The Fisherman

By

The Fisherman

I have finally decided to sit down and write something. I had this idea come to during the day and I had to write it down to work on tonight. This is a metaphoric story, try to figure out what the actual subject is.

The sky was dark; small rays of warmth pierced through ominous clouds. The wind whipped around the water’s edge, creating angry waves. The day was lending itself to be a successful day on the edge of the pier.Unfortunately, many others had thought the same as me, and as I arrived, I could hear the groan from the tired wooden pier as greedy fishermen stood shoulder to shoulder. Inhaling slowly, I braced for aggression, and edged closer.The silence thundered through the air, piercing the muffled conversations spoken between puffs of cigarettes. I was unwelcome; just another man with his pole and line, no better than the last. I sat down softly, feeling multiple eyes burning into my flesh as I set my bait on the end of the hook. Casting the line in the murky waters, I felt lost, not knowing what to expect. Scuffing of torn boots against worn wooden boards bounced off the churning seas as the experienced fishermen edged away. The icy touch of isolation gripped my throat, cutting off my voice. Pushing out a gasp, I asked in spatters why my hook was drifting lifelessly in the current. The only response was the wind buffeting the edges of my coat, flicking the corners into my face; each slap a reminder that I was out of place.

 
Casting my eyes to the horizon, I began to wonder if I had picked the right hobby. As my wondering turned to thoughts of defeat, I heard slow, measured steps approaching. Worn hands gripped the crumbling railing beside me. Studying his face, the deep furrowed brow and unkempt beard suggested wisdom – a felt a sense of calm wash over me. Silently, he took control of the rod, reeling in the line with ease. Grasping the hook between forefinger and thumb, he slipped his other hand inside his dented and rusty pail, plucking a supple marshmallow from the bottom. Slipping it gently onto the end of the hook, he cast the line out, the hook and sinker sailing effortlessly out to the open water. Handing back the rod, I clutched it tightly, expecting a tug at any moment. Within mere seconds, the line began to unravel, spinning the reel at extraordinary speed. I slammed my hand down on the handle. The battle had begun.
 
The rod was pulled left and right – my grip almost lost due to the sheer acceleration. Slowly, I began to reel in, all while following the motion of my captive. I began sucking in salty air as my arms and chest burned with exhaustion. Slowly the zigzags of the fish began to subside, and I took my chance. Gritting my teeth, I pulled back – hard. Quickly lowering my quivering arms, I furiously reeled in, dragging the fish closer to the pier. As a flash of lightning cut through the darkness, I spied a glimpse of the fish trailing on my line.
 
The fish shimmered under the waves, its girth the size of a dinner plate. I continued to reel in, pulling the fish closer. The fish seemed hypnotised, desperately wanting to follow my line. The old fisherman scooped up his net and leaned over the railing. Lowering the net into the water, I began guiding the exhausted fish towards its fate. With a quick twist, the fish was imprisoned within the nylon threads.Pulling the fish to the surface of the pier, I could feel a crowd had flocked to inspect the commotion. The fisherman was bent over the net, slipping the fish from the net and extracting the hook. As he finished, he looked up at me and smiled, handing me the prize.I turned around, and held out the spoils. The ambience shifted – no longer did I feel resentment, a sense of appreciation began to flow through the fishermen. A couple made their way through the crowd, holding out their firm, rugged hands to congratulate me. Soon, all were sharing stories of their success, each story more exuberant than the last. I knew I had made it. I was a fisherman.

Submeg

writing, my writing

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