Catch & Release
Into the light we leap, praying to be caught. Plastic lures sway listless from her necklace as she watches her father hook the writhing worm. The metal pierces one end through the other without resistance. He reels down the line with ease. Like that stranger years ago. The old man.
It was July when he first landed. Then suddenly, August. He puttered to the beach in his cousin’s brown Datsun 810 playing the only tape left in the car: Better English Pronunciation. Repeat: pier, fear, rear, cheer, beer, veer, mere, jeer, tier, sheer, near, deer, hear… He played the tape so many times the words shone naked, meaningless. They became prayer. Compulsive prayer. That summer, before he started the Master’s program, he slipped through madness. Madness of a man who woke every day after noon, spoke only when alone, drove to La Jolla after sunset with a small beach chair. The bright pink of the seat had softened to resemble something like skin. Tucked under his arm, he walked the length of the pier to the end. He sat and waited for the slap of ocean spray. Over and over, the indifferent brutality of night waves lulled him. He sat for hours. Sometimes until dawn. A blank page.
The other man was only there on weekends. He never saw him leave or arrive. On the nights he was there, he was constant, his white beard fastened near the collarbone with a hair tie. The man’s beard tapered into the fold of his round belly as he leaned back with the fishing line tucked between his thighs. The first time he saw the man, he was indignant. This old guy, who was he? Intruding his solitude. Yet the man paid him no mind. Good. Fine. He took care to sit at least a few meters away and face the other direction. He resolved to reflect his indifference. The weeks went on. When the waves were quiet he’d catch snippets of garbled tunes sung in placid baritone. When he walked down the strip the man would turn very slightly to nod. He’d nod back and unfold his chair with a painful cuhr-eeeeek. And through their shared disregard, he discovered comraederie. Without expectations, without sympathy. His subconscious began seeking, seeking this man as an infant mouth seeks its mother’s nipple.
Yes. That August the man steered him from madness with his line. Today he steers the worm under. The worm discovers water is not as different from soil as you’d imagine. Its squirm stops, it forms a question with its body. We leap up to answer. Yes. The line bows. The man furrows his brow. Papa! It’s a big one! He hoists his arms up and uproots us. We gleam, gasping. Not bad, the man mutters. Not bad.