Fishing Trip
by Pan
Robert’s hand did little to shield him from the beating sun, so he returned it to the fishing pole in his hand.
It was hot. Hotter than it had any right to be in the middle of February. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back as he sat in silence beside his father on the dock.
The lake stretched out before them, still and blue under the cloudless sky. A few boats were moored along its edge, but there was no one else in sight. Just Robert and his father, alone on the dock.
Robert was sure he’d enjoyed fishing with his father, once upon a time. He must have. They’d been doing them for years; as a kid, surely he’d enjoyed coming out to the lake, spending an entire day alone with his father, bringing home a selection of fish for his mother to cook up.
If nothing else, he’d certainly felt pride in putting food on the table. Now, he just felt bored. You could buy fish at the store; why waste five hours sitting beside the lake to catch a handful of small perch?
His father hadn’t seemed to notice. He was sitting beside his son, a contented smile on his face, probably thinking it was just like the good old days. They hadn’t gone fishing together for years, but when Robert’s father had suggested it out of the blue, Robert hadn’t been able to find a diplomatic way to refuse.
And so here they were, on a dock beside the lake, practically melting in the blazing sun.
With a sigh, Robert turned back to the lake. He was nineteen years old, and stood about 5′8″, with a thin build and dark brown hair. Robert’s father was almost a foot taller than him, and broader across the shoulders—despite this, people often said they looked like, except for the eyes.
The older man’s eyes were always twinkling, like he knew something that no one else did.
I should’ve brought a damn hat, Robert thought with a sigh, before his father’s sudden movement distracted him from the discomfort of the sun in his eyes.
“Got one!” his Dad cried out, the exclamation breaking the silence and echoing across the lake. “Quick, Robert—help me reel her in.”
Robert looked at his father’s fishing rod in confusion. It didn’t seem to be moving at all, but his father had been fishing for forty years—more than twice as long as Robert had been alive. If he said he’d caught something, Robert was confident that he was right.
“Hurry!” the older man urged, and Robert sprang into action, his hands moving to the bait-casting rod for support.
“No!” his father spluttered. “What are you doing that? Not that!”
The teenage boy hesitated, unsure of what was wanted from him.
“We’re not fly-fishing,” the older man snapped, and Robert’s face grew red as realized what an obvious mistake he’d made. As quickly as he could, he reached out and unzipped his father’s fly.
“That’sa boy.” There was a proud smile on the older man’s face now, as his son pulled it out.
“God, Dad,” Robert gasped. “It’s huge!”
The unusual specimen between his father’s legs was bigger than Robert had expected. Red and proud, it didn’t resemble any fish they’d ever caught before; truth be told, it didn’t look like any fish Robert had seen in his life. But his father looked so happy to have caught it.
“Nice work,” Robert said, and his father’s grin broadened, before suddenly dropping away.
“Watch out! Don’t let it escape!”
For such a fresh catch, the fish was surprisingly placid, but Robert humored his old man, trying to contain his father’s snag with both hands. He was immediately glad he had—as his fingers wrapped around the fleshy beast, it jerked in his hand.
“Whoa, boy,” he muttered.
“Got a bit of fight in ’im,” his father noted with a chuckle, and Robert couldn’t disagree with him. “You should stroke it, calm him down.”
For the second time in less than a minute, Robert was lost…until he remembered his father mentioning on the drive down that some fish grew incredibly placid when you ran your fingers softly across their scales. Trout tickling, he’d called it.
Loosening his grip slightly, Robert looked at the beast between his father’s legs. It was long and thin—at one end, the teenage boy could see what was clearly a mouth. At the other, there was a patch of bushy…well, Robert would have called it hair if he hadn’t known he was dealing with a fish.
But no scales.
Still, his father was waiting. Trying to look like he knew what he was doing, Robert loosely wrapped one hand around whatever obscure kind of fish his father had caught and began stroking its length, trying to calm it into submission.
“That’s a good lad,” his father said softly, and Robert couldn’t help but smile at the praise.
Maybe going fishing with his father wasn’t so bad after all.
For the next few minutes, the two men stood in silence. The only sounds were the water lapping against the dock and an occasional moan of satisfaction from Robert’s father.
“Watch out, son,” the older man gasped after a while. “It’s a spitter!”
Before Robert could process the warning, the small head in his hands pulsed. Its mouth opened wide, and spurt of milky-white liquid shot out, landing on Robert’s face.
“Shit!” the boy cried, instinctively letting go. He watched as it spat again, this landing on his shorts. More of the strange fluid dribbled out of its mouth, falling harmlessly onto the dock.
Robert opened his mouth to tell his father to grab the fish, but as he did the liquid dripped onto his tongue, and he spluttered and coughed, shocked by the taste.
The fluid was salty; exactly what you’d expect fish-puke to taste like. He ran to the side of the dock to spit out as much as he could, and try not to throw up himself.
“Don’t waste it!” his father cried out. “That’s the best part.”
“What?”
“Swallow it,” his Dad ordered, and Robert instinctively obeyed. As the warm fluid slid down his throat, he surpressed a shudder, and tried to assess it more fairly.
His father was right; it wasn’t that bad. Though maybe it was more of an acquired taste—Robert scooped up what he could find on his shorts, and tasted that as well.
Certainly not his new favorite food, but definitely not bad.
“Did you grab it?” Robert asked, once he’d swallowed down as much of the salty offering as he could find.
His father shook his head; sure enough, the fish was nowhere to be found.
“Not to worry,” Robert said, trying to mask his guilt. “We’ve still got all day to catch another.”
With a nod, his father returned his attention to the still water of the lake.
Embarrassed, Robert did the same. First catch of the day, and he’d let it go.
He knew he had to make it right.
The two men fell into another comfortable silence. At least an hour passed as they sat on the dock, fishing rods in hand. Twice, Robert thought he’d caught something, but as he started to reel it in, the line went slack and the teenager’s’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.
After Robert’s third near-miss, his father turned to him.
“Let me show you what you’re doing wrong,” he offered kindly, and Robert nodded in response. He was torn—part of him just wanted to be done, to go home, to head back to where his phone had reception…but he also wanted to make up for losing his father’s first catch.
“What’s the first choice you make when you’re fishing?”
“Location?” Robert guessed, but his father shook his head. “Bait?”
“Which rod to use,” the older man said, taking the fishing pole from his son’s hands and gently laying it on the dock. Robert narrowed his eyes as his father reached between the teenage boy’s legs and unzipped his pants, but as the second rod emerged, he relaxed slightly.
“Show me how you hold it,” his father ordered, and Robert wrapped his hand around his pole. It was odd; he must have done this on countless lake visits in the past (the new rod immediately felt comfortable and familiar in his hands) but there was something about having his father watch that made it feel awkward.
It was an awkwardness that must have been obvious, because Robert’s father almost immediately moved his son’s hand away and replaced it with his own.
“Let me try.”
Robert gasped; he could immediately feel the difference that his father’s decades of expertise made.
For several minutes, Robert’s father coached his son. He talked him through how to cast, where to place his feet, and what angle his body should be at as he reeled. His father was patient, even kind, as he taught the young man the tricks of the trade. And all the while, his hand was firmly wrapped around the fishing pole, manipulating it expertly, putting his decades of experience to good use.
Robert loved it.
His time at the lake with his father no longer felt like a chore, something he had to endure until it was over. He couldn’t work out if it was the feeling of closeness, or his Dad’s excellent teaching…whatever the reason, he was feeling great, his body beginning to fill with endorphins as the lesson continued.
As his father reached the end of his instructions, Robert could feel his excitement peaking.
“Show me how you cast off,” his father ordered in a low growl. “Cast off for me, son. I want to see it.”
The older man released his grip and Robert replaced it with his own, trying to imitate his father’s motions as he pointed his fishing rod at the water.
“That’sa boy,” his father bellowed triumphantly as Robert cast off, his line shooting out into the water—followed, to his surprise, by another line, and then a third.
“Wow,” he said, breathing heavily at the exertion, as some smaller lines dribbled out from the tip of his fishing rod, landing in the water. “Maybe I’m better at this than I thought?”
“Maybe,” his dad replied, a hungry look in his eye. “Let’s put it to the test. I’ll bet I catch something before you.”
“You’re on,” Robert grinned, confident that with all that instruction, he could easily hold his own against the old man.
His father moved quickly, casting his rod out and reeling it back in. To the teenager’s surprise, it was less than a minute later before his father grunted “Got one!” and unzipped his fly proudly.
“Another big one,” Robert admired, and his father stared down at him.
“Taste it,” he said ordered suddenly. Robert stared back at him, wondered for a moment if he’d misheard his father. Surely he didn’t want Robert to…
“...taste it?”
“Why do you think we’re out here?” his father asked. He was smiling, his broad shoulders thrown back, but there was something in his voice that made Robert uneasy.
“Yeah, but...”
Robert wanted to object, but the dominant look on his father’s face left him unable think of a single reason why they shouldn’t eat their catch immediately.
“...I guess you’re right,” he lamely concluded, dropping to his knees before his father.
The fish his father had caught looked no less weird than the one which had thrown up in Robert’s face earlier, but the boy somehow knew that no argument he could make would have an effect. Sometimes his father just got like this: determined, bull-headed. Unable to be reasoned with.
Robert glanced up at his father’s face, confirming that was the mood he was in. Opening his mouth, Robert looked away as his father gently nudged his head forward.
“Open wide,” he said softly, and Robert did as his father commanded.
The fish didn’t taste bad, the teenage boy realized as he wrapped his lips around it. His tongue slid over its slick skin. The thing felt slippery, but not slimy—blander than he would have expected. It tasted like a slightly salty, mostly-flavorless fish.
Not his first choice of a meal, but far from his last.
“Good boy,” his father grunted, and Robert decided to get it over with. He tried to take as much down his throat as he could, and immediately regretted it; the fish was larger than he’d anticipated, and he choked and coughed as he tried to swallow the whole thing
Wiping his watering eyes and pulling his head back slightly, Robert made another attempt. He managed better this time, swallowing the entire length of his father’s catch without choking. His lips were pressed against the coarse hair-like substance, and he looked up to see his father smiling down proudly.
“That’s my boy,” he whispered, and the sentiment lit a small fire in Robert’s gut.
He could do this. He was going to do this.
He was going to make his father proud.
For the next several minutes, the air was filled with the wet sounds of Robert’s mouth going to work, soon met by his occasional choking or gulping of air, and his father gasping as Robert’s tongue explored every inch of the fish’s scaleless skin.
Just as Robert was wondering when he’d have tasted enough, his father grabbed his hair, and began rapidly pushing the fish in and out of his son’s mouth before letting out a ferocious roar.
Robert’s mouth filled with juice from the fish. He desperately gulped it down; finally understanding what his Dad had meant by tasting the fish. Really tasting it; not the cooked, version that had sat on fire, having the life roasted out of it. This was the real deal—fresh, warm and juicy, filling his mouth with the tang of salt.
It reminded him of the delicacy he’d so enjoyed from the first fish his father had caught.
After swallowing the last of it down, Robert collapsed onto the dock. The sun was still in his eyes, but he no longer cared.
The two men sat there for several minutes, both of them breathing heavily, smiling at the bonding experience they’d just shared.
After Robert got his strength back, he picked up the fishing rod that his father had set aside almost half an hour ago, and cast a line into the water.
“Someone’s keen,” his father said, his eyes twinkling.
“Only an hour or two left,” the teenager replied with a grin. “I want to make sure we bring plenty home for Mom to cook.”
“I’ll tell you what,” the older man said, picking up his own fishing pole once more. “The next one you catch, I’ll taste...”