A Pond at Dawn

It’s a seven-acre pond, six feet at its deepest, and in the path of a Canada goose flyway. On weekends, from mid-morning until dusk the shores are peopled with parents and children noisily taking in the playground and availing themselves of picnic tables that surround the pond.

I’ve fished in more exotic places, but it’s only ten minutes from my house. You’ll find me there at dawn on most warm Saturdays, fishing for largemouth bass. I’m usually the only person there, and as much as others might consider this an ungodly hour to be stirring, I consider it my godly hour.

While fishing one Saturday morning I heard a child’s voice. I turned to see a young woman with a boy about ten, walking in my direction. She was undoubtedly his mother. They shared the same light brown hair; their cheeks lightly dappled with freckles. I thought, what could they be doing here at this ungodly hour? The boy carried a brown paper shopping bag. He ran to the shore some ten feet to my right. Without any sign of acknowledging my presence he reached into his bag and began throwing bread into the water. With that, the entire goose population stopped their tranquil meandering and rushed to the bread. To avoid snagging a goose, I quickly retrieved my lure. By the time my lure reached the shore, a toddler could have walked some twenty feet into the pond with his body supported by nothing but geese.

Does this boy not see me fishing? The pond, although small, can surely accommodate one small goose feeder and a lone fisherman with enough elbowroom to satisfy both pursuits. I picked up my tackle box, smiled at the brat and moved to a small cove a safe distance from the geese.

I saw his mother sitting at one of the picnic tables some fifty feet away, her head in a book, occasionally lifting it to track her offspring. When I looked directly at her—a tacit glare to express my objection to the boy’s behavior—she gave me an obligatory smile and ducked back into her book.

I began casting. Above the boy, ring-billed gulls hovered and swooped down, snatching pieces of bread whenever a piece lay a safe distance from the intimidating geese. He’d toss some in the air, laughing as a gull caught them before the morsels dropped to the water.

I was relieved that his intrusion into my world was short-lived. I eased into a pleasing casting rhythm. Behind me the sun dappled through the scrub pines and the water’s surface danced in light and shadow.

Ten minutes later the boy was back at my side, attracted by a pair of mallards cruising my cove. The boy, this great provider, started tossing bread their way. You didn’t have to be a keen observer of nature to know that the horde of geese was paddling toward us. They now crowded in on land, pond and air.

The mallards, spooked by the arrival of this mighty throng, hurriedly flapped away. The boy smiled at me, I smiled at him. Mine was more of a crocodile smile. I quickly reeled in, sat at a picnic table, and began organizing the drawers in my tackle box until, finally, he ran out of bread. The geese lingered, honking at each other as though the lack of stale bread was the topic of conversation. They waited a short while to be absolutely sure the food ran out. Once convinced, they turned pondward almost in unison and paddled off, wiggling their tail feathers at the boy as though mooning him for running out of bread.

He walked to a trash barrel and discarded the empty bag, then wiped the palms of his hands along the front of his jeans. He looked toward his mother who was still absorbed in her book. As I stood up, thinking that I could now resume fishing, the boy began skipping rocks into the cove. This activity, I can tell you, will not have the fish in a biting mood. I sat down, and just as I was thinking of leaving, he stopped.

He walked up to me at the picnic table and sat next to my opened tackle box, eyeing my assortment of lures. I looked toward his mother who was some fifty feet away. I thought maybe she would shepherd him away now that he’d run out of ways to disturb me—or, at the very least call out with a “now-don’t-you-bother-the-man”—but, no, her book was more engaging.

When his hand hung in the air above my tackle box and I was about to politely say, “hands off,” he looked up at me and said, “My mom says I’m too young to go fishing.”

“Son,” I heard myself saying,” nobody’s too young to go fishing.” Maybe, I thought, drive a car, wed, drink a Bud…yeah, but fishing?

My pole moved back slowly then confidently whipped forward, the lure hitting the water a few inches short of a patch of lily pads—a bit awkward, but not bad for a ten-year-old.

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Published in The Front Porch Syndicate (copyrighted)