Papa Jim
The morning lake was still and a fog drifted across the surface. In New Hampshire, the autumn leaves glow during the day and sulk during the night. When we reached our boat, the surrounding forest was stuck in an uncertain place in between.
My family had a small Boston Whaler docked in a slip on Newfound Lake. The boat was old and had a coat of rust on the hull. The paint was eroded.
We walked down the knoll from our cottage and I carried the cooler filled with tackle bait and beer. My dad carried the poles.
“Thanks for getting up so early, I know you hate that,” my dad said. We approached the dock.
“Where do you want the cooler?” I asked. We arrived at the boat and I helped my dad on board.
“Hand me the ropes, will you?” he asked.
My dad wore a black fleece with a baseball cap and khaki shorts. He wasn’t a big man. He was shy of six feet with a broad frame.
“Can you hand me the ropes?” He asked again.
I untied the knots on the dock and threw him the ropes. After I dropped the cooler onto the back of the boat we took off.
Heading towards the middle of the lake, the small boat sliced through the black water. My dad stood tall with his eyes frozen forward and he wore his cap like any great captain would.
“This feels about right,” my dad said to himself as he turned off the engine. We were stopped in the middle of the lake surrounded by the breath of autumn.
“You ready?” he asked, playfully.
“All right, Dad,” I said, annoyed.
The boat gently rocked and my dad shifted to grab the fishing rods.
“Let’s fix up these poles.”
My dad taught me how to fish when I was little. We spent a few years of my childhood staying at the lake during summer. Other years, I went to overnight camp, where I sailed and competed in archery.
“He’s a smart man, your dad,” people would say. I would say, “thanks.”
The sun began to peak through the autumn mist signaling daybreak.
“Where did Mom pack the sandwiches?” my dad asked.
“They’re in the cooler,” I said.
The shore around us was lined with a circular haze and the water became choppier in the sun. We ate our sandwiches in quiet.
“Well, let’s start fishing!” he said.
After fixing our sea salt bait we cast out our lines. We talked for hours about sports and tv, and before long, it was noon.
“Hand me a beer, will you?” my dad asked. I hesitated.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” I handed him a bottle.
“Forget tomorrow, how ‘bout this day, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty nice out,” I said.
The low hum of motorboats vibrated in the distance.
“Are you nervous at all?” I asked.
“You know, you grew up on this lake,” he said.
“I know.”
The metal hull squeaked in the soft current of the water.
“How’s school going?” he asked.
“School’s fine,” I replied.
“You meeting any girls?”
“Yeah.”
“You dating anyone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you gay?” he asked, teasingly.
“I just don’t want to date anyone right now,” I said.
“You know, I was dating Mom in college. Can you grab me another beer?”
I reached for the cooler.
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“Isn’t that weird to think about? I was your age.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to find a girl who’s smart, that’s what’s most important. Smart and funny. That’s why Mom is so great.”
“Well Mom’s taken, Dad.”
My dad laughed as he finished his beer and he reached for the cooler.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“The treatment?”
“What, I can’t have another sandwich?” He said. I gave him a sandwich.
“And how about a beer while you’re at it?” he said.
“We should probably head in soon.”
“Oh come on. Stop it!”
“It’s just that Mom told me–“
“What?” he interrupted, “can’t a dad have a beer with his son?”
“Yeah, Dad. You can.”
The fishing lines remained in the water and a cool breeze blew towards the auburn-leafed shore.
“You still playing basketball?” he asked.
“Not as often as I used to.”
“Remember when we used to play in the driveway? When you were a kid?”
“Yeah, that was fun.”
My dad leaned in with a smirk.
“I used to kick your ass!” he whispered.
“Yeah, okay, Dad. You wish,” I laughed.
“And guess what?” he continued, “I can still kick your ass!”
The damp air became colder as we sat on the Boston Whaler and I put on another layer.
“You know what I was just thinking?” My dad asked.
“What?” I said.
“I can’t believe we still haven’t caught any fucking fish!”
We laughed loudly as our fishing lines remained still in the water. When the laughter died, we were left in silence. My dad looked at me and smiled.
“You’re a good son.”
I looked down at the boat.
“Thanks, Dad.”
We headed back into shore and the sun was on its afternoon descent. We had been floating for most of the day. The autumn leaves cascaded onto the water and the wind bit our faces.
When we arrived back at the dock, there was an older man there to receive us. He grabbed the ropes to guide us in. I helped my dad out of the boat.
“Hello, Rick,” my dad said to the man as he stood on the dock.
“Hey, Jim! How are you feeling?” Rick asked.
“I feel great, Rick. I feel great. How’s the family? All good, I hope?”
“Yes, yes, Jim. all good.”
“That’s great, Rick.” My dad gave a pat to Rick’s shoulder and gave him some money. Rick thanked him and tied off our ropes.
We were walking up the green knoll, back to our house, when my dad grabbed my arm.
“If you remember one thing I tell you, remember this,” he said carefully. “Every man has dignity. Every man.”
“Yeah, I know, Dad.”
“Everyone has a family to care for. Like Rick. He has a family. Never take away a man’s dignity. Never take his pride.”
Before we reached our cottage at the top of the grass-covered knoll, my dad lost his footing on the gravel path and fell to one knee.
“Shit!” He yelled.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“I’m fine,” he grunted, “I’m fine.”
I helped him back to his feet as his hands shook and we found a nearby bench. We sat down to rest and my dad turned to me.
“Oh boy,” he said out of breath, shaking his head.
I looked at my dad and then I looked at the trees and the grass and the leaves around us.
“Never grow old, Nicky. It’s not fun,” he said.
My dad stared off into the distance.
“You’ll be fine, Dad.”
The sun had set and a purple sky stretched across the sulking lake. The sound of ripples lapping against pebbled shores whispered in the distance. I looked at my dad.
He looked at me and smiled, tears forming from the sharpness of the wind.
The wind eventually died but the tears remained as the rusty boat rapped against the wooden dock. The shadows of dusk rolled in but the back of the boad was still visible. Through the corrosion and rust, I could still read the name.