We rowed deep into the teeth of the mighty Wacissa, through the tangle of cypress roots, amidst the thousand-year-old ghosts of extinct water beasts.
We plucked bewildered nightcrawlers from their home in the rich soil, stabbed them with barbed hooks affixed to the end of $16 fishing poles, and watched for the subtle bob of the plastic sphere.
We shared of recent experiences: successes and failures, new ventures and old habits, friends and foes. The overcast sky served to enrich the majestic colors of the landscape and waterway. We awed in wonder. Babes in the cradle.
The bobber dipped. A spark of glory arose inside us. This was it. The culmination of our trip. We reeled in the hook, still hiding its slimy prize under the flora.
When the hook finally broke through the surface, our egos were deflated. The metal was bare. No worm. No fish.
Our pride wounded, having been seemingly outsmarted by some heady water breather, we recast again.
Only near the end of our trip did we come to realize that the day had not been about conquering fish. What was important was the shared experience. Two comrades, surrounded by an audience of ancient trees, locked in battle against nature.
As if she heard our epiphany, and was pleased at the insight, the great river finally bequeathed from her belly an offering.
A tiny Brim, pierced through the quick of its jaw. Still attempting to suck down its dinner.
Then we left to go shoot some guns.
Oh yeah and I met a really sweet pit bull.