We spent some time on Balboa Island the week before Father's Day with my whole family. My great-grandmother bought a place there years ago. My dad spent vacations there during his growing up years, as did I - fishing (that's me in the photo at age 7), learning to sail, making drip castles in the sand.
It had been many years since I had spent any time there. It felt good to be back.
Somehow, my dad convinced my 11 year old son to get up at zero-dark-thirty to go out fishing. Actually, I don't think it took much convincing - he was eager to go in spite of his ambivalence toward fish.
I wrote this as a Father's Day gift to the grandfather of my son:
You have to get up early
to catch the good ones.
The sun barely begins to lighten the sky
and you are already underway,
motor humming as you maneuver under the bridge
and head for the jetty.
The boy at your side doesn't like fish,
for eating or for touching -
and he's not so sure about catching -
but he knows he likes his Grandpa enough
to sacrifice sleep for an adventure on the water with him.
And with fish.
—
You send the lure flying
and pass the rod to the boy.
He spins the reel slowly, a picture of concentration,
bracing for the tell-tale tug on the line.
It comes -
anticipated but not quite expected -
and soon there's a live wriggly one
at the side of the boat.
You admire the fine specimen together
and send it back into the water.
—
An hour passes and a half-dozen more
have been inspected and released.
The boy is silently relieved that none of them
are quite long enough to bring home for a fishy breakfast.
—
You slide into shore,
returning the boat to its moorings.
The boy has a lot to say,
but the love he feels remains unspoken.
The day's catch swims free out by the jetty,
but the memory of an early morning
on the water with Grandpa -
that's a keeper.
I feel deep gratitude for heritage and for memories, and most of all for a father who loves my son and shows it.
