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e slipped out the back door easing it shut behind him. He didn’t pause to look about but turned and headed in the pre-dawn shadows towards the beach just yards away. In a few steps the outline of the boat ramp became faintly discernible; a boat beached by the ebb tide was leaning against the far side.
Without pause he stepped up onto the ramp and moved down the cleated surface to the first of several connected floats. At the third float he stopped then stepped down into a small boat that was obviously prepared for fishing.
He slipped a smallish knapsack off his shoulder and stored it under the bow seat, then stepped across the center seat and bent over the fuel tank that was secured to the wooden slats of the floor boards. He pumped a half dozen times on the in-line rubber ball of the fuel hose that ran from the tank back to the fifteen horse Johnson outboard; he turned, checked to ensure the motor was in neutral, pulled out the choke, twisted the handle to ‘start’ and pulled the starter cord. On the third pull the motor burst into life shattering the early morning quietness.
The young man quickly closed the choke and slowed the motor; as it idled he untied the boat and shoved away from the float. He buttoned the worn jacket he was wearing against the morning’s chill then engaged the motor, increased power and put the boat into a tight turn and headed out into the bay; the first vestiges of the rising sun were just glimmering on the tips of the mountains that rose from the darkened shore ahead of him.
Roger Holden or Roj to avoid confusion with his grandfather for whom he had been named, was heading out on his first fishing trip since he had arrived home a week earlier. He had just completed his second year of university and was eager to do some ‘r and r’; to recapture the feeling of peacefulness and contentment that had always prevailed during his childhood and teens in the small village where he had been born and on the waters and in the wilds where he had grown up.
The first few days after his arrival he had been caught up in the excitement of re-uniting with family and friends but after the initial fervor wore down he found himself yearning for some solitary time; some time to travel the small bays and inlets that he knew so well and later to tramp along the beaches and the trails he had known his whole life.
The night before he had announced that he would head out early the next morning. “I’m thinking I might stay out overnight and be home the day after tomorrow.” He explained.
“Sounds good, Roj,” his father said, not offering to go along.
Meggie, his mother smiled, “Good bring home a few rock cod and I’ll deep fry them for you.”
Neither parent tried to dissuade him from going, they both recognized the pattern from previous homecomings and had no concerns about a solitary expedition. He had been given his first boat when he was twelve and had demonstrated early on both his grandfather’s and his father’s understanding of the water as well as their skill in handling boats; a good portion of his pre-teen years had been spent on the old “Four Square” that was now retired and resting on dry land as a monument to another time.
Once well away from the floats and the other boats, Roj opened the throttle to cruising speed and headed out of the bay. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, just somewhere down the inlet; whims of the moment would be his guide.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later he turned the boat and angled into a small sandy beach. He gently ran the bow up onto the sand and cut the motor, he sat for a moment and let his mind go back to the first time he had visited this spot; it was just after his twelfth birthday and was his first solo expedition in his twelve foot double ender. He smiled as he remembered stripping down and cavorting in and out of the water and then his dismay when he couldn’t get the old one cylinder inboard motor to start. He remembered his initial panic then slowly realizing that he was alone and with no one to help, he had to solve the problem himself. Eventually the odor of gas rising from the carburetor had reminded him that his grandfather had cautioned him that sometimes the float would stick and the engine would flood.
Thinking back now he remembered his pride when after turning the gas off for several minutes, tapping the carburetor then turning the fuel back on, the motor started on the first pull of the rope he had wound around the fly wheel.
After a few minutes of reverie another thought crossed his mind, he jumped out onto the sand, stripped his clothes off and plunged into the water. The sand shelved out at a steep angle and in seconds he was in deep water; he swam out for a hundred yards or so then rolled onto his back and floated on the surface. He remained floating for a few minutes then rolled over once more and stroked in a fast crawl back to the beach. Unmindful of the cool morning air he clambered up onto a rock and squatting on his quarters wrapped his arms around his legs and stared out into the main inlet. He remained in that position for some time as he watched the sun’s rays creeping down the mountains and the treed hills on the far shore.
Finally he shook his head and rising up he stretched then involuntarily shouted out, “It’s not enough!” Then as he climbed down off the rock he mumbled, “It’s not enough, I need more, I need something, something more than just this.”
His body still damp he pulled on his clothes, pushed the boat off the sand and jumped aboard. In moments he was heading out and across the inlet for a hidden reef that he knew would yield some nice cod.
Later, as he was jigging, his restlessness returned and he wrestled with his thoughts, What ‘wasn’t enough’? ‘Where was the contentment?’ What did he want? Where did he want to be? What was wrong with being here, being home in Butevale? Talking aloud once more he said, “Hmm, talk to Mom or Dad? Grandma or Grandpa? No, they wouldn’t understand. Wish Great Granpa and Gramma were still here, I could talk to them.”
As he thought and talked aloud he had a couple of bites on his line and finally the usual thrill that even veteran fisherman get when they hook a decent fish changed his focus as his rod bent abruptly and line was peeled from his reel.
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