I was young, maybe seven or eight,
when I learned how to kick minnows out of the bay. The previous summer my parents had rented a
house out in Mattituck, New York.
At the beach we went to nearly every day - weather permitting - there
was a small natural pool that formed in the rocks when the tide receded. In that pool, I would crack muscles open,
place the raw meat in my palm and patiently wait for the minnows to
nibble. When they did, slowly - very
slowly, so they would not get spooked - I closed my hand into a fist, trapping
the minnows which I then slipped into a pail filled with water. Countless hours I spend catching minnows, one
of the few sedentary activities I really enjoyed. Of course, at the end of the day, when the
sun slinked towards the horizon and it was time to go home and think about a
bath and dinner, I returned all the minnows, still alive, to their home in the
bay.
The following summer, my parents
rented a different house, this time out in Cutchogue, New York which meant a
different beach. Without the tide pool
which trapped the minnows in a compact space, catching the small fish was far
more challenging. Then one afternoon, as
I sat eating my lunch on the sand, I noticed an older boy – maybe three or four
years older than me – kicking the minnows out of the water. Quietly, moving so slowly he hardly appeared
to be walking at all, he stalked the fish.
When he spotted a school of them hanging out near the edge of the water
he transformed his body into a burst of speed.
Lightening quick and in one fluid motion he took one step, brought his
right foot back and before the fish could even register his presence he kicked
the water. Seconds later, as the water
droplets seeped into the sand, he scanned the shore for the tell tale sign, the
flapping motion of a desperate fish, that indicated his success. I was enthralled, completely captivated by
this new method of catching fish and I could not wait to attempt it myself. The motion and the timing took practice. The first time I tried it, I kicked up
nothing but water, rocks, seaweed and sand.
But I persisted, determined to learn this new skill. By the end of the summer, I had mastered
it. My mother and younger brother would
occupy their time building an aquarium with sand and buckets and I would fill
it with minnows, crabs and snails.
Kicking minnows out of the water proved to be a fun way to pass the time
on the beach. Perhaps it was a skill
that had no worldly value but, as a small child, the fun factor was far more
important than anything else.
But alas, I grew up (although
some people might argue this point) and kicking minnows out of the water was a
sport relegated to my childhood. For two
decades, though I visited beaches often, I left the minnows alone. Then my son
was born and one summer, because I thought the tiny fish might interest him, I
stepped into the bay wondering if twenty years has left my skill completely
rusted and wasted. But the cool thing
about muscle memory is that it is literally ingrained in your body. It took but two or three tries until I had
landed a fish on the sand. My son, only
a year old, didn’t care about the fish at all, and so, slightly disappointed I
returned my catch to the sea. Now that
my son is four, he loves the fish. Every
time we visit my parents – who no longer rent but own a house out in Mattituck
– he requests that I catch fish for him.
One, two, three are never enough.
It is always one more until he had buckets teaming with minnows, so many
that he only has to dip his hand into the bucket to catch one and pet it.
This week we were camping in the
Catoctin Mountains in Maryland. While we
were there, we spent one day swimming at the lake in Cunningham Falls
State Park. A section of the lake has been roped off for
swimming and playing. In the roped off
section, the water is clear, clean and it smells like fresh mountain
water. The bottom is covered in soft
white sand so that you can walk without mud squeezing through your toes. However, just beyond the ropes, it is a
different lake. Standing by the ropes
and sticking out your hand or leg you can feel the tangle of plants which form
an underwater jungle. And if you dare to
put your foot down where it does not belong, you will feel the mucky, icky
bottom so common in lakes.
In the water, we all had a
blast. My son, after two years of
swimming lessons, is finally confident in the water and he spent hours swimming
back and forth between me and my spouse.
As the day drew to a close, we reluctantly got out of the water to dry
off a little before returning to camp.
While drying, I was inevitably drawn to tiny minnows swimming at the
edge of the lake. There weren’t many,
not the overpopulated schools that I am accustomed to in the bay, but enough to
tempt me. Standing back, assessing the
movement of the fish, I could not resist the child inside of me. Taking a quick deliberate step, I kicked the
water. Scanning the sand I saw what I
wanted, a small gray fish. Smiling, I
picked it up to bring to my son. What I
didn’t realize at first was that I had an audience – two young boys maybe ten
or eleven years old. Seeing that I
caught a fish, they offered me their bucket full of water. They were dismayed when I turned it down,
delivering my catch to my son instead. I
returned to the water but catching fish in the lake was more of a
challenge. The mucky bottom was slippery
and I had difficulty firmly planting my foot.
The boys watched and soon I caught a second fish. When I refused to relinquish even that one to
them they began imitating my movements in hopes of catching their own. My son, too, for the first time, tried to
kick the minnows out of the water. He
was adorable to watch – making too much noise, taking clunky steps and not
kicking deeply enough. In time, I am
sure he will surpass me in skill and be able to kick out hoards of fish. But for now, he was happy to play with what
little I provided.
Two fish was all I could score,
but one kick, my foot digging into the mud, I kicked up a prize even better
than a minnow. Not seeing the small gray
fish I was accustomed to catching, I moved on to make another attempt when my
spouse noticed a black blob on the sand.
Looking closer we realized it was not a fish, but a tadpole. Quickly putting it in water, my son was
captivated. This was something
different, something bigger and something far more interesting than he was used
to me giving him. He placed it in the
bucket and watched it swim around. When
he was time to let the fish and tadpole go, he dumped the bucket in the lake,
but the tadpole was slow. My son,
unwilling to let it go just yet, held out his hand and patiently tried to
recapture him. After only a few attempts,
he succeeded. It was then, holding his little friend in his palm that he asked
me to take his picture, which I did. If
he could have taken it home, he would have but instead, he kissed the tadpole
on the top of its head, dipped his hand into the water and sadly said, “Goodbye.”
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