Nonfiction by James Callan
The tug of a taut, invisible thread. So thin. Unseen, it reflects on the gray water, so I suppose. At the far end a silver barb has found the silver mouth of a silver fish that has seen better moments, by far, again, so I suppose. Static water undergoes a savage transformation of violent thrashing, splashing. Like cheerleader pompoms in a gesture of exaltation for the winning touchdown, only inches below the surface of the lake. Liquid confetti tossed in celebration.
My arms hold on, barely, to the device that has snagged an agitated leviathan, or so it seems in my struggle. It’s probably a muskie. And when I finely pull the slick, scaled thing that weighs as much or more than a toddler into the canoe, onto the aluminum floor, I confirm, yes, a muskie.
I look into a mouth that looks like a perfect way to lose a finger, or a hand. This pink abyss, a downward spiral of open-heart surgery, scalpels and all. So many scalpels, needles waiting for their payback. I remove my wedding ring, just in case, and I go in reckless and brave, the last of which I like to think the more prominent. I had to be more than a little firm. I mean, fingers, hands, these are things I want to keep for myself. But in being firm, on the edge or perhaps over the edge of being rough, I remove the barb. I free the beast. And with one last wild gesture of courage, I shovel out what in that moment seemed to me to be the marriage between porpoise and a good way to get hurt.
The splash was surprisingly subtle. A non-splash, almost. Like a vacuum sucking in only the air around it, but quiet. The dark of the depth took the image of the muskie with it. Gone. Free. I caught a prize fish. And then I let it go.
James Callan grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He lives on the Kapiti Coast, New Zealand on a small farm with his wife, Rachel, and his little boy, Finn. He likes toads and frogs and polliwogs, but he LOVES cats. He believes when he says that When Harry Met Sally is the best Rom-com of all time, he is not offering his opinion, but is merely stating a fact. He has been fully grown for a long while, but still has some growing up to do.
