I reached the east dock with the sun just below the hills. The whole lake was pink at the edges, as if somebody had spilled a tremendous quantity of strawberry milk. I had been out longer than intended. This will surprise nobody who knows me.
For the final cast I chose the oldest spinner in the box. Its paint was almost gone. It made one neat curve through the morning light and landed beside the end post. I turned the handle slowly and waited for a grand conclusion.
A PERFECTLY REASONABLE LAST CAST
A small bass followed it to the ladder, stopped and looked up. It did not take the lure. It simply hovered there, as though checking whether I had anything else to add. I decided that I did not.
I put the rod down, took off the orange hat and watched the sun reach the far bank. There had been larger fish during the week. None had ended an argument so efficiently. I walked home for breakfast with an empty net and an unusually sensible plan: toast first, storytelling second.
The final cast is allowed to be final.
