The Fisherwoman

she was alone on the pier. the early morning rainings were brief and very very soft. the wet was just a mist on her face right now. mists like that made her feel that her face was soft. malleable with that odd firm softness of a baby's face. but rains made her chilled and unable as well. right now she was downright cold and clammy. she drew out the thermos of coffee and breathed in the hot bittersweet of the brew gratefully. then she ate the parsley Swiss cheese sandwich she had packed early that morning. in the light of the small radio clock in the apartment. she was alone now. she got out of the apartment as often as she could...she went out fishing. she often went out fishing. it had become part of how she did day time. what made her rest easy at night...

she always had gone fishing with him. he went fishing about four or five times a week. in the early morning. or after work for an hour or so. hit the reservoirs or major creeks in their town or in the towns around. or on this river. they both loved this river...

they needed to fish. he had been doing AA for awhile now. after work used to be his drinking time. so he fished instead. in the morning he used to always light up a cig. now he'd fish instead. that had gone on for about five years. they had always been close. for awhile the fishing had made them closer. they fished the same way.

he fished real quiet. so did she. no chit chat. no radio. no little portable tv. they just would be quiet. breathing in and out with the river. with the swellings of the eddies. the whisk whisk of the little rivulets over the larger stones. it was a good thing. companionable. fair to them both. they had other ways of communicating. telling each other news about the fish. where they were. what lure was hot. how deep to settle the bait. how lazy to reel it in. how to work the fish on the bait. to bring fish in alive on sharp cold steel and line. how to net life. when to give it back. all this with a nod this way. the cast observed. a tilt of hat. the pointing finger. not hesitating - but lazy somehow...

they both knew the dimples of water that meant stone. meant shallow. or deep. the rush of waters parting over boulder set in large and unyielding. a lowering of head was all it took. a raising of the hat. mopping the brow with the bandanna: that meant time for lunch. or time for the switchel.

he had taught her how to make switchel. how it conquered all the thirst that ever was. gave you energy besides. the jar of spring water or well water - not tap water. the flowered apple vinegars. the honey. a few dashes of salt. the citrus - usually the rind. without the pith. maybe some grape syrup. boiled down practically to a paste. mixed all together it was alcoholic the way hard cider can be. only even better for thirst. even thirst of the spirit. it could keep them fishing for hours with no discomfort whatsoever.

especially the river: they loved this river together. it was a threesome. almost a sexual thing. surely sensual… standing in their waders for hours. moving a bit here. a bit there. never growing impatient. the river made them patient. without an invitation. without an order. the river ran their bodies like it ran the waters. ran the animals. ran the wood and barks and branches. the green grasses and the slimes. especially as it ran the fish. the fish were more one with the river than the people could ever be. so they had to be fish best they could. only the river could choreograph that dance. it was one dance. only the river knew the steps at all. they changed every hour of every day. that was the way of river.

then there was the sun. and the earth turning. and the season with the rotations and angles of the planet. the water knew all about it. it was always writing that book. she had to know how to read it. she was learning. she knew so much and so little. compared to what the fishing waters knew. she was flotsam and jetsam in the wake of any tree barreling down the waters on the way to the sea. nothing of significance. part of the life of moving water and banks. all the same.

the afterthought. or no thought at all. not at all. not about thought at all: these were the Fish. they who lived in the waters. all movement. all capturing of energy. all releasing of energy. energies the colors of rainbows and silvers and golds. of the sun itself. the blues of the waters and the skies changing. the wild movements of birth and the struggles of death. the mouth and body taking in all the river. breathing it in and out. eating of it in and out. laying the eggs and milking over them.

swimming upstream with purpose come from the very rhythms of the wakening of life. swimming downstream to join the life of the sea with the same weight of purpose. as all fisher people have always known: the fish and the waters and the sun and the sky and the deeps and the shallows and the feedings are all one thing. the fisher is the alien. the only alien in this watery world.

the fisherwoman knew this: there is no being one thing with the water the way Fish is. so all her life she must wait humble. for the fish to pretend to see what she is pretending to show: substance of life. cast out on a line: food for fish travels. pretended in a piece of silver curve and feathers: promise of energy where energy does not live at all...

in her world, tho: she must live in the same world with Fish. the fish lives simply to live. the fisherwoman lives to Take Life. even when life is 'released' back into the waters. she has lured life. over and over. fought with life. reeled life in. held life in sure hands. and then: released life back into the waters.

unless she is taking life: she is purposeful when life is taken from the water. dies in the air. is eaten by her. to take in Fish intimately. finally. as energy for her. not for the river. where its energy belongs. where its energy has always been. and will be. after the fisher is gone....

well, he left her: he left because fishing with her wasn't life. after all: they had to move on. he had to move on. her being critical of the drinking. she had become so. and why not? there was nothing good about his drinking. drinking had become his life. the time with AA had failed in him. his wonderful fisherman's world was falling apart too. more and more buddies wouldn't fish with him at all . "too selfish". that's what her friends said. and that was true about him. but it wasn't the only truth. 'too proud'. that's what she thought. his life was falling apart. so it was better to move on. paddle downstream. not look back. leave your bridges burning...over quiet ripples of safety....

she cast again and again off the pier. mist rose over the slow purposeful arcs of line. the fly danced lightly on the water. a small cloud of mayflies lived their short lives over the mist and the river blue...

there are so many fish in the sea: she smiled. silly thought. far from the sea. on this river: it was clear the loss was great. but what may be found in this river was great too.

so many fish...the fisherwoman decided to rest...

there were so many more days when the fishing would be better....

a strong trout arced out of the scurrying current.....

no fish was biting tho...probably full up on the ample chain of the living that was up to good for some. for all the fish who would see another day....

she packed up her tackle and the rod and her gear...

walked slowly off the pier...

the sun went higher in the morning sky...

eddies slowly twirled in the current...

somewhere deep a fish heard her footsteps leave the pier...
rose to the surface...
lazily snapped at mayflies...
sank below to where it is cooler and deep...

rested

for another time...

some other time

on this river....