A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.22: Biggest Fish

The boy's hands healed quickly thanks to the marigold water. Although he was back on the boat within days, it was still weeks before he could do all that he usually did without pain. His watch read that it was June first when at last he could use them fully to do all that he pleased and the once tender skin spots where his blisters had been were now calloused over.

The morning sun was still low in the sky when they moved to their second fishing spot, having no luck at the first. The boy cast his line only a few times before he felt a tug.

"I have something," he told Old Man Hemingway, as was their custom. "I cannot tell if it's weeds or not though," he said. The old man pulled in his own line, watching as the boy pulled harder.

"Seems like a rock," the old man joked. The line gave a sharp tug to the right, nearly pulling the boy with it. Old Man Hemingway steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Certainly not a rock," the boy laughed, strained, and pulled harder. He reeled and pulled, exactly as Old Man Hemingway had taught him. It seemed as though he did this forever. The sun was high noon when he began to give up.

Still, the fish was far out from the boat. Not close enough to warrant even reaching for a net. He was heaving breaths, sweating and still fighting the fish. Oaths nearly left his lips each time the line slipped out of the reel a little further, but he bit his lip, drawing blood.

"Old Man Hemingway, I cannot do it," he cried at last, sitting back on his bench, still wrestling the fish.

"You can," he replied simply. The boy felt a few desperate tears escape his eyes.

"I cannot," he protested. "Help me, please," he begged. The old man shook his head.

"You can," he assured him again. Jackson felt a sob shudder through his body from the hours of work that were once again turning his roughened hands raw. He fought as hard as he could after that, focusing all his energy on it.

"Please," he begged once more. The old man just shook his head again.

"I'll help you net it but you have to reel it in," he said at last. The boy gritted his teeth, growled with determination, and with tears clouding his eyes, he continued his harrowing battle.

It was another two hours later, with tears and sweat streaming down the boy's face that he finally reeled in a five foot lake sturgeon. They managed to haul it in the boat and Old Man Hemingway estimated it weighed at least fifty pounds. The boy kissed the fish, many times in fact, before they tossed it back in the water. 'Something that size was not meant to be kept,' the old man told the boy as they released it.

"Why did you not help me?" the boy asked the old man as he rowed back, still aching from the fight. The old man chuckled.

"Because you wouldn't have been able to say that you caught it on your own," the old man said simply. Jackson mulled it over, his anger fading away. "You would have cursed my name," Old Man Hemingway added with a chuckle, "for helping you reel in a five foot sturgeon. 'Oh yes, I caught the monster, but with the help of an old man'," he laughed. Jackson smiled sheepishly, wiping his stray tears on his shoulder.