Like Coming Home

[fmcbrandon]

It had been a while.  In fact, it had been too long.   The water was once his constant companion, his home.  It was the place he went to think, to stew, to recharge, and to mend.  But all of that was a distant memory.  Time had weaved a tangled web and he had not set foot in a stream in years.  He did not know it then, but it showed.   He was haggard and worn.  He was unfocused and incomplete.

All that changed the day his friend asked him to fish.   The light came back in an instant.  In the weeks leading up to the trip, all he could think about was the flies and the reel.  He was so focused on the toys that he didn't see the bigger meaning.  Ahh, but it all came back when he set foot in the water.

After the build up, the tying, and the drive.  He had his waders on and was poised to enter the stream.  It was dark, and the water was rushing by.  When the first foot touched the water he could feel it all coming back, like a hungry trout to a well placed fly.   

He noticed the way his feet felt in the wading boots, how the water sucked them in and squeezed.  He noticed the coolness through his waders and clothes.  He noticed the motion of the water and how it gently swayed him back and fourth.  Then, with the first cast, he noticed his purpose.  

There is a rhythm to the world.  It is everywhere we look.  Engines and keyboards, copiers and dishwashers.  The world spins on a rhythm, but fishing. . . fishing has a rhythm all its own.  The sound of the spring and the whip of the rod.  Soon, he was in that rhythm.  Soon, he was transported to a place where all seemed right.  There were no deadlines, no urgent problems to fix, and there were no phonecalls to make.  All there was in this moment was a man and a stream, a fly and a trout.

That is when it happened.  He had been rhythmically reeling and jigging.  He had gotten lost in the stars and the sway of the water.  Then, he was jolted out of his prayerful state by a break in the rhythm.  The line went tight and the rod tip flexed.   Soon he was on task.  As the water broke he could see the fish struggling to free itself from the grips of his wand.  It didn't take long, as fights go and it wasn't all that big, as browns go.  But, when the fish hit his net, and the smile set on his lips, it was then he knew that he was home.

For some, home is a house where childhood memories abound.  For others, home is a land where the sights are welcoming.  For those of us with the calling, home is a stream and a fly.   

[bs1827]

Great read! Glad you were finally able to get back on the water!

[DaddyO]

I can identify with this essay.  Is this an original?  If so, Good Work!

[fmcbrandon]

This is original.  I am glad your enjoyed it.