When the summer heat has subsided, and the sun casts a liquid saffron in the rippling bank waters of the Loch Raven Reservoir, my father and I gather up hooks, lure and rods to set out fishing. After the back trunk of the car pops open with a metallic creak, we load up the equipment and begin a leisurely 9-minute drive from our house. My father is steering our beige 2008 Toyota Camry, proudly bearing a sunburnt bumper sticker of the Beijing Olympics, where our seatbelt buckles still radiate the heat of noon, and the entire interior smells of melting velour. He cranks on the radio to WEAA 89.9, my least favorite station, due to being young and not understanding the “allure of jazz,” but my father insists it reminds him of the gate lounges of the Louis Armstrong Airport in New Orleans, waiting for flights home. We mainly drive along one monotonous, lazily winding road that escapes to the outskirts of Timonium, brushing past the whipping scenery of foliage in the reflection of the approaching basin.
Although I was the usual backseat passenger of my father’s frequent journeys to the reservoir, I always made alternative preparations for spending my time. Sometimes I would choose my favorite stories from the Rainbow Magic Weather Fairies series to reread, undoing their worn, dog-eared pages. I also liked bringing a tight wad of multiple pieces of printer paper folded together with two Crayola coloring pencils – in case I was struck with the desire to trace over the book covers and reimagine their characters.
After parking the car on a flat gravel lot a little upfield of the fishing grounds, my father would swiftly change into his fishing garb, draping a faded blue and gray windbreaker over his polo shirt and spraying OFF! insect repellent in every direction, which invariably prickled the inside of my nostrils. “That’s enough!” Rubbing out the oily droplets that would roll down my calves, I then helped him carry his red cooler. It functioned as both a storage container and a step he could use to heave his body up and lean his face far over the chainlink railing of the bridge, positioning him on the same altitude as the other more seasoned and more “American” fishers.
When my father fishes, you’d think he were some kind of monk. I sit a few paces away from him, watching his back poised and ready like the Roman statues I’ve seen in geography textbooks, and begin to read. Reading happens to sucks the time right out of a day, I’ve noticed, and I ensure each fishing trip that I have enough material to pass the time. Flipping to my lightly dog-eared page, I exit the realm of the reservoir, with its zipping dragonflies and itchy fountain grass, the landscape exhaling into silence as my mind enters the book in hand. I am still aware, of course, of my father’s blurry figure recasting his line, the sound of the reel recoiling that gossamer thread and producing a high-pitched whir before the brass sinker breaks the surface of water with a plop.
It doesn’t take me too many books before the sky breaks into a crabapple fuchsia, indicating the brink of night. A gaggle of geese makes their way across the inky water, their strokes leaving behind fine, dragging lines across the surface of the reservoir. When I squint again at my father, I realize he, too, has finished with the day, and his catch lay in an orderly row beneath his feet and spare rods. They ranged from small to large, a few Sunfish, six Crappies in ascending body length, and one glimmering Yellow Perchback at the top of this rank. I grin, putting down my books, and jump up to hug him fiercely.
“You did it! You did it again!”
As he smiles and squeezes my back with a gloved hand, I can smell the work of fishing on him, all the reel grease and saltiness from artificial lures and slimy tackle boxes.
In retrospect, I think he thought I must have really liked fish, or that I really liked going to the reservoir after school. Why else would I always volunteer to come with him, then, on these lengthy expeditions? The truth is, I actually liked the coming home part, him letting me sit in the passenger seat with the day’s catch splashing around in the cooler on my lap, listening to the fuzzy radio together until I am lulled asleep by the familiar rhythm of the car tires running over the same speed bumps. The returning home tired, smelling like the rich earth and speckled with its dirt, opening the cooler and counting to ensure nothing had slipped away.
And then, waiting for the next sun to do it again.
Crystal Wang is a sophomore from Baltimore, Md., studying Molecular and Cellular Biology.
