Lapping Water

Previously published in "Retrozine," a retired journal of the Cayuse Press, http://cp.greentricycle.com/index.html

Lapping Water

My father was an unconventional man, often subjecting us to misadventures in the interest of experimentation. "Living," he called it. "Inspiration...in time," we called it. Professionally speaking, he taught molecular biology at a local university and managed his own laboratory where he studied the parts of living things under a microscope, putting cells through repeated chemical tribulation. Preliminary work to what would be his lasting contribution to science: detailed maps of genetic codes for the human lens. The equipment required for the tasks were nothing short of amazing.

There was both beauty and necessity, he argued, in accoutrements. Mustn't be caught short on mechanics because not only will the experiment go awry, but one will miss out on the unique essence of rows and rows of beakers, pipettes, burners, chemicals, and most especially, the awesome power of complex electro-doodads.

One August morning was an example of that lesson.

Around eight o'clock, we headed up to Big Bear Lake, swiftly winding through the San Bernardino Mountains of California. There were five of us in all: my father, my mother, my sister Angela, my brother Ben, and me. In the back of the station wagon sat an overly-stocked picnic basket and numerous blankets, towels, and hats. My father drove and my mother sat next to him, one arm stretched across the seat to rest her hand on his lap. We three kids were in the middle row, green with motion sickness. We had delicate, urban constitutions.

I leaned my head on Angela's shoulder, "When are we going to get there?"

She sighed, saying softly so as not to further disturb her stomach, "I think it's around the next turn, or the next or the one after that ... or maybe he'll stop when we've all thrown up at least once."

On top of the car, we carried four distinct fishing poles and a bait box packed with worms, fish food, and decorative, feathered lures. We had a special hammer to kill the captured fish with, and knives to gut and clean so we could cook the things over an open fire. The fire itself would be started using lighter fluid and a particularly hefty lighter. We planned to cook with even more devices.

It was our first fishing expedition.

We arrived at the lake around ten o'clock, my father parking near a boat rental business. We tumbled out, already feeling the heat and fanning ourselves with our hands. My mother stretched her long legs and went around to the back of the car, flipping down the tailgate. She slid the picnic basket toward her, asking, "Who wants to eat before we get on the boat?"

Angela groaned, but only I could hear it. Ben climbed up onto the tailgate. "I want to eat, Mommy," he said.

She kissed him and gave him a ham and cheese sandwich. Handed Angela and me one, too. We ate dutifully, the clean air seeming to have settled our stomachs.

"The lake's like a dream," my mother said, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked across the glassy water.

"Miles big," I added.

"Where's Papa?" Angela glanced around, spotting him quickly enough. "There he is! What sort of boat do you think he'll get?"

"A fishing boat."

"Haha."

From across the lot, my father waved to us. He had told us we needed the sturdiest boat, the fastest, the one with the most room so as to accommodate all of us, along with all of our equipment. We needed the best for our fishing experiment.

Munching on a pickle, Angela noted, "Papa’s looking at a blue one."

"Does it have a cover?" I asked, taking a sip of her juice.

"Nope."

Within moments, my father excitedly ushered all of us to the slip and presented to us a rather small and plain fishing boat. Its lesser quality didn't seem to bother Papa -- we assumed this was the best. We loaded the equipment and devices onto the rocking boat, unsteady on our feet. My father assured us we were doing great and uttered his favorite query: "Isn't this fun?" As always, his enthusiasm was contagious. It was fun. I especially liked my green fishing pole with the orange stripe in the middle.

Once I found my place on one of the benches, I looked at Angela and shrugged. "The sun isn't going to be so bad."

"I'm inspired to wear more suntan lotion," she muttered.

We left dock and my father laughed gleefully as he maneuvered the motorized boat, pushing us through the blue-black waters. We pointed out the sites, Papa and Mom contributing their own discoveries. I let my fingers skate atop the cool water.

After touring the lake, he found a good spot and turned off the motor. Wearing our hats especially chosen for our trip, we were each handed our assigned fishing poles. The only person who did not receive one was my mother. Her job was to take care of us.

"Mama! A bee!" Ben jumped up and my mother grabbed him before he fell out of the boat with excitement. I screamed and Angela swatted at my head with an empty sandwich bag. We were all panicking, because the bee was persistent and angry. Except for my father. Being a scientist, he was determined to stay the course. He continued to fish.

"I think there's a fly swatter in the picnic basket," he said.

"Yes, but it's too small!" My mother declared.

"Then use the Raid."

I poked around the bait box and found the miniature spray can. I handed it to my mother. She aimed ... and sprayed. The bee was done for.

Eleven-thirty rolled around and we sat quietly in the rocking craft, the sun continuing its drive to heat the cold lake's waters. My mother shifted the items in the picnic basket, this way and that. Angela chattered about the kind of dollhouse she wanted for Christmas. Ben pronounced there was no such thing as talking cats. I listened, thinking that I would marry one day and I wanted my husband to look something like Donny Osmond. I wondered if my husband would be Mormon. I wondered what a Mormon was.

Every fifteen minutes or so, my father reeled in his line and cast it out again. Sometimes, he changed the bait. I stared at the floating pink material at the end of my line. Angela smacked at an intrusive mosquito. Ben whined for something to drink and complained about the heat. Then Angela and Ben argued because their lines got tangled.

A bird dove into the water and plucked something out. It flew away and disappeared into a blazing white sky.

All of a sudden, my father jumped up, screaming. All of us startled, waiting to see what the trouble was.

"Damn!" Squinting in pain, he pointed to his rear. "A splinter," he grumbled. "Get the medical kit."

We snickered. He cursed and fussed and finally, my mother pulled his pants down and removed the offending splinter. The first-aid kit my father had purchased proved a wise decision.

Time passed slowly, the sun moving to its highest point in the sky. I wondered about the fish. Wondered if they knew we were there, if they knew they were part of an experiment. If they understood the ephemeral nature of the peacefulness surrounding the researchers.

I asked Angela if she liked to eat fish. It wasn't part of our usual dinner menu.

"No," she told me. "But I am inspired by Papa to give it another try."

At that, I felt the reel spin crazily, saw the line pull. I gasped, and glanced at at Papa for help, "Look!"

My father dropped his fishing pole, teetering over to my side of the boat. The vessel leaned to the side with his weight, the edge nearly dipping into the water. His strong, soft hands wrapped around mine and together we reeled the line in, bringing the fish closer to us.

"It must be huge!" we all cheered.

At last, our efforts were coming to a close. My father pulled and cursed and yanked and finally we saw the fish in all its glimmering glory. A one-pound gray, scaly, popping-mouthed trout. We couldn't believe our luck -- we couldn't believe how well prepared we had been. How efficient.

My father beat the fish with the silver hammer. He spent many tedious minutes with pliers removing the hook that had been implanted inside the fish's mouth. He carefully disemboweled the fish with a knife. For a rousing finale, after my mother properly wrapped it in plastic, he put the fish on ice, preserving it.

The heat, though, had taken its toll. It was nearly three and the time had come to end the experiment. We headed back to shore, hot, tired, and hungry. My brother fell asleep on my mother's lap. Angela worked at untangling her fishing line which had become a mess of clear wire. My father beamed and told me how proud he was of me.

"You are a true fisherman," he said. "A true scientist."

We landed at the dock and unloaded the boat. We sat at some picnic tables and ate the carefully arranged lunch our mother had made. The fish lay securely inside the cooler. Every so often, I would lift the cover and study our catch. We spent the rest of the afternoon beneath the trees, in the shade, playing while my parents rested, watched us and laughed at our games.

We drove home, traveling a bit slower. The sun was low, reddening the sky. Angela and Ben slept as we turned and swayed along the curves of the mountain roads. I stayed awake, though, and reflected on my success of the day, staring out the window of the station wagon, looking at the passing terrain. My parents sat in the front seat, same as before, my mother's hand draped on my father's shoulder. Serious, relaxed faces.

"Inspiration...in time," I told my father.

"Living," he said, his eyes smiling at me in the rear-view mirror.


We never did eat the fish. It remained in the freezer for seven years. The day we threw it away, Angela, Ben and I ceremoniously viewed the frozen fish. We were reminded of our first fishing trip, and how the others consisted only of visits to fish farms. No sitting for hours under a hot sun. No swaying of an unsteady boat, the sound of water lapping the sides serenely. No splinters or the silence of patient waiting.