The water
If you have never been out on the big lake at dawn in August, it is hard to explain. The harbor lights go by, the lighthouse at the end of the breakwall, and then the land just falls away behind you.
Royce ran us about five miles out. He had the lines set in no time, downriggers on the back corners with flashers and flies, and a couple of divers off the sides. His mate was a college kid named Rufus who moved around that deck like he was born on it.
Royce set up a rotation. Whoever was up took the next rod that fired. No arguing, no grabbing. He said it the way you would say it to a room of second graders, and I liked him for it.
Get a new story in your inbox every morning.
Facebook doesn’t show you every story we post. Our free newsletter does. Join 2,500+ readers.
Zach was up first. At ten after six the starboard rigger popped, the rod bent nearly double, and Rufus yelled fish on. Zach took the rod like it might bite him.
He was a quiet boy. Tall for fourteen, all elbows, with thick black hair that fell in his eyes, and a navy hoodie he wore no matter the weather. He had a way of standing at the edge of things, like he was waiting to be told he was in the wrong spot.
He fought that fish for a long time. Larry stood behind him the whole way, one hand hovering near his back without quite touching, saying easy, easy, keep your tip up, let him run.
When Rufus netted it and swung it over the rail, Zach just stared. Fourteen pounds on Royce’s scale. A clean, bright king with that black mouth they have.
“Look at that,” Larry said. His voice did something I had not heard it do before. “Look at that, bud.”
Zach did not say anything. But he smiled, a small one, and I remember thinking it was the first time all morning I had seen his whole face.