"Morning, kid," Scott greeted.
On this crisp Saturday morning, I pulled open the door to his police cruiser and smiled. It was a weathered vehicle, seemingly in need of a wash despite the brief drizzle of rain we'd gotten the night previous.
"Hello," I replied, placing my backpack in the foot-rest area before setting myself gently onto the seat.
He peeled around in a circle within the gravel drive sprawling in front of my garage.
"So I was thinking more about the bake sale you talked to me about," he started, staring out the window as we made our way out into the sea of olive-green trees. I watched the gravel road through the front windshield, but listened eagerly as he continued. "I trust you to give it a second try. But it's going to be small-scale. You'll be in charge of putting it together. Alright?"
"Alissa is the one who's really good at baking. Catalina's always willing to help too... Well, the other juniors are pretty good at coming together too. It's likely to be a group effort, so it ought to be a group reward."
His head tilted back a bit in thought. The crunch of gravel gave way to the groan of rubber on pavement as we finally pulled onto the main road.
"Alright," he agreed gruffly, "You seem like a good influence on Alissa Brown. I haven't seen hide nor hair of her at any of the parties recently."
"She's mentioned them to me, but I haven't been invited."
"Good."
"Do they happen often? Parties?"
"I just down a modest one last weekend," he nodded, his teeth gritting, "Anthony Madsen got into his parents' whiskey cabinet and took a few friends out to the cemetery."
"The cemetery?" I echoed, thinking to the flat expanse I'd seen while driving around town, "That's not a place with much cover for doing illegal things."
"There's a copse of trees right across the way that holds the historic gravesites," he explained, gripping the steering wheel with irritation, "It used to be overgrown, but one of the Labelle twins cleaned it up as his senior project last year. I've been trying to crack down on the parties so it stays clean but..."
"Oh," I frowned, "I'm sorry."
"It ain't your fault. Teens get into trouble. It's the way it goes."
"Were you a troublesome teen?"
"Seeing as I got married and had a kid straight out of high school..." he trailed off, tone bittersweet and thick with memory.
"Only one?"
"She was the only one I needed," he muttered gruffly.
I stayed politely silent at that. We reached another turn-off just before Homer proper and headed due-North. A river snaked in and out of view of the road, disappearing behind the spindly-trunked birch then reappearing once more.
"Where will we be fishing?"
"Anchor River; it's summer coho and steelhead season still," Scott said, easily reentering the conversation from his reverie.
"Coho... salmon," I echoed, nodding slowly. Shrimp, anchovies, tuna and cod were more familiar to me. "How big do they get?"
"Massive," Scott grinned now, "Just you wait and see. We'll just be fishin' from the shoreline, that's all. I've got a fold-out chair for you in the back. You know how to swim just in case, right?"
"Yes, of course."
"Checkin'," he explained shortly, then continued on, "It's good you brought the jacket. Might get a little chilly with the drizzle comin' and goin'."
We stopped shorter than I'd expected; not reaching the coast, but rather a little bridge at which we turned off before crossing; it was a short, tressed-metal affair. As I watched, a single van puttered across it in our direction.
Scott's expression lightened at the sight of it. There lay a generous strip of land here between the road and river where two other cars parked under the thin paper-birch copse, kissing the tall grasses with their front-bumpers.
The underbrush was trodden down quite a bit here, so I could see the taper of the land to where it became scattered rocks and then running water. Well-worn paths wound away from the spot, following the bend of the river downstream.
The van turned in after us, quick to slide into the space beside Scott's cruiser.
"Time to meet the old folk," he chuckled, throwing open his door.
With a little chuckle, I followed suit.
Already I could see another older fellow moving around the outside of the van; he was older than Scott, likely in his forties or fifties, and with a torso built like a barrel. His long, black hair was salted with streaks of gray. It weaved in and out of the long braid down his back. He moved slowly, unconcernedly about the van, pulling open the sliding side doors to reveal a second gentleman in a wheelchair.
This one was similar in age to the first, making Scott the youngest of the trio. He had a shorter head of hair than his companion; pin-straight but down to his shoulders beneath a baseball cap. He moved with certainty despite the wheelchair and the myriad of natural barriers that likely lay between him and the fishing spot.
"Good morning," I greeted, extending a hand to the wheelchair-bound man first. The other had disappeared into the trunk and Scott into the back of his cruiser. "I'm Sara Luzio."
"Nice to meet you, Sara," he extended a weathered, tanned hand to grasp my own. His grip was warm, firm, and I could feel the callouses in the palm. "The name's Raymond Hayes - you can call me Ray."
"Ray," I repeated with a short nod, "You a fan of salmon?"
"It's the season," he grinned, looking back as his companion slammed the van trunk closed. There was a pile of equipment stacked and propped against the back, "My son eats them faster than I can catch them. Barely saves a bite for me!"
"Rude; you're doing all the hard work, aren't you?"
"He's a brilliant cook, but I wish he'd leave some leftovers from time to time."
"This son is named...?"
"Caleb," Ray grumbled, "Won't be the last time you'll hear the name today."
"Will he be joining us?"
"He'll be bringing lunch out. We had a late start thanks to Terry, so we didn't pack any."
"I needed my beauty sleep," Terry scoffed, coming out from around the van and extending his hand. I took it, noting the patches of scratchy skin like he wore rough gloves regularly. "We don't all have the luxury of sitting around all day. I'm Terry Seabrook."
Ray laughed, knocking a joking fist into his friend's side.
"Nice to meet you both. Can I carry anything?"
"Yeah, if you can handle the tacklebox."
"Don't go easy on me," I assured him, eying the cooler, "I'm pretty strong. Save your backs. Let the young people do the heavy lifting."
"Your help's a little too late for me," Ray waved a hand, turning his wheelchair about to point out of the dirt lot. He caught me watching him curiously and grinned, "I can get to a point, but then I need to be carried too."
"There are chairs for rough terrain, aren't there?"
"Can't afford it. I can afford a set of reliable friends, however. That's the great thing about fishing; once you're out there, all that's left is to sit back and sip a beer."
"This early in the morning?"
"You're not going to cramp our style now, are you?"
I shook my head, reaching for the rolling cooler and tackle box after throwing a foldable chair's strap across my torso. It bumped against my back as I hefted up the other materials.
"Damn, kid, you weren't kidding," Terry whistled, taking the other chair and two fishing rods.
Scott had both of our chairs, two rods of his own, and a weathered, green tackle box.
"Are you going to take any fish home?" I asked him.
"Can't cook it," he grumbled, his shoulders up near his ears in embarrassment.
"I can treat you to a few dishes. My specialty is Mediterranean-style."
"Scott could use the Mediterranean diet," Ray goaded his friend, rolling onto the path and leading us out toward the river.
He chose a path parallel to the rocks. A path still made of packed dirt and wide enough to assume that it was well-traveled by locals. It traced along the wide curve of the river proper, but didn't touch the shifty expanse of rocky shoreline.
"What're you trying to imply?" Scott growled.
"Oh, nothing, Chief. Just that you've had one too many donuts."
"I'm healthy as a horse!"
"If said horse had arteries clogged-full from Sally's burgers and steaks."
"It's decided," I said resolutely, noting that the brush and grasses were coming up thicker the further we walked from the lot, "I'll catch you dinner."
"Come on now..." he muttered, embarrassed.
"You have a fishing license?" Ray called back, already a ways down the track.
Scott trudged along in front of me, keeping a slow and steady pace as Terry brought up the rear. I could hear the pair panting and I endeavored to increase my breathing as well. There was youthful vigor and then there was suspicious vitality.
"Uh... no, I don't..." I admitted.
"I'll overlook it just this once," Scott huffed, finally catching up to Ray.
The man was completely dwarfed in height by the grasses and club-leafed brush the path had taken us into. Even I, standing completely upright, had trouble seeing over it. The grasses were turning a golden brown; the fall-time chill had moved in during the night as we slept, but the stalks were still green at their hearts, trying to preserve a bit of summer for just a little longer.
"This is as far as I go," Ray announced, "I'll keep watch. You go on."
"On it," Scott nodded, turning down the near-invisible path Ray had stopped beside, "Come on!"
I obliged, the rough grasses tickling and scratching my arms as I lugged along the materials.
"We get out here early to take the closest of the spots," Terry explained through pants, tracking along closely behind me.
"I see," I muttered with deliberate coarseness.
"Oi, Terry, take a break if you need," Scott called from the front, "If your heart gives out before we throw out the first line, I'm going to have a sharp word with you."
"Oh shut up - I'm just fine! You sound like the wife."
Rocks shifted and clattered under my feet as we were released from the forest of grasses. I took a moment to gather my bearings, then continued after Scott across the clacking shoreline.
As Scott and I set up the chairs, he dictated the usual lineup: a straight line with him in the middle and Ray and Terry on either side. He easily sat my chair right between his and Ray's without a second thought before heading back with Terry to fetch the third of their trio. The cooler sat behind the bunch, closer to Ray than the others. The fishing rod holders were to sit in a row in front of each chair, dug right into the lip of the river's edge. I set to work.
Everything was set in place by the time they returned with Ray held between them. Scott quickly set about taking out tackle from the box and affixing a hook, a little metal sink, and a bobber to his rod's line.
"Can you explain?" I asked as he moved to mine.
"Sure," he agreed gruffly, trapping the end of the main line between his fingers, "Here's where you attach the float - the part that rests on top of the water, after that you've got a little length of line that corresponds to the river depth. And then you've got your sinker here - the heavy thing - that brings the line down to the fish's level."
He weaveed and knoted it all together with practiced fingers, talking continuously until finished. When he set the rod in the holder I glanced about. The others were similarly absorbed in rigging.
The midmorning sun was white-gold through the haze of clouds, finally breaking through for a moment in spite of the drizzle. The air held the low musk of overturned river-silt, but the fresh breeze kept it from lingering long in my nose.
"Next time I'll rig my own," I decided, plopping down.
"If you say so," he agreed, leaning back and reaching into the cooler.
He produced a beer bottle and two halves of raw fish - the bait, I presumed. Setting the bottle into the little mesh holder of his armrest, he proceeded to show me how to hook it up.
"How far out there are they?" I asked, glancing out.
The waters parted with white lipped ruffles over rocks, but was a moving glass mosaic of reflected browns and greens from the nearby banks. I could see the fervent flicker of a tail or two in the depths at the edges.
"A decent distance, but they'll eat where they rest in the slightly slower water. They've got to store energy for the next leg of their journey."
"So I should cast out far?"
"Don't go for the main stream, try for the pockets on the side here," he instructed, "Like so..."
He stepped forward and to the side, peeled the rod back, pulling back one shoulder as he did so, then flung the rig through the air. A thin zapping split the air as the line let out, but the arc was high and graceful. It plopped into an area alongside the main rush of water and swirled there, the float bobbing in the little eddy.
I nodded, narrowing my eyes and stepping up with my own rod cocked. Taking up the position, rod over my shoulder, I tried to judge my strength. It had been a long time since I'd last fished with my father but I'd never held back before. I'd have to now.
Stepping my weight into my forward foot, I slung the line out over the river. It zipped from the reel. Scott let out a whistle.
"Are you trying to aim for the other shoreline?" Terry laughed, "You'll get it tangled in a tree!"
"Oops," I muttered, chagrined.
"That's fine, just reel it back in. The bait should stay on through the main current, but if you don't have any bites, we'll see about re-baiting your hook. You can set it down on the holder like so."
Terry and Ray cast theirs in quick succession and I watched Ray curiously out of the corner of my eye. The man's upper body strength made up for his inability to step into the throw and his line bobbed in an eddy alongside the rest of ours.
"I'm glad the rain let up," Terry's voice bubbled up from his chest like a grumbling purr of contentment.
"We've spent our fair-share of soggy days out here," Scott argued, "It ain't the worst thing."
Ray sat back in his folding chair, reaching for the cooler.
"Pass me one," Terry ordered.
Ray gave the glass bottle a toss.
"Oi! Don't waste a perfectly good beer!"
"If you don't catch it, that's your problem. I'm not walking it over to you!"
"Old fart."
"Says the pot to the kettle."
"Ladies, ladies," Scott chastised, "You're going to scare off the fish."
"And our new company," Ray added, "So, Sara, what year are you?"
"Junior," I said, smiling over at him as he inspected me. Despite their coal-black color and the slightly aged crinkle at the edges, his eyes glittered boyishly. "I'm hoping to go into nursing after high school: labor and delivery."
"That's pretty specific."
"She's got As where it counts," Scott added, "A really good baseline for medicine."
"You don't want to become a doctor or a surgeon?"
"Not really," I scowled with a wrinkle of my nose, "Too much school."
"But more money."
"More debt," I corrected.
"Hah!" Terry's laugh was harsh, "Ain't that right. My Morgan was talking about becoming a veterinarian when she was in high school so we looked through a few of the programs; vet school is expensive! She's doing an entrepreneurship program instead."
"How old is Morgan?" I wondered, looking across Scott at Terry.
"Twenty-one," he said with an approving nod, "Taking classes at the community college and working a small business on the side."
"Small business...?" I echoed.
"She has an herb garden and makes essential oils, trinkets, and teas. She's been a green-thumb ever since she was little and making mud-patties. Now Cody on the other hand..."
"The kid just needs direction, a mentor, perhaps," Scott said.
"Other than hunting, I can't seem to get him on a high-intensity hobby that attracts him."
"Woodworking?" I suggested, glancing about at the trees.
"That's a thought," Terry nodded, "Doesn't Cal dabble in that, Ray?"
"He carves and engraves. Works on shells too - I got him going on the basics when he was a kid but he's far better now than I ever was.""
"Sounds like mentor-material," I shrugged.
"The kid does follow Caleb around like a puppy whenever we're over for the game," Terry chuckled, then mellowed, "Though Cal's been pretty busy lately."
"Where does he work?"
"He's a mechanic," Ray said, "He got the certificate in addition to a Construction Associate's; he's just industrious... and a little indecisive. He's also part of a neighborhood watch; that's what's really been soaking up his time. They're pretty involved in monitoring troublemakers."
"Oh, come on; not this again," Scott huffed, checking his fishing line.
His mustache wrinkled up to his nose in frustration.
"He didn't bring them up," Terry growled.
"Let's just move on," Ray muttered hastily.
"'Them'? Do I need to be worried?" I asked, making my voice small.
"No - "
"Yes - "
Scott glowered at Terry, but Terry's gaze had hardened, all traces of laughter gone from his eyes. The pair glared over-top of me and I shrunk back into my seat to avoid the intensity.
"Terry, one on the line!" Ray interrupted, cutting through the discomfort.
Terry checked, then popped up from his chair. I checked my own rod, reeling just a bit to test the slack. Nothing. Scott jumped up, grabbing a large net and wading out into the water. His tall, rubber boots pushed back the lapping river as he stood in wait, watching Terry's float cut through the water toward us. Then, when the flapping tail of the fish could be seen within arm's reach, he went for a hearty scoop!
The fish in the net was decently sized, slightly longer than the length of Scott's forearm.
"That's a river fish?" I wondered, looking at Ray.
"They live out in the ocean, but spawn in the rivers," he explained as Scott heaved up the fish and handed it to Terry, "That there's a steelhead - a type of trout. That's a decent size one too!"
I quickly jumped to my feet, fishing my phone from my pocket and prompting, "Over here!"
Terry turned, raising a gray-flecked eyebrow.
"You have to get a picture with it," I insisted, holding my phone in landscape to properly capture the sheer length of the fish, "You always get the first catch of the day."
"Alright," he grumbled, "Make it quick."
"It'll be quicker if you smile."
Scott laughed at his friend out of frame, drawing out a begrudging grin.
"You'll be next," I warned him, pocketing my phone and sitting back down, "We'll do a group photo at the end of the day too so prepare yourselves."
The lot groaned good-naturedly and settled back in their chairs. The distraction smoothed away the tension, but I was agitated; curious to confirm what I suspected.
Blood-scent tinged the air as Terry took the fish a short way downstream to dispatch it. I'd have Scott teach me how to handle mine if I caught one. In a short while, Terry was back, setting the carcass into the gigantic ice cooler.
"So, Ray," I hedged, watching my line raptly as I started in, "I went up to the National Forest the other day; Victor's Creek Trail-"
"Oh yes, where the nature center is."
"That's the one," I nodded, "An older gentleman who volunteered there recommended that I visit the tribal village for the tours you all have."
"Well, our touring season ends in November so you have time yet," Ray offered mildly, testing his line.
"It sounds interesting. I like learning about different cultures."
"Do you now?"
There was a slightly condescending note in his voice that made me glace at him from the corner of my eye. Bitterness turned his mouth down while he stared out over the running water. He sensed my gaze nonetheless, recollecting himself.
"You hold a tourist season so that the world remembers your history," I said, though there was a question inherent in the statement.
"We do. But not all stories can be entrusted to strangers."
"Ain't that the truth," I chuckled, looking up at the sky where the moon floated hidden behind the wide swatches of cloud-cover.
Ray raised an eyebrow, but didn't get an opportunity to question me:
"Oi, Sara, your line!" Scott called and I started.
Sure enough, the line gave little jerks and pulls; I was quick onto my feet to begin reeling. The line tugged and grew taught as I pulled it in. A curved bow formed at the tip of the rod as I pulled in the catch; Terry got the net this time and was wading out to spot me. Red flashed up through the water as the fish thrashed and wriggled.
"She got a Coho!" Terry crowed as I continued the pull, trying to ease up enough to avoid snapping the line entirely, "Keep reelin' him in!"
It was a struggle to balance the delicate tug of war, but the fish flailed into catching distance. Terry dived, snagging the bowed red body out of the water and into the net.
"That's a huge one!" I gasped, setting the rod down as Terry waded in.
The fish was far longer than my forearm, strong and still-wriggling.
"I think it needs to be dispatched before a picture," Scott said, stepping forward to inspect the animal.
"Teach me how?"
"You sure, kid?" Terry checked.
"Says she's a hunter," Scott shrugged, moving to grab a set of tools, "If she can handle deer, she can handle a fish."
"A hunter," Terry echoed appreciatively, moving to set the fish down on the bank at the spot he'd chosen previously, "We ought to get you out in the deer blinds then."
Terry held the fish as Scott explained, retrieving a little toolkit.
"It seems gruesome, but it truly is the most humane method. It's an instant death..."
I nodded, pursing my lips as he demonstrated the motion with the little metal tool and pointed at the location on the fish's forehead. Terry continued holding as I lined up the thin pick between the fish's eyes and breathed deeply. Then, with a decided motion, I plunged it through. The creature twitched, but it was clear that the movement was no longer conscious, just random convulsions.
"You alright?" Scott checked.
I looked up, realizing his face was a little blurry, and quickly wiped my eyes with a sleeve.
"It wasn't this hard before," I muttered, biting my lower lip as the fish finally came to rest.
"Can you finish it up?"
"Now that it's dead there won't be waterworks," I whispered, nodding and continuing the process as he talked me through.
"I'll handle your next one- "
"No, no!" I said emphatically, easing up as he jumped, "Er, no, it's fine. I've got to get back into it."
"At your own pace."
"I'll never get back to it at that rate."
"Never is sometimes okay," Terry said gruffly, crouching and watching as I continued processing the catch.
"Living off the land is a part of me, a part of my family's history," I muttered, voice still thick, "I'm not willing to give up on it."
"Still, you ought to take it slow and steady," Scott assured, "There's going to be plenty of fishing trips."
I nodded, swallowing thickly as I rinsed the blood from my hands and from the bank. Taking the fish by the gill plate, I walked it back and dug a spot into the ice.
"Would you still like a photo?" Scott asked, gripping the back of his chair as I was about to bury my catch in the cooler.
"Oh, right," I started, pointing to the cellphone in the mesh cup holder.
With a fluid heave, I propped the fish across both my hands, having to use my forearms a bit to keep it from sagging too much.
"Uh..." Scott held the device upside down.
"You're hopeless," Ray outstretched a hand and crooked it in a 'give it here' motion.
I laughed at Scott's expense as he handed it over.
"In front of the river there, Sara," he ordered and I obliged, standing and smiling broadly, "There we are..."
"How many are you going to take?" Scott scoffed.
"I raised two daughters; they need forty snapshots in each pose, the background needs to be well-lit and what if they're blinking in one of 'em? Oh-!"
Ray blinked in surprise, then his face fell into something like disgust just as suddenly. He brought the phone down. Before I could ask, he collected himself.
"Finished," he announced, the amusement gone from his voice, "You got a text."
"Oh, thanks," I said quickly, hastily burying the salmon in ice to take the device off of him.
But he'd tossed it back into the fabric seat of my chair as if it were suddenly a toxic substance. I swiped up the device, curious:
Thinking about tomorrow; Claire is excited to be chaperoning us. Let me know if there's anything else I can do to make you more comfortable.
Mason. I glanced at Ray. He stared resolutely ahead, stone-faced.
"You have a boyfriend?" he asked blandly, as if disinterested.
"Yes," I eased softly, setting myself back down in my seat to re-bait the hook.
"How long have you been dating?"
"About a month now."
"Any of the kids we'd know?" Terry piped up, tone light.
I noticed Scott visibly wince.
"His name is Mason."
The change in Terry's face was immediate, like a storm cloud had overshadowed it.
"We have a date tomorrow," I continued when no one spoke, "Tomorrow will be our first official date, actually. We've been taking things slow."
"As you should," Scott seconded.
Ray huffed, nearly a scoff.
"If you don't feel comfortable around him, maybe you shouldn't be around him," Terry offered sharply.
Scott bristled beside me, but I was quicker.
"Don't let the earlier waterworks fool you," I said with a carefully light tone as I stood to re-cast my rod, "I'd sooner stake a man through the heart than let him take advantage of me."
I stepped into the cast; it flew far out over the river once again. This time, I let it settle there. Setting down my rod, I turned on the spot to appraise my audience, and smirked. Scott pinched the space between his brows.
"Pepper Spray should do the trick just fine. It's less paperwork for me than a body."
Ray and Terry on the other hand, looked as if someone slapped them each upside the face. Their brows had all but merged into their respective hairlines in shock.
"I'll take pepper spray into consideration," I teased as I sat down.
From the corner of my eye, I could see Ray openly staring at me, but there was now a shadow of a smile pressed on his lips.