Haibun
One Last Cast
We left the house early, my
father and I, loading the tackle into the car with hushed
voices and then slipping like ghosts through the pearls and
dove-greys of the early autumn morning.
her husband leaving—
my mother
forces a smile
My father looked a different
man than he did six months before—fragile,
weary and almost paper-thin. His voice was hoarse and his
breathing was faintly laboured but as he drove and talked
about the prospects of the day's fishing there was a sparkle
about his eyes and a flash of boyish enthusiasm which his
sickness was powerless to contain.
tales of fine catches—
he asks me to roll
another cigarette
The road to the river led
through a wide heath, now clad in a mantle of heather and
fading gorse, where we had camped when I was a child.
waning moon—
a nightjar's cry
pierces the dusk
We parked in the little
churchyard of St. Antony. I shouldered the gear and as the sun
burned through the mist we set off slowly along the creek side
footpath that would take us to the fishing mark.
stopping for breath—
a first glimpse of sunlight
on the ocean
We scrambled down the narrow,
thorn-choked path to the rocks, pausing regularly so that my
father could rest his atrophied muscles. Once at the rocks I
saw that he couldn't thread the line through his rod guides
because his hands were shaking so badly. Without the question
being asked I took his rod and tackled up for him.
autumn days—
threading a rod for the man
who taught me how
My father thanked me and took
the rod in his hands. He felt the weight of it and flexed its
limber and willowy tip. It was a rod that he had used for the
best part of forty years and in his hands it became a part of
him—an
extension of his arm—
maybe even of his soul. He made his first cast. The line
shimmered in the sunlight and his float sailed through a
steady, high arc into the sea.
wind-blown sapling—
my father casts his
favourite rod
Before I could finish tacking
up, my father whistled at me. His rod had come alive and was
surging and pulsing in its fighting curve. The line hissed
through the water and was singing with tension. Steadily and
slowly, grinning like a twelve year old boy, cursing faintly
as he lost line, he drew a beautiful Autumn-run mackerel
towards him and lifted it kicking onto the rocks.
cloud-barred sky—
a mackerel's
scribbled livery
We caught many fish that day.
My father's cares and worries seemed to fall from him and we
both forgot, for a while at least, the leaden weight of his
health.
We fished on till dusk, hardly pausing for a drink from our
flasks, laughing, swearing, and gently mocking each other's
failures and earnestly praising the triumphs.
The sun slipped steadily, inexorably, towards the Western
horizon. We knew that we had to leave at dusk. My father made
cast after cast, searching through the depths of the ocean
with his glittering baits, his eyes not daring to stray from
the orange tip of his float. I started to worry about him,
about his ability to make it up the cliff after such a long
day. I thought of what my mother would say if I brought him
home in an exhausted state. I looked at him and he seemed to
read my thoughts but he was desperate to stay and try his luck
for just a little longer. The ocean was reddening by the
minute, becoming a symphony of pale pinks and fragile golds.
'One last cast, Jonny,' he pleaded, 'One last cast.'
But the sun had already set.
My father sighed and reeled slowly in. His rod tightened, not
with a fish this time but because his line had caught on some
rocks which the dropping tide had exposed. He was using a
favourite float and I knew he didn't want to lose it so I took
off my shoes and waded thigh-deep over the rocks and into the
sea feeling the line with my hand until I came to where it was
caught. I looked back at my father. He looked tired but happy,
weary but resigned. He knew it was time to leave. I reached
down and released his line.
ebb tide—
my father is freed
from earthly things
