houses and into the cove, where our parents couldn’t spot us. Once in the cove, we’d let the Sunfish drift, guiding it with only the lightest paddle strokes, moving so slowly that we would barely ripple the smooth water.
Pete usually chose our fishing spot. I still don’t know what led him to pick one place over another, but whatever spot he chose for us to cast into was sure to bring fish. The ones he reeled in were always bigger than mine, and to this day I don’t know why he was a better fisherman than I was. He’d even let me use his rod, reel, and bait, and he’d use mine. He still got bigger fish. Bass for him, crappie for me.
One April morning a couple years ago, we were out on the water just after dawn. Pete brought a couple hot dogs, and I grabbed some worms from Nana’s compost pile. We coasted into the cove, baited our hooks, and cast out into the pond. The early morning sunlight made the bugs flying over the water light up golden. Sunset is nice on Tanner Pond, but there’s nothing like sunrise. The water at sunset isn’t usually calm, and even if it is, you can sense people up and moving around and talking, even if they don’t come out of their cottages. In the early morning, though, most everyone is still asleep, and the water and the light and the fish are only there for the privileged few. Those fishing and those reading, and not many others.
Except Hank Paulding. On that particular day, Hank was up too. He’s a year-rounder, like us, a harmless guywho hasn’t quite reached middle age, but he’s missed his window of opportunity for getting married, and he behaves accordingly. Pete and I once left ten bars of soap on his doorstep as a joke. I guess it was a little mean. But it was funny too.
Hank came down to the pond, stepped out onto his wobbly rock pile, and called out to us across the water. Pete held up his finger. “Quiet, Hank,” Pete called back, keeping his voice as low as possible.
“Oh yeah, fish,” Hank replied, still too loud. For some reason Hank has never learned that sound carries over water. On a morning like that one we would have been able to hear two people having a normal conversation from clear across the cove. Secrets don’t stay secrets if you let them get too close to the water.
“What you boys fishin’ for?” Hank asked us.
“Fish,” Pete said.
“Pike?” Hank asked. “Bass? Bream?”
“Fish!” Pete said.
Hank looked at the water as if he were trying to spot fish and shoo them over our way.
“I’ll tell you how to catch trouts!” Hank said.
Pete nodded. “Okay, later.” He tried to wave Hank off, but it worked about as well as it usually worked with Hank.
“You use corn!” Hank said.
Pete looked at me as if Hank was crazy. Hank was crazy, so I don’t know why Pete looked so surprised.
“See, all these trouts is stocked. They stock themaround Saint Patrick’s Day. And you know what they feed those trouts in their trout farms? Pellets! Pellets that look just like corn.” Hank looked at us as if he’d just shared secret military launch codes. “Those fish think corn is what they’ve been eating all along! You fish with corn, and you’ll catch tons of trouts, believe me!”
Pete picked up his oar and started pulling at the soft water. We glided away from Hank. I turned around and waved to him as we left. Hank was a nut, but he wasn’t a bad nut, and I didn’t want him to think we were just trying to get away from him, even though we were.
“Might as well drop dynamite down on them,” Pete said once we found a new fishing spot. “It’s not fair to the fish. It’s wrong.”
My line wiggled. I reeled in. I pulled in a little one about six or seven inches long, which was about usual for me. “Pumpkinseed,” I said.
“Bluegill,” Pete said. “See that blue spot just behind the gill? That’s how you know it’s a—say it with me—”
“A bluegill,” we said together.
“Pumpkinseeds have orange on them. Orange, you
Pete usually chose our fishing spot. I still don’t know what led him to pick one place over another, but whatever spot he chose for us to cast into was sure to bring fish. The ones he reeled in were always bigger than mine, and to this day I don’t know why he was a better fisherman than I was. He’d even let me use his rod, reel, and bait, and he’d use mine. He still got bigger fish. Bass for him, crappie for me.
One April morning a couple years ago, we were out on the water just after dawn. Pete brought a couple hot dogs, and I grabbed some worms from Nana’s compost pile. We coasted into the cove, baited our hooks, and cast out into the pond. The early morning sunlight made the bugs flying over the water light up golden. Sunset is nice on Tanner Pond, but there’s nothing like sunrise. The water at sunset isn’t usually calm, and even if it is, you can sense people up and moving around and talking, even if they don’t come out of their cottages. In the early morning, though, most everyone is still asleep, and the water and the light and the fish are only there for the privileged few. Those fishing and those reading, and not many others.
Except Hank Paulding. On that particular day, Hank was up too. He’s a year-rounder, like us, a harmless guywho hasn’t quite reached middle age, but he’s missed his window of opportunity for getting married, and he behaves accordingly. Pete and I once left ten bars of soap on his doorstep as a joke. I guess it was a little mean. But it was funny too.
Hank came down to the pond, stepped out onto his wobbly rock pile, and called out to us across the water. Pete held up his finger. “Quiet, Hank,” Pete called back, keeping his voice as low as possible.
“Oh yeah, fish,” Hank replied, still too loud. For some reason Hank has never learned that sound carries over water. On a morning like that one we would have been able to hear two people having a normal conversation from clear across the cove. Secrets don’t stay secrets if you let them get too close to the water.
“What you boys fishin’ for?” Hank asked us.
“Fish,” Pete said.
“Pike?” Hank asked. “Bass? Bream?”
“Fish!” Pete said.
Hank looked at the water as if he were trying to spot fish and shoo them over our way.
“I’ll tell you how to catch trouts!” Hank said.
Pete nodded. “Okay, later.” He tried to wave Hank off, but it worked about as well as it usually worked with Hank.
“You use corn!” Hank said.
Pete looked at me as if Hank was crazy. Hank was crazy, so I don’t know why Pete looked so surprised.
“See, all these trouts is stocked. They stock themaround Saint Patrick’s Day. And you know what they feed those trouts in their trout farms? Pellets! Pellets that look just like corn.” Hank looked at us as if he’d just shared secret military launch codes. “Those fish think corn is what they’ve been eating all along! You fish with corn, and you’ll catch tons of trouts, believe me!”
Pete picked up his oar and started pulling at the soft water. We glided away from Hank. I turned around and waved to him as we left. Hank was a nut, but he wasn’t a bad nut, and I didn’t want him to think we were just trying to get away from him, even though we were.
“Might as well drop dynamite down on them,” Pete said once we found a new fishing spot. “It’s not fair to the fish. It’s wrong.”
My line wiggled. I reeled in. I pulled in a little one about six or seven inches long, which was about usual for me. “Pumpkinseed,” I said.
“Bluegill,” Pete said. “See that blue spot just behind the gill? That’s how you know it’s a—say it with me—”
“A bluegill,” we said together.
“Pumpkinseeds have orange on them. Orange, you
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