He was a big one.

You could hear his anger and disbelief give voice in my reel each time its finely crafted bits of metal sang and strained to slow the stripping line.

Oh “he” he was, and that I knew from his proud display of athletic prowess leaping clear of the bay the moment he felt the tug of my barbless hook.

Not really a hook, having only a minimal bend just sufficient to hold a succulent minnow. But hook enough to rudely stab his mouth and interrupt his morning hunt.

The new sun climbing out of night’s slumber in the sea cast spears of brilliant brittle glass glancing off the water’s unruffled surface, piercing my eager eyes, blinding me to the angry fish’s arching leap.

I knew his “he”ness by the vigor of his returning splash punching through dawn’s gentle chorus of loons and gulls. He was ready for a fight. And so was I.

I had left the land as first glimmers of silken light wove gossamer skeins in the sky, the bay below a pool of infinite ink. My oars, dipping silently with each careful stroke, confirmed no magic held me suspended in blackened space.

Calloused hands on weathered ash could feel my progress over water not yet seen as oars and locks together creaked a rhythmic tune.

As a thousand strokes of mine woke the sleeping sun, I saw reflected in my riffled wake the pre-dawn palette of apricot, tangerine, and plum as if some banquet of summer fruit was spread across the sky.

A once-warm flask of tea nestled in my sweater on the floor boards announced with metallic rattles each time an oar broke cadence and jolted the boat.

Slack tide signaled by bay grass standing straight was my cue to rest the oars and drink in the dawn. Two bites of hearty bread, thick slabs gripping hard cheese and ham, broke my fast and reminded me of my task.

To find a fish, not land or catch or even really hook - to find a fish is this day’s ambition. To find some piece of life unpaved, uncanned, unprinted, unfenced, as it was and, I hoped, will be - that is the task of this day.

Resting for a moment on the oars …