A Short Story
I could see him out of the corner of my eye standing with a rod and reel and small tackle box. As I reeled in a small catfish I waved telling him there's plenty room to share. His nauseous expression and body language painted a picture of disdain for me though I had never seen him before and wondered what I had done to ruffle his feathers.
Set up on a rocky jetty in the river a couple hundred yards below the dam fishing for catfish my familiarity with these rushing waters let me know he did not have much experience fishing from these dangerous slippery rocks. His thigh high wading boots rolled down would not only be cumbersome but dangerous if he got too close to the waters edge and slipped. The rushing water would pull him into the current in seconds with little chance for rescue.
His hesitancy to join me out on the jetty which is nearly island like in its protrusion farther into the flow of the channel seemed to wane as he worked his way down onto the rocks. His approach had none of the traditional fisherman's banter about the water conditions or the number of bites. Instead, I could feel his piercing silent stares at me as if I was something he loathed. Always being one to allow the other the benefit of doubt I allowed myself to think maybe he had recently experienced some sort of trauma and simply was not in a mood to be friendly.
About fifty feet from me he started casting his line into the current but his weight wasn't strong enough to deal with the power of the rushing water. When I offered him a larger weight he, at first, ignored me but my persistence forced him to finally mumble that what he had was fine. I returned to my gear and continued humming R&B tunes as I fished. In just a few minutes I heard splashing water and noticed he was sitting on the rocks with pants wet from possibly stepping onto a slippery moss laden rock too close to the waters edge. Icouldn't resist warning him about the danger his boots presented if they got water in them. Yet, he was rather blase about my comment and didn't even turn to look my way.
About an hour passed with my distant fishing companion not speaking to me with the only acknowledgment I existed was to glance my way when I reeled in a flopping fish. I did, however, notice he mumbled to him self often and when I caught the words "those people" I realized his disdain for me was strictly racial in nature. It had no affect on my fishing though I felt he was the one suffering with all that venom he manifested in being near me.
I heard a desperate cry out for help and when I turned his way he was frantically trying to hold onto a rock while his legs were invisible in the water. I rushed to him while yelling for him to try to kick off his boots. His face was flushed from fear and the pain of the turbulent water pulling at his body. I grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled but my opponent, the river, was much too strong for the two us so my aim was to just hold him steady enough so he wouldn't be pulled under. My yelling for help brought two more fishermen rushing to our aid. We finally were able to force drag his body out of the water while seeing both his boots swallowed by the current as we rescued him. When we got him beyond the waters edge he sighed a sound of relief and laid on the rocks from exhaustion but spoke not one word to us. As more people arrived the banter included comments about why he had wading boots on to fish in these type waters and if we needed to call the rangers for medical help.
Suddenly he arose and stumbled his way silently up the rocky hillside leading to the parking area refusing to face eye to eye those who came to help him. We all just watched as he must have suffered cuts and bruises to his bear feet in his feverish escape mode. We stood like parade watchers trying to figure the level of mentality so low as to continue his loathsome disdain for us who had just saved his life.
After he drove away there was plenty of speculation as to his ungrateful attitude and when someone noticed he had left his rod and reel and small tackle box all refused to touch it. The prevailing comment was that it might be infested with the same type hatred he expressed to us. I remember so well as we dispersed someone saying, "damn, wonder if he knows now that hatred can be hazardous to your health."
Del Cano 2006 Feb
