On Heron Pond

A story about fishing and superstition

Photo by Daniel Vogel on Unsplash

This is my submission for the next Symposium at the Soaring Twenties Social Club. The topic for July is superstition. You can check out the STSC here:

Roger adjusted the lure, ran out the line a few feet and reeled it back in. Today’s the day, he thought.

The wide pond stretched out lazily before him, crowned by trees and a blue, blue sky, the sun just reaching its fingers over the tree line. 

The water licked the base of the little dock. A great blue heron stalked nearby. The air was clean and cool. Roger leaned back in his chair and remembered that day. 

He had come to Heron Pond that day forty years before alone as usual, a much younger man, more hair on his head and less on the rest of him. He sank into the memory. 

A mosquito bit his ear and he slapped it. He tripped down the grassy bank leading to the dock, his ankle twisting beneath him. He brushed himself off, gathered his fishing rod and chair, and limped down to the little dock. He opened the chair, sat down heavily, and reached down to rub his ankle. It throbbed. 

The fishing rod propped against the side of the chair leaned, slid, and toppled over into the murky water with a faint splash. 

Roger leaped from the chair, slamming his knees down onto the dock. He yelped in pain. Leaning far out over the edge of the dock, he reached his fingers into the water just in time to grab the reel of the fishing rod, lose his balance, and topple over headfirst into the water. 

He came up spluttering and coughing, flopping around in the water like so many fish he had caught before, floundering before realizing that he could easily stand in the four feet of water. He waded around the dock dragging the rod and fighting pond weeds and slippery rocks. Sprawling out on the grass, he laid there for a minute. He sat up. He had two choices: fish or go home. Not one to quit, he decided to fish. He laid out his clothes in the sun and changed into the shorts and t-shirt he kept just for such an occasion. The t-shirt read: Hill Valley High School.

He took up his station in the chair and pulled a lure from the little fishing box. It was brand new, a small white fish two inches long with two three-pronged hooks, one dangling from its mouth, the other from the tail.

He tied the lure onto the end of the line along with a sinker, checked the line, and skewered his pinky finger with the hook. He yelped and pulled the hook out of his skin. His finger found its way to his mouth, stopping the curses emanating from it. 

He stood up, unhooked the reel, let out a little line, held the rod out behind him, then with a long arcing motion and a flick of the wrist sent the lure and sinker flying out into the middle of the pond. 

He sat down and waited. 

And waited. 

On the verge of falling asleep, the rod attempted to jump out of his hands. He grabbed on tight and yanked back. 

The line whipped up out of the water, streaming from the tip of the rod to a point fifty feet from the dock. 

The line settled back into the water. He whirled the reel, keeping the line taught. 

Nothing. He waited. 

The tiniest shudder vibrated up the line. Roger pulled back hard and started reeling fast, keeping the line taught. The end of the rod bent down, down. He pulled to get some slack, reeling fast as he pushed the tip of the rod toward the water. 

On and on it went until finally there in the water appeared the flash of scales, the dark shape, just fifteen feet from the dock. 

Ten feet. Five feet. The fish was at the edge of the dock now and exhausted, though still thrashing on occasion. 

Roger pulled up on the line, extending the little net down into the water and around the fish. 

The carp must have weighed thirty pounds. It lounged on the dock, gasping. Roger sat back, exhausted too, and marveled at the catch. 

No good for eating, but a hell of a catch. A once in a lifetime catch.

He gently extricated the lure and slid the slimy dull brown behemoth into the water. It lazed just beneath the dock, catching its watery breath, then flashed its tail and disappeared. 

Roger, still leaning back in the chair, smiled at the memory, then steeled himself for what must come next. 

He stood, folded the chair and with rod, chair, tackle box, and net in hand walked to the top of the grassy bank above the dock. He turned to face the pond.

He slapped his ear, then flung himself down the bank. Dusting himself off, he gathered the rod, chair, box, and net and limped down to the dock. He opened the chair, leaned the rod against it and let it fall into the water. He reached down, fished it out, then flung himself head first into the water. He waded around the side of the dock, slipping on the rough algae-covered stones, shook himself off, and laid his clothes in the sun to dry. The ratty old shorts and Hill Valley High School t-shirt clung to his body, dried only slightly in the sun. He sat down in the chair and pulled an old lure from the tackle box. It had once been a white fish about two inches long. Three-pronged hooks dangled from its mouth and tail. He tied a sinker and the lure to the end of the line then held his breath and punched the hook through the calloused skin of his pinky finger. His finger hopped into his mouth and wallowed there for a minute. He stood up, arced the rod, and cast sinker and lure into the middle of the pond. They splashed with a satisfying plop.

Roger let out a deep sigh and sat down to wait. 

The sun rose over the treetops. 

He waited. 

Tiny gnats gathered in groups over the water, swirling and dancing.

He waited. 

The cool clean air became hot and fetid as the sun warmed the stagnant water near the edge of the pond. A great blue heron landed in the shallows nearby.

He waited.

Maybe he hadn’t fallen down the bank the right way. Maybe the rod falling in the water had been too contrived. Maybe he should have let it happen on its own. Maybe he didn’t draw enough blood with the hook. Maybe the barb had to get in, get stuck, pull a bit of flesh with it, a sacrifice shared with the fish. Maybe.

The sun rose higher. The light pierced the dull green water instead of glancing off like at sunrise. Weed and rocks showed in the gloom.

Roger resisted the temptation to reel in the rod. The weak fisherman’s temptation to start over. There was no starting over. He had performed the ritual as he had done every time before and that was that. 

Can’t think about what it might be, what fish might be out there waiting. That’s a sure fire way to make sure I don’t catch anything. 

Sweat broke out on his brow, dripping slowly from his temple to his cheek. He wiped his forehead with the back of a hairy arm. Kicking off his sandals he leaned back in the chair and checked the rod. 

The line drooped out beyond the wormed wood of the dock, arcing down to the gray-green water. 

As midday approached, he moved to the shady end of the dock. Midday stretched into afternoon into evening. 

In the failing light the tip of the rod dipped.

Roger sat up. 

It dipped again. The vibrations ran the length of the rod down to his hands by the reel. 

Ho boy. Easy, Roger, easy. Let him get a hold of it. Let him take a big bite, a big, big bite and get those hooks in good. Patience, patience. 

He waited. The big bite didn’t come. 

Does he have it or not?

Roger ticked the reel over, feeling the tension grow ever so slightly in the line, bit by bit increasing tension held by the weight of the sinker alone. 

Careful. Don’t want to pull the lure out of his mouth. He’s a lazy bastard, just taking little bites. Might not go after it again if I pull it away from him.

A nibble, nothing more. A fish sampling finger food. 

Good enough for me.

Roger pulled back hard. The line stretched then resisted. Droplets fell from the line. 

He stood up and spread his feet wide, reeling fast and bringing the tip of the rod almost to the surface of the water. He anchored the butt of the rod at the top of his thigh where it met his hip then pulled back, slow but firm, back, back until the rod was over his head then flicked it back toward the surface of the water and pulled again. 

Each time there was less and less slack. The behemoth on the other end was resisting by sheer weight and sluggish power, not wriggling and thrashing but just sitting lazy and unconcerned.

Roger watched the tip of the rod. It bent, the line straining under the tension, but the rod didn’t seem to move. 

He wondered if the line would break. The fish must be fifty, a hundred pounds. Probably too much for the line to handle. Roger willed the line to hold as he flicked the tip to the water reeling fast again. 

He pulled. The old rod bent and snapped a foot from the tip. The line sagged. 

Roger threw down the rod and grabbed the line. Ignoring the danger of wrapping the thin line around his hands, he twisted and pulled, twisted and pulled hand over hand. He knew what a taut fishing line could do to his fingers. Cut it right to the bone before he could even think about letting go. He hoped his fleshy palms would provide more resistance. 

Hand over hand over hand the line held but the light was fading fast. The sun dipped behind the trees exploding the sky into brilliant oranges and pinks and turning the gray-green water to a dull black.

The line jerked less and less. Bit by bit he was winning. 

Something disturbed the water twenty feet from the dock sending tiny ripples cascading toward the shore. 

There it was, a vast dark shape just beneath the surface of the water. 

Hands tangled in fishing line, Roger marveled at the fish. He stood up to get a better look right at the edge of the dock. 

The fish thrashed, brown tail flashing out of the water. The line tightened and pulled Roger into the water. 

Roger knew the bottom of that pond intimately and quickly found his footing while spitting pond water. It tasted sour.

He freed his hands from the line and used one hand to wipe the streaming water from his eyes. 

Standing chest deep, he tested the line. Tension. The monster was still there. 

Roger pulled gently, coaxing the fish closer and closer. It wouldn’t move.

He put a cautious foot forward beyond the area next to the dock. One step, then another, bare feet threatening to slip on the rocks. 

He reached out a hand toward the massive black shape. The scales were soft and smooth. The fish twitched but let Roger’s hand remain on its side. Roger’s right hand followed the line to the mouth of the fish. 

“Here, let me help you.”

The fish stayed still while Roger reached his hand into its massive mouth. He winced as the free hook dug into his finger. 

“Guess I deserve that.”

A quick twist released the lure. 

Roger felt the length of the fish. His right still holding onto its chin, his left hand couldn’t reach the end of its tail.

“You’re a big old guy, aren’t you?” He inspected the scales in the dying light. Did they look familiar or was it a trick of the light? “I wonder. Are you the same guy I caught all those years ago? Were you just a young’n then? A big boy then and a big old man now.”

Roger raised the head of the fish. Its dull cloudy gray eye barely distinguishable from within the brown scales.

He touched his lips to the cheek of the fish. “From one old-timer to another, thanks.”

He gave the fish a gentle push. It disappeared into the darkness. 

Roger waded around the dock to the shore, gathered the rod, chair, tackle box, net, and clothes and left. 

The next day Roger walked down the bank carrying just the chair. He opened the chair on the dock, sat down, and watched the sun rise over Heron Pond.