The old skiff lay just below the surface in a clear corner of the lake. Its blue paint had faded, but the shape was unmistakable. I knew how it felt. My own boat was also working hard to look younger than it was.
I dropped a silver flutter bait beside the broken bow. Small fish scattered beneath the planks. Then a much larger mouth appeared from the open cabin, followed by a bass with the leisurely manners of a landlord answering the door.
THIS WAS NOT IN THE NOTEBOOK
It took the bait and went directly back inside. I raised the rod, lowered it, then moved the boat a little to the left. The line came clear with a scrape that added several years to my afternoon.
The fish emerged into open water and made one powerful run before settling beside me. I removed the hook and watched it return to the wreck. I had interrupted somebody’s lunch. On the way home, I gave every sunken branch a little more respect.
The thing you think is scenery may be somebody else’s front room.
