For me, fishing was always a day of peace for my father and I. Most days he would return from work and the whisky bottle was open on the kitchen counter before he got his jacket off, but when its just me, my father and the stillness of lake sierra the sensation of warm serenity takes place of the usually gray anhedonia that I feel at home. I heard the shouting and fighting the night before. Its hard to ignore at this point and Ive developed the ability to discern the sounds Of dancing or benevolent footsteps compared to muted chaos coming through the floor boards when there is a verbal or physical altercation. Those sounds unfortunately reverberate through my mind the day after, but the clicking of a fishing rod mixed with the calm sounds of lunes in the distance seems ease my mind. The last outing i went with my dad i thought i smelt a hint of whisky on his breathe, but i feared that if I were to bring it up, it would ruin the day.

Today seems serene. The suns piercing through a quilted sky, swans are guarding their young ones as they glide across the lake and for all I know my dad is sober. “Hand me that sandwich, kid. No the tuna. Thats the one, thanks buddy.” “Any bites yet dad?” “No not a single bite. Soon enough, its a waiting game my boy. Its these moments in our lives we have to find meaning. The quiet, the still, the mundane. If not we will cling to chaos like a shy child clings to his mothers thigh.”

He always goes off on a philosophical tear. He was an accountant, but his bookshelf was full of writers from the turn of the 20th century and german philosophers. Usually when the conversation had an existential theme it meant he was projecting his dissatisfaction on to me as a form of therapy. I was just happy to have a conversation with him when he wasn’t slurring his words or yelling at my mother about the most innocuous shit, like his food not being warm enough or she smoked his last cigarette.

As he hands me the wrapper to toss in our garbage bag i see he grimaces as he takes a big swig out of his thermos. My instincts get the best of me and before i even try and do any detective work I flat out accuse him. “Is there alcohol in there?” “What?” “In your thermos, is there alcohol in there?” “What am i under the 3rd degree by my own son?” “Whatever.”

I put my fishing rod down, take my phone out, plug my ear pods in and start listening to Tom Wait’s Burma Shave. He see’s that I tuned out and he nudges my leg. I keep my eyes off him and continue to gaze out into the distance, purposely avoiding eye contact with him. He grows angry and grabs me by both of legs and begins to shake me with great force. We gain hold of one another and begin to the wrestle. This is the first time In my young adulthood I decided to fight back and I can tell by the embittered look in his eyes he doesn’t like that I am standing my ground. “This is our time. Father and son time. Don’t go fucking this up.” As I think to myself how this man is unable to take the slightest bit of blame for his ghastly actions I find myself in the air, tumbling over the side of the boat, then splashing into the lake head first. As I look up to my father for help I see his face stricken with remorse. “Come on, take my hand. Pull yourself up son. There you go.” I lay splayed on the floor of the boat shivering, frantically searching for my phone. We both lean over the boat and see a glowing light appear in the water.