Fishing Lessons by Bev Hamel

The lake behind our home in Clemmons, North Carolina is really a small pond and though manmade, it is well stocked. Our neighbors imported white sand for their beach. Ours is a dull gray but my husband built a dock where I am standing now, teaching my daughter to fish. Although my daughter is only four, I bought her a child-sized pink fishing pole for the occasion.

I bend down to help her cast the fishing pole. The sun has dampened her curls. She has just finished eating an orange and the peels are scattered over the deck. She smells of oranges and salty sweat.

“Look mommy.”

She is giggling and pointing out into the water. I follow her gaze to the other side of the pond where Blue Heron love to nestle along the sandy banks. There is a shadow, definitely not a tall lanky bird, moving towards us.

My frown becomes a grin when I realize that the shadow is my mother. Impossible. She died of breast cancer when I was eighteen.

Then I hear a whisper in the soft summer breeze, “Please remember me,” she says, “please remember me.”

My mother is alive. Her skin is smooth and soft; her hazel eyes – bright and captivating. For a moment, time stands still. I am a child again.

The two of us are standing on a long wooden dock that stretches into blue-green water. My mother is teaching me to fish. The smell of oranges mingles in the air with the taste of salt in the soft Florida breeze.

* * *

My father, mother, two older brothers and I are moving from Pennsylvania to Florida. I am nine years old and sad that we are leaving family and friends to start a new life. I stare out the window at the snow-covered ground and try not to cry.

My mother says it is summer year-round in Florida and that this will be a wonderful adventure. She has planned an itinerary with scheduled stops along the way. My father grumbles a lot. My brothers are bored and fight with each other so I must sit between them in the back seat of the big green Buick.

The trip takes a week. For me, each day seems like a century. We visit many tourist attractions along the way; we spend nights in places that have signs saying “Rooms to Rent.” The further south we travel, the more the sky turns bluer, the weather becomes warmer.

I know we are in Florida because billboards promising us an unending supply of fresh squeezed orange juice line the highway. I hate orange juice but feel thirsty and want to drown in the pitcher. Instead, I ask, “Are we there yet?”

Hours later, my dad turns off the highway. Small motels dot the landscape, spread casually next to residences, which stagger down narrow streets. The houses are different then the ones we have up north. My mother says we are only renting until my dad finds a job.

“Stop here.” She waves the map in her hand, “This is it.” There is no driveway so dad pulls by the curb.

Our new home is near St. Petersburg Beach, a few blocks away from the Gulf coast bay. There is an orange grove next to the property. The yard is sand, with small patches of grass though flowers are everywhere. Strange looking trees shade our small bungalow. Dad says they are coconut palms.

We finish unpacking the U-Haul just as the sun falls into the bay, trailing reds and pinks behind its orange hue. My brothers take off and sneak into the orange grove. They return with bare chests and their shirts filled with oranges.

This first week living by the water, astounds me. I fall deeply and madly in love with the taste of oranges, sand, sea, and salt. Their scents worm beneath my skin; imbed visions into my dreams, colors swirl through the darkness of my nights. I can’t wait for tomorrow to come. My mother is going to teach me to fish.

Sunlight streams through my window. My mother whispers in my ear. “It’s time to wake up.”

* * *

We are walking on the beach of an unpopulated inlet towards an old wooden dock. Moored fishing boats are scattered across the bay. This place is barren of people; quiet except for the sea gulls and pelicans chattering in the sky. This is not our typical Saturday routine. Not in January when I must struggle with layers of clothing just to walk outdoors.

I have traded my boots for bare feet and my snowsuit for a bathing suit. Instead of my Barbie doll, I hold a deep sea-fishing pole that is taller than I am.

The smells of salt and sea spray permeate the air. The sun is at its thickest — high in the sky but because we are standing on the dock, heat fights with the water’s wetness. My skin alternates between hot, cold, between wet, and dry.

My mother shows me how to bait the hook then helps me cast my pole into the water. I watch her frown, shake her head, and then laugh as if in a private conversation with a person, not real, a shadow that mysteriously disappears then reappears.

I follow my mother’s laughter into the deep blue-green vastness, feel goose bumps twist into numerous fractured particles. I see a woman who resembles my mother in appearance. Her head is covered in a scarf, long strands of hair fly across her face. She looks familiar. I saw her picture in a family album; she is my grandmother but she died before I was born. My mother never speaks of her except to say they had a falling out when my mother joined the Army in World War II and then married my dad.

I hear the shadow whisper, please remember me, then watch as my grandmother fades beneath the waves.

There is just my mother standing next to me. She is holding her deep-sea fishing pole high in the air. The line tightens and stretches out into sea.

My pole is limp, and the line dangles upon the water’s surface.

“My mother taught me to fish, just like I am teaching you. Someday I’ll tell you I’ll tell you about my mother. Now watch your pole and let your line out.”

“How do I know I have a fish on the end?”

“You’ll feel a pull then a twist, a tug downward into the water’s depth, then smooth running of the line beneath the sea. Don’t pull back yet but let the fish fight you first. Just hold tight to your pole, then slowly reel it in until the fish fights no more.”

My fishing pole jerks between my hands – the line tightens and my reel begins to dance. Mother cranks her line in, drops the pole on the wooden deck, and places her hands on mine. Her fingers tingle; vibrate over my smaller hands.

“Lean forward. Now backwards. Slow and steady.” The softness of her breasts push into my back.

My pole bends down into the water, bows between the tip and reel then straightens ever so slightly. I dance with the pole and laugh. Mother is caught up in my excitement. Her laughter blankets my body. The fish is jumping through the surface, trying to keep abreast of foam-tipped waves.

Mother helps me to bring the full thrust of the pole to the sky, then lets go of me and moves away. “Hold tight.”

I feel the waves ebb and flow with the fish. The reel glides smoothly in my hands. I feel power. I feel control.

The rhythmic bobbing of the long wooden pole ends and gives way to the fish’s surrender. Mother picks up the net and helps me lift the fish onto the dock.

“It’s a Grouper,” she says.

I squint into the horizon, feel the Gulf’s breeze and take a deep breath of salt-filled air. The sun casts shadows on my mother’s hair, colors variegate into shades of red, like the lipstick she wore.

* * *

Giggles bring me back into the present, to the pint size figure standing in front of me, to blond curly hair and hazel eyes. She has my mother’s eyes.

I can see shadows in the lake heading towards her too big fishing pole. Her line is barely dangling beneath the water’s surface.

“Do you see the fish?” I turn her around, inhale her orange and salty scents, place my hands upon her tiny ones just as the fish jumps to the surface and pulls her line into the murky deep.

“Please remember me,” I whisper into her ear, “please remember me.”