Fishing Tales and Friendship
The wind chimes were going mad Saturday morning, a clear signal for my husband, Alan, to stay in bed instead of rising before dawn to put on his waders to go fishing. Lake Mead’s proximity was one of the major reasons we moved to Boulder City fifteen years ago. Most weekend mornings will find Alan in his float tube on the lake. The shore fishermen (mostly men) get there when the sky is still full of stars, float in the water or stand in their armpit-high waders, casting their lines, letting their voices carry to each other across the pre-dawn blackness, waiting for the Great White striper to strike.
Food, Fish Tacos and Friends
Alan’s been fishing and feeding his friends since he was a boy growing up in Hawaii. Instead of organized sports, fishing absorbed their afternoons and summers. They’d fish, free dive, spearfish, and surf, bringing home enough seafood to fill their freezers, their friends’ freezers, their neighbors’ freezers until the pots of everyone they knew were overflowing. So, in the middle of a desert, Lake Mead casts an irresistible lure. Here the variety of fish is minimal, but Alan’s fish tacos, featuring hand-caught striper, are legendary, especially among BC kids.
Unbreakable Lines
Over the past decade the invisible shore fishers whose voices call out to each other over the darkness have become linked. In the predawn blackness their voices skim the water in a bawdy exchange of tall tales, daily fishing tips and updates on the figmentary notches on their fishing poles. The voices have also told of cancer, Alan’s open heart surgery, divorce, death and financial destruction.
Fishing Tales and Friendship
It’s light out and I take my binoculars to look for shore birds. While I look for heron, eagles, grebes and ibis, Alan seeks his friends, many ensconced in their trucks to keep warm as they watch their lines. “They’ll worry if I don’t check in,” he says, which is more than I can say about my birds.
By Lynn Goya