By: Rachel N. Johnson
He stood on the end of the dock clenching his pipe tightly and scanned the horizon. A passion had suddenly taken hold; fishing, for all that were out there awaiting the bait. As the sun hit the water, it was dusk, it was time; time to go and catch a big one. “Get the bait,” he exclaimed, which was under the side of the cabin and in a box he had made. It held black dirt, coffee grounds, egg shells, and night crawlers as big as your thumb. Now there was a fine little cove just across the lake about a mile and we quietly pulled into it and cut the motor. You could see the bugs jumping off the water for they were feeding too. With an oar, he quietly paddled the boat in semi-circles. Oh, oh, that was some tug, perhaps a small mouth?
He never fished, just baited the hook and smoked his pipe to keep the mosquitoes at bay. With little patience, he decided to troll along the shoreline. For some reason, the fish were not hitting on this moonless night, but it made no difference, I was delighted to accompany him, for he was my father.
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