Audio: Story 1 - "Put Your Worm in the Water"

Story One: Put your worm in the water.

It’s Friday, June 7th, 1996, and me and my Dad are fishing on seamless Gull Lake, Ontario, Canada. 

Gull Lake is only eleven miles from our cabin at Manitou Lake Lodge, but it takes at least an hour and a half to drive through the thick bush and brush, rushing streams, giant road boulders, and clouds of black flies just to get there. We were up at 4 AM and made that eleven-mile trek, mostly in the dark, so we could “wake up the fish for breakfast”, just in time for sunrise. And just one last time for my Dad.

My Dad, Harold Bush, is 66.  He has been fishing in River Valley for over 45 years. And sometimes working here as a fishing guide. This is my 10th fishing trip with my Dad, and it's also the last one. He is in his final stages of prostate cancer. I drink early to hide the hard thud that punches my heart.

Today, his skin is pale gray.  He had spent most of our week at Manitou asleep in his bedroom in our cabin.  But he wasn’t going to miss this day, our last day at Manitou, and his last day on Gull Lake as a person.

I’m so glad to be a big, strong woman.  I’m built like my Dad! Thick and muscle-y, especially through my chest, arms, and thighs. I’m so glad to have the strength and stamina to load all the beer and food coolers, the utensils needed for a shoreline fish fry, the minnow buckets, the worm box, extra ice, tackleboxes, change of clothes and raingear, fishing poles and nets, gas tank, motor, five-gallon bucket and toilet seat for me, oars, boat seats and floatation cushions, and God-forbid, whatever you do, don’t forget the bug spray!

Dad was too weak to offer much help. But he did get a lot of the equipment to the cabin door which made it easier for me to load up “The Machine”, a 1992 Ford E-350 cargo van with a V-8 and heavy-duty shocks and skid plates. That thing was a beast, and it ate gas like a beast, too.  

“It’s locked and loaded, let’s go, Dad!” I yelled from the porch.  “I got it all in, no problem.” 

“The nets?” Dad asks. “Yup.” “Minnow buckets?” he says. “Yup.” “Extra ice?” “Check.” “And who put the motor in? Did Bill come over and do it?” he asks. “Nope.  I did it,” I say proudly. “YOU did it? How did you do that?” he laughs out loud. 

“I lifted that bitch up and shoved it in last; kinda made a little dent in the floor but- “ “WhoaHAHAHA! You’re such the girl, the fisherwoman!” he yells and bellows that big Santa laugh. I LOVE hearing that!

Dad grabbed his parka, walked to the van, and started to open the driver’s side door.   “Oh no, you don’t, I packed everything, so I get to choose who drives, and I want to drive,” I told him.  He didn’t seem to mind and backed away.  

Over the years, I had driven a few times to Gull Lake, of course always with my Dad guiding me, directing me how to avoid the low part of the road pond so as not to flood the engine, or how to miss the sharp edge of a road boulder so I wouldn’t slice a tire, or how to go around a beaver hut so as not to disrupt nature’s water flow, things like that.  I’d do anything, just about anything to make him proud of me.  To get him to brag on me. Especially to my brother Steve.

We made it to the landing at Gull by 5:40, just in time to feed the fish their breakfast of fat, juicy worms and shiny, thick minnows. I backed the van down to the water line on the packed beach. Our flat-bottom steel boat, brandished with “Manitou” on the hull, was tied up on the side of the landing in tall grass. 

I put on my waders, untied our dark green and dented metal boat, and dragged it to the landing, as close to the back of the van as I could.  

As soon as I opened the back doors of the van, I became a little intimidated by the sight of that heavy, green 25 hp Johnson motor, even though I had already loaded it. Determined not to let my Dad do this, and to make him proud of me, I grabbed that green machine by the flange on the powerhead with my right hand and clutched the midsection of the tail with my left. I gave a big “heave-ho!” and hoisted it hard off the back of the van and down into the sandy beach.  

After a breath or two, I lifted the motor into the boat with a bang and moved it towards the stern, a foot or two at a time, clanking and resting it on each metal bench seat in the boat.  I finally managed to lift it and line up the motor screws on top of the transom. I cranked it down hard.  I think my Dad was amazed. Hell, I was amazed!

Dad began handing me all our gear, and as I placed everything properly in the boat, I could see the dusty gray color draining from his face. I was glad I remembered to bring his nitro. Once all the gear was loaded in the boat, I moved the van to the side of the landing, locked it, and got into the boat before my Dad did.  I wanted to drive.  And I didn’t want him to crank the motor.  

“Give us a push and get in, Dad,” I smiled at him.  So he did.  

The Johnson started after two cranks, and we were off.  We headed north towards Popcorn’s Bay, named after this big guy from western New York who laughed like Santa, fished in Gull Lake for over 40 years and always landed the biggest walleye (pickerel) in this small bay.  Yup, Popcorn’s Bay is named after my Dad, Harold “Popcorn” Bush. I veered our vessel into the tiny bay and cut the engine. Listening to the quiet was something I loved only second to hearing the wind lace through the pines and the sound of the loons beying at night. 

“I want to drive,” my Dad said.  “OK,” I said, and we switched places.  Dad started up the motor, adjusted to a slow troll, and without a word, we began to get our lines ready. The smooth, glassy surface of Gull this morning mirrored the skinny birch trees that dot the coastline of Gull Lake.  As usual, Dad slowed the troll, then stopped the boat. He points at two adjacent skinny birch trees in the middle of the coastline in Popcorn’s Bay.  I knew what was coming.  

He tells me again for the 10th time about my tan-seeking Mom lying naked in the boat “right here, right between these two little birch trees”, he smiles so big.  I can see him looking at her right now. Oh God, TMI.    

“You know, your Mom used to come with me and your Uncle Homer and Aunt Franny on these trips back in the 60’s, and she’d lie across the benches, neked as a jaybird,” he chuckled.  “You hardly ever see anyone on the whole lake, until one time, a hydroplane full of men seemed to pop out of nowhere and flew right above the tree line, just above our heads. HAAAH HAHAHA!” And he let out his famous Santa laugh again, his eyes flew wide open and his whole face glistened like the shine on the lake.  

“I never saw your Mother move so fast in 45 years of marriage!” he bellowed again.  “I think I remember you telling me once or twice about my naked mother and those birch trees Dad,” I smiled at him as he continued beaming and laughing, his cheeks changed to red, and his countenance seemed to brighten the sky. 

Dad cut the motor and began to prep his hook with a new teal-lucent minnow. He tosses the wriggling minnow and hook in the water, followed by his lure, and then pulls out a few yards of line before he releases the reel. I can see the glint of his silver William’s Wabler for at least two yards down as it disappears off the side of our boat. The famous lure beckons the first walleye of the day, aka, pickerel.   

“You know, Dad, all those colored lures you buy don’t actually help you catch a fish,” I start lecturing, as I dig through the worms in their white styrofoam house, all snuggled deep in the dark compost. Even though I had a Williams on my line too, I just felt a juicy worm would be my ticket to the first fish of the day.  

“Fish can see color, but it depends on the depth of water, the weather, and if you are fishing in clear or muddled water,” I tell him.   His hook and line are in the water, he’s running the troll perfectly, and he’s not listening to me.  But I continue:

“And a fish's sense of smell is a million times better than ours, and its hearing is…”  

“Are you still going to Towson State?” he interrupts. 

“I already got my Bachelors, Dad, but I’m starting my Master's program in the fall.  I just remember learning this stuff in zoology and thought you would like to…”  

He interrupts me again. “You can’t catch a fish if your worm’s not in the water,” he says kinda stern, kinda grinning.  

I get it. 

I stop talking and finish prepping my line with a thick, unwieldy worm.  

“Sayonara,” I say to my squiggling worm, and toss it into the water.  My gold Williams Wabler follows, spinning downwards.  

And we fish for quite a long while, silent, except for the gurgle of the trolling motor and the ice slipping in the beer cooler.

“Let’s refresh our lines,” he says, and cuts the engine. We reel up. It is very, very quiet, and I like it so much. All I hear are small waves that lick the side of the boat. While I was hard at work trying to find the fattiest worm, I looked up and saw my Dad focused on those two birch trees. I can see he’s thinking about something, so I wait, pretending to fiddle, without a word.   

Suddenly, he snaps his head sharp and turns to look at me. He’s got something to say. I look at him. But he says nothing, for a moment. Then it looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind, still looking at me. Then:

“I’m sorry for what I did,” he says, low and soft.

My heart implodes into a quivering ball of pulp.  I know instantly what he’s talking about. I can hardly breathe. All my oxygen evaporates and my blood sinks to the bottom of Gull. 

“Sorry for what, Dad? Did you fart again?” I fake chuckle, praying he won’t say it again. And praying he will.

He clears the gravel in his throat. His voice is a little louder this time, but he chokes on his words.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you when you were younger.” 

My eyes are welling. I’m afraid to speak, afraid of what I will say, afraid of blubbering, so grateful for my dark sunglasses. 

I grunt as I bend from the waist and open the cooler to grab an icy Molson.

“Never too early for a cold one in Canada, ay?” I declare.  “Want one?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. 

“I want you to know why I did what I did before -“

“Before what Dad, before you die?” I say calmly. “I already know why you did what you did, and I forgave you a long time ago, even though you didn’t ask for it.” I look down at my Molson and shit, the tears escape the shade of my sunglasses.  I whip them off to wipe the wet with my sleeve.

“I know what Grampy did to you, I know how he “disciplined' you and Uncle Ronny behind the barn. But he didn’t cut all your hair off down to the scalp, and you weren’t -"

“But I …” he tries to interrupt, to reason.

“NO! It’s done, Goddam it!! I’m drinking and fishing now!” I yell.  

“I told you I already forgave you. You just have to figure out how to forgive yourself.” I glare at him, wide-eyed.

He glares at me and I can see his temples move back and forth as he clenches his teeth. I can tell this is not the response he expected. Or wanted.

“Give me a Molson,” he growls.  So I did. 

And we keep fishing. Quiet.

Two months later, he died. 

But his apology never has.