Morning all. I hope everyone is having a good morning. I’m not to bad today. The sun is shining, I got a reasonable amount of sleep and I woke up with a story idea in my head. I keep a notebook in my night stand and this morning when the alarm went off instead of hitting the snooze alarm, I took the pen and notebook out and sketched out the bits of the story still lingering in my brain. It is something I’ll play around with later. For now, I’m just glad I got it on the page. But speaking of getting things on the page…it is time once again for the morning writing prompt. Timers set, pens lifted above pages or fingers poised above keyboards. And let’s go.
This was interesting. I like it. I don’t know what it would go with, but it could be fun to find the rest of the story.
Thursday, June 24th: He struggled to hold the fishing rod.
He struggled to hold the fishing rod. The fact that anything bit his line was as much of a shock as feeling the line run through the reel. The others shouted instructions at him and he did his best to comply. Even as they yelled their instructions he tried to remember the ones he was taught.
He gave the fish a little line, then pulled him in a bit further. He let the fish wiggle some more, tiring himself out. It was a slow dance but gradually the fish exhausted itself and he was able to haul his prize into the boat.
He braced himself for an energetic guppy but instead found a monster of a fish. It was so large that it made many of the more experienced fishermen gasp with surprise. It was a team effort getting the fish off of the line and packed away so that he could take it home in good condition.
Once it was packed away, he picked his rod up again. He was conscious of others watching him as he reached into his bait, baited the hook and cast off. It was a strange feeling. While he often went fishing, when younger, he never really caught anything. He went with older family members.
The point was always to spend time with them. Mostly the time was spent in companionable silence. Occasionally, stories were told. The fish was never the point. As an adult he rarely went fishing, but allowed himself to be talked into this trip as a way of bonding with the others. Given the looks the others were giving him, he wasn’t sure f catching the fish was going to help or hinder his efforts.
‘It certainly isn’t like sitting in Grandpa’s old rowboat.’ He thought as he once again moved to the side of the boat and let his bait dangle in the water.
That boat had been old and streamlined to the bare necessities. This boat had all of the gadgets and paraphernalia one could ever want in a sea faring vessel. Secretly he was fairly certain that this boat could navigate the Atlantic crossing with no issues.
And each of the fishermen were as well equipped. It was somewhat intimidating. He had his old fishing vest with it’s well-worn pockets filled with necessities. He wore his hat decorated with a few of his favorite lures and he had the fishing rod he had used since the time he was taken on his first fishing trip at the age of six. In addition, he stopped off on the way and secured his bait from a small shop.
He saw mixed looks of amusement and superiority on the faces of the others as he was welcomed aboard. Each one of them was decked out in the finest gear money could buy and all of it looked pristine. The fishing vests they wore not only looked both ironed and possibly starched, but the pockets bulged with electronic gadgetry.
It was intimidation, but he tried to swallow the feeling back and enjoy himself. After all, he wasn’t here for competition, he was here to bond.
Except that no one else was into bonding.
Each staked out their own spot on the boat and barely looked at let alone communicated with the others. It was more turf war than bonding experience.
Ten til Midnight 