehow events would show him that opportunities and knowledge can brighten a person’s mood and break through the melancholy. Devon beamed as he thought to himself, this will be a fine day for a fishing trip to Franks River -- a nice birthday outing. Birthdays at his home usually went ignored except for some utility gift or oral acknowledgment of the day, without fanfare. But today, the fates had come together to allow him to tag along for a fun adventure.

A nice southerly breeze, a few puffy white clouds, not too hot -- this was his perfect image of mental escape to stir his boyish daydreams whenever boring chores left him breathless in the dusty fields. Spreading limbs jutting from the eastern wilderness embankment of the familiar fishing hole promised pleasant shade till midmorning. He lifted his battered straw hat and ran his fingers through his sweat-matted red locks like he had seen his father do. It felt good. This was his day. He refused to be sad, despite his ego so fragile from constant taunts by older brother Henry, always quick with criticism and put-downs.

Relishing the excitement, Devon sat fidgeting, alone on the rear seat of the boat. Barely containing his excitement, he was determined to make this day of fulfillment count. This was his 11th birthday treat. After all, hadn’t his parents remembered it was his birthday? His mother had even waved them goodbye from the porch. A swirl of yellow dust marked their progress along the narrow gravel road as they sped away. He would show them all he could catch fish as well as anybody.

His father and grandfather, focusing on rigging their lines, sat stoically on their boat seats without talking, ignoring his movements. Mista Jethro, poised pompously on the center bench seat, was first to dip his hook, fishing feverishly for bream where the lush overhanging branches pushed into the water. The old man was determined to win bragging rights for the day’s first catch. He must have thought of the many fun times he had spent camping and fishing in this swampy scene, even tutoring his own sons in wilderness ways and survival. But today, the big catch had eluded him.

Devon’s father surveyed the nearby watery overhang, picking a likely target for a wiggling shiner, and applied it to his lure. Daddy, as Devon called to him despite an abiding fear of his quick temper, tested out a new rod and reel. He made his first cast from the front of their small aluminum fishing boat, all the while manning a small trolling motor. Henry had stayed behind at home to complete some chore. Devon thought how Henry always managed to stick him with the blame -- and their father’s wrath -- when their bickering would boil into a physical interaction.

Devon crinkled his nose against the musty, fishy smell hanging in the air as he threaded the coiling red worm onto his bream hook and tossed his line into the water. He cared little what kind of fish he would be dragging in, so long as it was a big one. He could hear the plopping and splashing of the animated poodledoos, the deep-throated croak of a bullfrog in the inlet encroaching from a nearby slough where white cranes stabbed at unseen taqueria teeming beneath the murky surface. The swampy scene, freshened by a recent rain, seemed alive with chirps and whistles of countless birds.

He glanced at his grandfather, a once-formidable man, stroking his wiry, salt and pepper whiskers in eager resolve as he jiggled his black fishing line in the water. He let his bobber settle and then quickly repositioned it a foot away as if trying to outsmart the hungry bream lurking below. Devon thought better of asking his grandfather’s thinking behind those tactics. He had always loved the old man but felt put off by a recent coldness between them.

He smiled, remembering his pleasant surprise at finding his father and grandfather loading the boat just at sunup and beckoning him to help find fish bait worms in the leaf-strewn copse behind the house. The real thrill had come with their invitation to join them for a day of fishing at the Blue Hole on Franks River, a long-favored family fun spot.

Just then, a hulking crow landed on a bitter pecan tree limb a few yards away on the riverbank and cawed loudly. Forgetting his cork for an instant, the boy glanced at the noisy bird. In the corner of his eye, he saw his cork quiver slightly. Instinctively he turned back, knowing he had lost his bait. Lifting his pole and grabbing the dangling fishing line, he rebaited the hook, this time carefully threading on a lively segment of dirty-blue night crawler. He felt a stirring of new anticipation.

Carefully the boy swung his squirming lure back into the water exactly where he remembered that nibbler that had stolen his bait. Eagerly he watched the bobber intermittently dance about. He strained his eyes against the sparkling ripples stirred by the zephyrs teasing the brown surface that scattered the rays of sunlight. His face beamed with excitement, bracing to set his hook. Suddenly his cork bobbed twice and disappeared in a flash. Remembering his father’s advice, he tugged smartly without jerking against the taught line. Animated now, he knew this would be his best catch of the day. “I got one, Daddy, a big one,” he beamed, barely containing his elation as tugged at the arching cane pole.

His excitement swelled, knowing Henry’s certain envy over this birthday trophy -- likely to be his only gain, save the fishing trip itself. He grinned at the thought. “Just don’t swamp the boat,” his father teased, looking back with a toothy grin. His jubilation surging, Devon knew he had hooked a whopper. Just then, the old man could no longer hold still to watch the boy snatch the first-catch honors he was trying so hard to win for himself. Mista Jethro, resentment showing in his face, swung his own fishing pole directly over Devon’s darting cork in a competitive ploy.

The youngster knew instantly his dream was in jeopardy, but his grandfather ignored his pleading. “You’re in my way,” he lamented. The old man just glared back silently. Each precious second, Devon pulled against the taught line, his grandfather jealously moved his own pole directly into every path of action. Their bickering began in earnest. Unable to suppress his anger, the boy screeched even louder now, “Will you move your pole out of my way?”

“You can’t talk to me that way, young’un.” the old man scolded. With the distracting exchange, the boy had let go the tension. He felt his line go slack. His prize fish had got away. He seethed and then slumped back in dismay. “Why did you make me lose my fish, Grandpa?” Devon wailed. “Boy, you can’t talk to me like that,” the old man repeated forcefully. Devon wilted with disappointment. His father scowled at him, ordering him to sit back and shut up, even as he ignored the old man’s muttered chastisements. The boy stared back blankly, confused, unable to grasp his father’s grim reaction and lack of understanding.

The youngster couldn’t know the sadness behind his father’s actions, quietly watching the scene unfold and knowing full well the implications. This expedition was supposed to have been a precious farewell outing for grandfather and grandson, to be long remembered and pointed to with pride at family gatherings. He scowled, watching Devon and the old man dashing his fondest hopes. The burden of years had begun to settle over his own dear father’s brow. Before long the old man would be left incapacitated, numbed by the full onset of cruel dementia. This was to have been the once-spritely old man’s last fishing outing. No doubt he thought of the decades they had fished the river happily together and brought home many a good catch.

He cautioned the old man and boy. “Now y’all stop that caterwauling, you hear,” he said harshly. Just then, watching the sad event, Devon’s father had reached the inflexible limit of his patience. The boy realized his birthday fishing adventure was about to come to an abrupt end. His father ordered them to stow their fishing gear. He started the motor, whipped the boat around and put-putted toward the landing a hundred yards away.

Devon knew they would drive home in silence. He pondered the sad thought of facing his testy brother with no prize catch to show. Things would return to a daily ration of Henry’s taunts and bullying. Suppressing his tears, he felt his old familiar melancholy returning.