Field Trip: Night fishing

I didn’t see Winchester dis­ap­pear in the rearview. I couldn’t see. Specialized gear rat­tled around me, pro­trud­ing into my per­son­al space. My body, com­pact­ed in the lay­ers I’d been instruct­ed to wear, swayed with the forces of wind­ing roads. Though now warm in the sun’s set­ting rays, it was just a mat­ter of hours before the chill of late win­ter returned. My mind went uncon­scious with one final thought: My hus­band had planned this. 

Sometime lat­er, I awoke in a land­scape Nic had famil­iar­ized him­self with over the past few months. He’d been search­ing for the per­fect con­di­tions that would bring him an elu­sive beast. Its body, ripped with mus­cle, could tear through the water at tremen­dous speed. Its eyes, large and dilat­ed, reflect opales­cent light in the dark­ness. Its mouth, wide and deep, con­tains sharp, punc­tur­ing teeth. A preda­tor. And my hus­band was going to use me to cap­ture it.

Nic parked our car in an emp­ty lot. We used the last of the day­light to hike where he believed this beast would gath­er after sun­set. As we approached the shore, a sound like a ner­vous haint rever­ber­at­ed from the steel roost of doves. I glanced at Nic. He was focused, set­ting down his pack and scan­ning the water for signs of our quarry.

“We’ll start here and leapfrog our way down the shore,” he said, ges­tur­ing in a direc­tion with­out a path.

With lit­tle else I could do, I cast into the fad­ing laven­der horizon.

I let the famil­iar rhythm soothe my wor­ries. The first cast is always to get a feel for the rig. The sec­ond is to see if I can still aim. And the third is to let go of expec­ta­tions. My lure’s weight tugged the near-invis­i­ble line until it splashed down in the dark­ness. For a moment, I wait­ed in still­ness as the lure sank. Then, with vary­ing degrees of hope, I turned the crank, and the bail flashed in the last light as the line pulled in.

Color fad­ed from the world. What were trees and their reflec­tions became black forms with no clear direc­tion. The flat water gave no hint of depth. Shadows gath­ered around me, car­ry­ing the waver­ing excite­ment of ducks. Later, the long her­ald of a goose. Even lat­er, hol­low and deep, the hoot of owls.

These sounds met the uneven Anthropocene land­scape I bal­anced on. I picked through sharp-edged shad­ows cast by street­lamps. Cold, col­or­less light caught the sharp edges of the rocks before they tilt­ed into dark­ness as I shift­ed my weight onto them. I found a hor­i­zon­tal rock on the water’s edge—just wide enough for two feet and steady enough to cast from. I sur­veyed my new loca­tion, decod­ing the shad­owy topog­ra­phy cov­ered by clear water.

A voice broke the dark­ness, “Try reel­ing it in par­al­lel to the shore.” 

My hus­band list­ed tips for cast­ing loca­tion, rod angles, retrieval speed, and so on. I didn’t lis­ten. I fish by feel, not for­mu­la. His immense research on this crea­ture, the weeks of expert con­sul­ta­tion, the gear he’d built to cap­ture it, his hours of on-the-water searching—none of this had land­ed the creature.

I wasn’t there to cal­cu­late. I was there to cast. Let the lure sink. Bring it back. Feel the drag in the air, then the water. Out and back. Out and back. Let the rhythm steady me in the dark­ness. Out and back. Out an—

Thump!

By instinct, I flicked my wrist upward. A pause. Then the line pulled so taut it bent the rod tip. I squealed, “I got one!” The line zigged as I gave the crank a turn. 

“Keep the rod tip up!” My hus­band shout­ed as he scram­bled slow­ly towards me with a net in hand. 

My line jolt­ed ten yards, par­al­lel to the shore. I reeled in quick­ly and tilt­ed my rod high­er, tak­ing a moment to see how far away Nic was. I relaxed ever so slight­ly, try­ing to buy some time. 

“Keep the rod up!” He shout­ed again, and I whipped it back up, pulling the fish clos­er. I could see it streak­ing in all direc­tions now. It tried to free itself as I reeled in through the clear water. Nic reached down as I pulled the fish towards the shore. He scooped the net up as the fish gave a kick.

We land­ed him.

The one o’clock hour passed with the red tail­lights as we head­ed home. Our cool­er was emp­ty. The two bass I land­ed were a thrill to reel in, but not our quar­ry. The mon­ster fish remained elu­sive. Whether it was our tech­nique or tim­ing, I couldn’t say. But I could be grate­ful for two things: my hus­band can plan a ven­ture­some date night, and nap­ping on the way was the right call.

The author has been sworn to secre­cy on the loca­tion, dates, and tax­on­o­my of crea­tures allud­ed to in this essay.