Different in Daylight

“I’m not as old as she thinks,” Darryl mumbled as he picked his way along a pile of pale and uneven small boulders that lined the edge of a narrow lagoon. His voice carried in the darkness, and he quickly lapsed into thought. “She wants me to sit beside the dock on an upturned bucket, basking in the sun like a turtle, happy to catch whatever comes along. But not yet. For real fish you have to go where they are.” Real fish, to Darryl, were the large catfish he recently heard about at the bait store. The old guys said they lurked just off a small ledge. He had scouted it out last week, and found it easily accessible by daylight. But everyone knew catfish feed best at night. So here he was, at 4 a.m. on a clear, cold, and cloudless morning. Because there was no moon he had to find his way by starlight and by the faint red of the navigation beam that guided boats to the lagoon entrance. His hands were full, with two fishing rods and a tackle box, too full to carry a lantern or even a flashlight. He wore a small headlamp, sort of like a coalminer’s lamp, but hadn’t turned it on – the narrow beam aimed too high for walking, and only made the surrounding darkness into a black wall. He could see just enough by starlight and the harbor light, though it was sometimes hard to tell shadow from solid rock. It didn’t help that having his arms full made it harder to keep his balance. He admitted, reluctantly, that perhaps she was right, at least a little. He was no longer the sure-footed man who had scrambled up Long’s Peak with a full backpack, when the idea of a misstep was unlikely and his younger bones could more easily absorb the jolt. Falling onto these rocks could hurt. Even cause serious harm. And not only physical harm. It’d give her an excuse to nag him more about going out to the lake, and make it harder for him to argue back. Maybe even force him to acknowledge something before he was ready. But he didn’t fall. Didn’t come close. Not really. He stood on the familiar ledge and carefully, competently, laid out his gear on the surrounding rocks, everything in its proper place. He acted mostly by feel and memory, though he turned on the headlamp to bait the one rod he would use before dawn. He turned off the light and cast into the vague darkness, unable to see exactly where the bait entered the water, judging his accuracy only by the distant splash. It seemed right, so he lowered the rod against the rock, jammed the butt into a crevice, attached a pair of small bells at the tip, and waited. A radio might be nice, except that it would be wrong to impose it on the natural sounds of night, and earphones were out of the question, since the rod was lost in darkness and only the bells would tell if he got a strike. He listened to the noises a lake makes at night when left to itself, the gentle lap of waves, the sudden startling splashes of jumping fish, nighthawks flitting past. He sipped coffee, placing and replacing the travel mug carefully, by feel, into a secure crevice he’d found during daylight. He tried naming the constellations, felt the faint breeze, wondered how long until dawn, reminded himself how beautiful it all was, sipped his cooling coffee, stared out over the black sheen of water, with its speckle of reflected stars. His thoughts settled on a book he’d once read about the Springhill Mine disaster, when a group of coal miners had been trapped for several days after a mine collapse, up in Maine or lower Canada, in a small chamber and in total darkness. As time stretched on, they had carved out a sort of society in miniature, with certain areas designated for certain people, and certain functions. When rescue finally arrived, more than a week later by surface time, the survivors had been shocked to see, under light, exactly how small and how mundane the area was -- landscapes and landmarks mapped in tight darkness turned out to be merely mundane rocks and level patches, all but indistinguishable from each other. Sort of like this, he thought, except this was not total darkness, and not a disaster. But close enough. A sudden jangle of bells split the night and ripped through his reverie. He dropped the cup and grabbed for the rod but found . . . nothing. Damn. One of his biggest fears -- irrational he had convinced himself -- was to have that $200 rod and reel vanish into the lake on the trail of a big fish. Not really irrational, since he knew how hard a big catfish can strike, but he thought he’d addressed that by jamming the rod into that crevice. At least he had planned it out that way, last time he was here, in daylight. He groped desperately in the darkness, then thought to turn on his headlamp. He spotted the rod down near the water, about a dozen feet and a few boulders over, snagged between two rocks. The rod was still and quiet when he saw it, but soon began jingling again, irregularly and lightly, but repeatedly. Sometime soon the fish would make a real run and, if hooked solidly and of any size, it would drag the rod into the water. Darryl pulled himself up onto the familiar rock behind the ledge, and stood. He’d never walked in that direction, but the headlamp showed a relatively flat rock within easy reach. He took a long step across darkness, and found himself on that rock, but also found it more uneven than the lamp had suggested. His stomach churned as he teetered briefly, until he steadied himself. He would have sighed if he hadn’t been holding his breath so tightly. He lowered himself onto his knees, sensing a vague sharpness under the right one, which he tried to ignore. He saw the rod at the base of the next rock over, nearly in the water. The bell was silent again, at least for the moment. He still had time. His headlamp showed a narrow ledge at the base of his rock, which led over to the rod. He began to pivot slowly, and to lower himself onto that ledge. One careful move at a time. The bell began again, a couple short tinkles, then a longer one, and again. He slid himself down faster than he had intended, felt his right knee scrape but was soon standing on the ledge. He took a deep breath, his hands pressed against the cool of the rock. The bells fell silent, then began again, softly but more insistently. He bent his knees and, pressing his face and body against the rock, edged toward the rod, his left arm reaching down and over. The ledge grew narrower, and he began to wonder if he could keep his balance. Also began to wonder whether the rod was worth it – a drop into that chilly water would not likely be fatal, even to a nonswimmer like himself, but it would be damn uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing, even incriminating, the indictment of an old man playing a foolish game. The jingles continued. He let out a long breath, and drew one in. “Okay,” he thought, “let’s get this done.” He edged further along until he felt the butt of the rod with his left hand, clenched it, and pulled it up, making the bells jangle indiscriminately. He felt no resistance from the line as it pulled from the water, and presumed the fish had worked itself loose. He’d figure out later whether he was glad or disappointed. He lifted his left arm and pressed his hand and the rod butt against the top of the rock, which was about face level to his bent body. He laid his right hand up on top and began to pull himself up. He felt the faint complaint of muscles and tendons being stretched further than they had in years. As he got both hands onto the rock, the rod jerked and pulled his left arm back, hard enough to knock him off balance. He found no solid grip for his right hand, felt himself twist, and began falling. His left foot dropped into the cold water and came to rest a few inches down; his right knee banged onto the ledge and he fell onto his right elbow, scraping the side of his face along the rock. Somehow he held onto the rod with his left hand, felt it pulsing and pulling. He pushed the release on the reel, so that the line pulled out freely, and edged to his feet, lifting the rod onto the top of the rock. With a deep breath he pushed down and pulled himself up onto the top, took a sitting position, and began to reel in the line. Again no resistance, and this time the line came all the way in. He saw the fishhook dangling, bare metal glinting in the faint gray dawn. He pulled off the headlamp and stuck it into his pocket, got to his feet, and picked his way across the rocks, back to the ledge where this had all begun. He picked up his tackle box and spare rod, and headed back up to the path. His blue jeans were torn over the right knee, his left shoe squished as he walked, and he winced from tired and stretched muscles. When he reached the main path, he turned and looked back. It all looked so much different by daylight, indiscriminate piles of rock and flat indifferent water. Next time he’d be more careful about securing the rod. Fishing from the dock could wait – there was a catfish off the ledge, and he meant to catch it.