Casting

I had never seen him fish. Before he headed out into the steady flow of the river he had stepped into his waders with their wide suspenders and chosen his gear, including a tiny lure carefully selected from a very full tackle box. With cautious yet purposeful fingers, he attached the wee lure to the end of the line of a very long rod. His attention to detail was intriguing to me. It was clear he was unaware of anything other than the task at hand. Perhaps he casually thought about the fish he might catch. I don't know. We didn't speak.

I was 25 years old at the time. Doug had been my friend for four years. But, watching him fish that day created a shift in my heart and mind. I remember the sun lit his soft blond hair and seemed to warm his fair skin. He stood in the current of the river so naturally, solid and comfortable with his place. His shoulders stood broad as he pulled one arm back, holding a length of line in the opposite hand.  He skillfully aimed and arced the barely visible lure up and over the water, landing it on the water's surface a distance away for a short dance before drawing it back again for another flight and another dance in another carefully chosen location. The rhythm of his casting was mesmerizing. He was fly fishing. Another first for me. Clearly not something new to him. Although I had brought a book with me to read, I don't believe I picked it up at all that day. I was content to study him and this new sport.

It would be some time before I saw him fish again. It would be in a river on the opposite coast of Canada after I had driven 4192 kilometers to visit with him. That's where I would meet this little guy, the Crazy Crawler, and watch him swim wildly across surface of the water, his wings catching and throwing the sun with every stroke. It's where I would hear my first stories of Doug fishing as a boy, and learn that this large, brightly painted, wonderfully awkward lure was once his grandfather's. If you look closely, you can see where the teeth of biting fish have left their marks. Doug doesn't use this lure to fish any longer. He used it as a boy. He doesn't want to lose it now. But it was a joy and a wonder to see it swim a few lengths that day -- one of our first days together as more than just friends.

After visiting a little less than a week with Doug on this occasion, I drove back across the country to finish my studies while he pursued his. We wrote each other regularly for about a year. Letters in the mail. Many pages. Many feelings shared. Then, one afternoon, there was a knock on my apartment door. I opened the door. There stood Doug. One week later, after selling or giving away anything in my apartment that wouldn't fit into my small car, I made one last journey back across the country.  This was my fifth time making this drive.  The third time with Doug in mind.  It was the first time with Doug at my side.