Growing up in Northern Alabama means you know that WalMart sells crickets and those crickets are on sale Sunday afternoons. The art of wetting a line was mine to claim from, a young age. Dad and I would spend weekends on various simplistically named bodies of water (Gunterville, Goose Pond, the Elk, the Flint) equipped with an alarming amount of crickets, ZOOM bait, honeywheat bread and cheap ham. Riptide Rush Gatorade and Michelob Ultra were the choice drinks to ensure proper hydration. The days we filled with a simple formula: cast, reel, catch, release. Bass love lake-**** and Crappie muddy banks. Catfish are not worth the effort involved with avoiding their poisonous whiskers when unhooking even though they look like Dinosaurs. After a lunch of sweaty ham and blue-bag doritos a quick swim in the water is absolutely crucial to cool down and finally get rid of the weariness sitting on a rocking boat gives you.  The big fish bite during dusk and dawn. Some only after the sun goes down. Sleep came when the green and white light rods on the boat become too bright for tired eyes. Finding a random small island in the water, tying the boat to an Hardwood Oak, and rolling out the sleeping bags on the red-clay will always provide the best sleep of your life-just don't think about snakes. The stars are always brightest and the cricket and cicada harmony the most melodic on this little Alabamian islands.

With each year the opportunity for these ventures dissipated. The fishing never stopped-the creeks in the neighborhood, pond beside our family home, and lakes on the Robert Trent Jones golf course (the 18th hole on the River Course was the best) provided ample opportunity to cure the itchy thumb syndrome.

I remember in high-school my father would fish alone by the lake with our dog by his side and an Ultra in his cup-holder almost every night. It was his time to unwind and process. I always appreciated his dedication to the art and the mastery of skills he passed on to me, but I never understood why he fished every single evening.

Until now.

I have been in the so called real world for a mere two year since college graduation. I have completed a post-graduate program, dated and broken up with various women, obtained a full time position doing honest and difficult work for those in need, and recently became a Dad to a hound of my own.

There in a river that flows through my city, but it is to far to venture to every night. The rivers surface in most places reflects bright lights. On weekends you will find kayak enthusiasts paddling against the current like wasps in the wind. The river, here, is a place of fast motion and has forgotten the beauty of a restful yellow bobber downing crickets.

Fishing equates opportunity for breathing. I still wet my line most weekends, but at 24 there is not enough time to recapture the dreams only found on red clay riverbanks. The river remembers and the fish still look like dinosaurs to me.

Hues of blue and gray
With a succulent sweetness
That begs to be savored
In the briny waters off the sea
They lead a life unseen
Scavengers in warm water
A lazy afternoon
Wire mesh and day old fish
Chicken necks on a string
Baited traps dropped in left in wait
Edgewater shallows and a lot of time
One by one they come
Chasing that string to the shore
One by one they come
Pull up the trap and catch what you can
Fill the bucket with sweetness
There is nothing quite like
A blue crab Saturday afternoon

The wind was blowing when she left the city...
I believe it was twenty below...
Where she was going she already knew...
But... first she had things she had to do...
Get rid of the body that was clear....
There were no options, it had to disappear....
The heater was broken and blowing cold air...
She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..
She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...
As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...
All she had asked him , was to light a fire...
To take off the chill in the house....
Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped
And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..
It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..
This was his favorite fishing spot...
She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..
And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....
Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..
When I get to the Florida Keys..

PS. This is  # 1 of 5 in a series titled “ Gator Bait “.  
Be sure to check them out...

Let’s go to the docks where the wooden boats rest
With fine-aged grooves that wrinkle their flesh
A quiet and hollow creek to their breath
And in we’ll step

We’ll bring your fishing rods and hooks
Some bait for the fish and I’ll bring some books
Then we’ll paddle on down the river
Just you and I

Let’s row to a place where the water is fresh
In that old wooden boat with grooves in its flesh
A quiet and hollow creak to its breath
And wait for a catch

And while we wait with the water and woods
Once we’ve cast the lines, I’ll read you the books
To see your smile shine across the river
And to the sky

(c) 2015

Pots, coiled ropes, orange, blue
Laid, at the harbor side, waiting
Waiting, for the tide,
An old fishing net, laid on the concrete,
A weathered sunburnt fisherman,
Sitting quietly repairing holes within holes
Birds perching patiently on the harbor wall,
Waiting
In the distance the sun dips towards the horizon
Casting a light over a returning trawler
The birds lift lethargically from
Harbour perch, beat their wings , wheel
Towards an incoming meal ticket

A shed, six by four, painted,
Landy green, black roof
Local fishmongers
Down by the harbor gates
Battered wooden, fish crates
Smelling of the ocean, the waves,
The spray
Weathered, worn, faded brown
Trawlers name a disappearing outline
A boy in shorts, blond hair
Tugging at his mother’s skirts
Pointing,
Spattered orange dotted flat fish
Flapping, fresh from the boat.
Propped against the side wall
A box of jade, and emerald sea jewels
Eyes frozen in time.
Chalk board hung from open door,
With names, prices , beyond understanding.
To the boy fantastical creatures  
A man in a white coat, money rattling in pocket
Scales set on a bench, ready to measure out scales
For the women of the seaside town
All the gossip, the fish, and the stories
From one little shed down by the harbor wall
A boys face mesmerized, by cod
Larger than he, caught on a wall hook
Swift knife movements, and fillets,
Laid on yesterdays newspaper
Bones, and head thrown into a bucket
Large lazy yellow eyed seagull,
Sauntering like a casual thief, eye
On the bucket…

To wake in a smooth sway, I wish I was by the bay.

Fishing poles an boat.

Bates on hooks lines cast out, Little fish big fish.... O how I wish I was by the bay.

I'm listening,
Just to hear her say I am her bae.