Searching for Crayfish
I recall one of those poignant and rare memories of what seems as
though it should have been childhood, but was no more than a year back, when
my father took me and my two half brothers on a fishing trip at Mammoth Lake,
(a year and thousands of miles having filled the space since I had seen them
last). We treked along in the direction our father had gone via a sandy
beach-side trail. "Daddy's girl and his two handsome boys", sand sifting into
our shoes and between toes, marched one behind the other, carrying each our
personal bundle until we came to a small path leading directly to the water.
Upon reaching the carefully chosen spot, my father was already crouching low
preparing a multitude of casting rods. Shirts and shorts were given up to the
care of nearby rocks; shoes slid from warm sandy feet exposing them to even
warmer sands. Unhesitant limbs accompanied by awkward fishing poles reached
and leaped for huge rocks licked wet and cool by small smacking waves. The
sun continued to beat hard and reflexive on still waters as impatient hands
set aside empty fishing poles and clamored to play among the rocks. My
father now held above him a 5 in. crayfish he had retrieved from the water.
At mere suggestion that another had skittered into the shadow of the biggest
rock, six dry feet splashed down into the water while six dark hands overtuned
slippery rocks...two small sons and one daddy's girl; parched, salty, and
tanned; faces and backs absorbing a setting sun...two searching for
crayfish...one searching for time lost.