Bear Island

The hull of the small boat slapped against the water and the day was clear and the morning air cold. Frank sat at the wheel while Yellow Dog stood at the bow with his nose pointing east into the wind like a bowsprit. I sat aft untangling the small bait net looking up now and again to see if were were getting closer to the bait waters where Frank would gracefully cast the net in shallow water and hundreds of small bait fish would jump and churn the waters a second before the net was pulled closed.

After catching bait fish, Frank steered the small boat into the Bogue Inlet and into deeper waters. With the rising temperature Yellow Dog would eventually settle in for a quick nap as we slowly made our way into the cross waters of the Bogue Inlet and the many waterways behind Bear Island. Frank knew where the fish would be today and he assured me that it would only be a matter of time before we'd be knee deep in Bluefish, Cod, and maybe even a shark. At the mention of shark Yellow Dog barked and sat up attentively and we laughed.

By 8:30 Frank made the first cast. I'd follow in pursuit and watched the bait fish tumble through the air on weighted line and finally plop into the inlet. With our first cast of the day settling into the murky depths and Yellow Dog's interest waning into another nap on the cushioned seat aft, Frank and I gradually warmed up to conversation about fishing and the fish he'd caught. I spotted a White Crane, gracefully standing on one leg in a marsh surrounded by reeds and looking slightly downward and remembered Navajo creation stories and the role White Crane played in our survival from worlds long past. Frank listened as I told him about these stories and with his sun baked eyebrows furrowed, he'd ask what I thought, after all these years, about the changes in tribal communities. We'd talk at length on different things like alcoholism and joblessness and ceremonials.

Our conversations were generous. Just as I'd shared my stories, Frank recalled his father with amusement and puzzled on his upbringing. Nearly 70 years old, Frank recalled his childhood with pleasure.

"Oh man, my father was the town drunk in Gainsville. No lie." Franks said. "The old guy would be in downtown bars as soon as they opened and he'd come home when they'd close."

As I listened to him I remembered the old bars in down town gallup. As a child I'd sit in the car waiting for my mother to pick up pawned jewelry or repaired cowboy boots for my father and as I'd wait outside in the car I would watch Indian men come and go from the Club Americana, the Tropicana Bar, or from Eddie's Place. Who were these people I'd wonder. Where did they come from. Where are their mothers. Oh, a million questions raced through my head as I looked out from just over the door. Checking and rechecking if the doors were locked.

"My father was something, let me tell you, " Frank said as he checked the tension of his fishing line. "We were kids back then racing around town on our bicycles and we'd come to a halting stop when we'd see my father sitting by the park on a bench with a bottle in a paper bag and he'd yell out, 'Hey everyone! That's my boy over there!' I'd wave at him and turn with the rest of the boys in another direction."

Suddenly Frank's line snapped to attention and the reel raced and Yellow Dog barked and I shouted, "Fish on!" 

The mystery of the unknown fish at the end of the line was nearly all of the joy of fishing with Frank. Was it a shark? Perhaps a 100 pound Cod. Maybe even a Sea Bass; a monster in it's own right. Frank would let the line run, saying as he did, "We gotta wear this guy down. Oh man! Break him down." After fifteen minutes Frank called for the catch net and Yellow Dog and I fumbled through the boat, over the tackle boxes and there, finally, was the green fishing net for bringing fish aboard.

The first shimmer of the fish set our hearts racing. In all the excitement Yellow Dog jumped over board to get a closer look, and there, finally was the fish. A fine Bluefish. I quickly scooped the net over and hauled the Blue into the boat and with a suddenness that even now catches me by surprise, Frank whacked the Blue in the head and blood mixed with the water against the white hull.  Eventually the fish stopped moving and in the silent aftermath of witnessing life's animation leave the fish only our hard breathing could be heard and the fish lost its beautiful color. Yellow Dog, with his head down and eyes looking at Frank, knew too that death came and took the magic we all shared in spite of our differences.  

The way home was quiet.  The motor droned on and the waves slapped at the hull again.  Small marshes and islands passed and larger boats made troublesome waves for us to endure.  Yellow Dog did not sleep but looked back to where we were, our furry bowsprit no more.  I didn't want to talk after the sudden strike that left the Bluefish dead and the water pink at the bottom of the boat. Frank didn't talk either. Water slapped the hull and Yellow Dog, finally leaving his post aft leaned over the starboard side biting at small waves made by the boat's curved hull. The boat's small engine struggled against the outflow of water from Bogue Inlet caused by low tied and we finally turned into Franks inlet and could see his dock and up in the Carolina trees the lights of his house.

As we tied the boat to the dock, the cats raced down the steps from the large house hoping to feast on what wasn't taken to Frank's wife and the kitchen. Frank took the fish to the table and started the cutting. " You cut here and here. Take the knife along this part and pull in clean from here. And you have a fine fish for eating."  His hand skillfully ran the blade through the fish and I watched. 

That night after dinner with Frank and his wife he walked me back to my car and said, "I should've said I was going to blow that Blue over the head before I did. Sorry 'bout that."  I said it was nothing, just caught me by surprise I suppose.  Frank made an offering, "Would you like to go out to Bear Island next week again?  This time you can take Yellow out on the beach and give that old boy some running time.  I'll take Nance and we'll cook out.   I think there's more stories to tell and a hell of a lot of fish to catch." I looked at Frank and at Yellow Dog. "You bet. Maybe this time I can do the thumping and cutting."  We laughed in the dark driveway.  His wife Nancy waved goodbye from the patio.  

As I drove off into the night I looked back in the rearview mirror and saw Frank's large outline and his arm outstretched and waiving goodbye. 

There were many more outings to Bear Lake and like Frank said more stories and more fish. Yellow Dog nearly drowned a few times and the cats, like clockwork, would come running to the dock at the sound of the boats small engine sputtering against the water as we made the final turn home.  

Mountain, mountain

My father observed, "The mountains keep this part of the house dark."
I look and see that it is still dark and wonder about the mountain's shadow.
"At home, by this time, the sun is warming up the living room."
I recall that slivers of sunlight streak across the Navajo rugs near the fireplace.
"Boy, I can sure feel my joints this morning."
I look at my father and see, again, that he is getting old.

I ask how his coughing is doing.
"I'm okay, for the most part. I just can't go outside when it's too early."
Is that what the doctor says?
"Yeah, he's always telling me to wear something warm."
I look at my father and ask where his jacket is.
"I forgot it on the bus when I came in last night."
My father it getting more forgetful now.

"When we passed the mountains outside of town I remembered the Blessing Way song:
(In Navajo)
Beautiful sacred mountain in front of me.
Beautiful sacred mountain behind me.
Beautiful sacred mountain above me.
Beautiful sacred mountain below me.
I am surrounded by beauty."

He sings gently in the morning as the coffee drips into the pot.
We stand around the kitchen table and I ask him why he remembered it.
"I've been thinking a lot, actually remembering these songs more now."
We sip coffee in the silent knowledge that in old age, they say, we are called more often to remember our beginnings.

As I pour my father another cup I remember that words are defined by their opposite words.
Smile is understood because, in part, we know the word frown.
Now is a word we comprehend because we also understand later.
Here is a word because of there.
start is a word because of end.

As I look at my father, standing at the window, warming his hands in the sunlight finally peaking the crest of the mountain,
I wonder about the end because he is here with me now, but older.
Suddenly, I want time to stop.
But the ticking of the second hand on the clock above the sink reminds me that I have now, in the Zen sense of the word, to love my father and to forgive him.

My father looks from the window and says, "You know, son, I remembered a song when I saw the mountain just outside of town. Did I tell you this before?"
I say, "No, dad, you didn't. How did it go.?"

"Beautiful sacred mountain..."