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I watch my husband sitting in his boat casting towards the shoreline. It is 1:30 in the afternoon and much hotter than when the tournament began at 6 o’clock. The bass club schedules approximately 8 competitions a year and since this one is at a lake only an hour and a half from home I have gone with him for a change. We spent last night in the hotel. I heard later that other wives were upset with their husbands because they had to camp and I got pampered.
The alarm gets him out of bed at 5 o’clock and brings me to consciousness long enough to say a few encouraging words and get a whiff of the coffee. I stay in bed until I’m ready to get up. He’s been on the water, enjoying himself, for three hours by this time and the coffee is cold. I remain behind, in the coolness, with our new laptop computer competing as well.
Landing a bass is the main objective of the day for the fisherman. My goal is one sheet of paper with 750 words, submitted on time. He can see the competition, the other boats on water. If another boat is close and his buddy catches a fish he gets a chance to see what he is up against, maybe see the color of the worm. I can only read what others have submitted and wait for the results.
Our motives are the same. Even though we are competing with others, we are fulfilled by the act, not the prize. We feel a peacefulness settle over our beings while we are in the midst of our separate joys. We are on the top of the world. Things just couldn’t get any better. While we both treasure our time together, we are thankful for time alone. We are grateful that we recognize both sides of this coin.
My husband appreciates it when the other club members tell him that they are glad to see him. They know he is a tough opponent, but are still glad he’s made it to the lake. He’s happy with catching at least one fish. I’m happy if I can create something that others will find worth reading and interesting.
The fishing is what compels him to get up and on the lake. For me it’s the written pat-on-the-back from my fellow writers that drives my pen to paper. He has to throw his bounty back. I add a sheet of paper to my file. My endeavor allows me to receive a possible reward of positive feedback and constructive criticism of my work. He adds up points.
He casts his line into unknown waters, trying different lures or worms, hoping to net a fish and keep it alive long enough to qualify at the weigh-in. I too am casting lines but mine are in the form of words, hoping for a keeper myself. So many lost worms and waded up sheets of paper litter our pasts.
Both of us have the chance for a long term win. A trophy at the winter banquet for the sportsman and a published piece in a quarterly publication for the writer are hoped for. While he may end the day with a catch or even a win, he knows the results right away. Revelation of the weekly winner is at least a week away for me. The wait makes me feel like a kid, waiting for a special trip or a party.
The boat drifts out of view and I turn back to my writing. A sea of words immerses me and the lake encompasses him. Solitude envelopes each of us like a welcome fog. Without saying it, both of us would jump at the chance to do this for a living. Our passion, our fulfillment is the only compensation now.
One 3-pound bass and one printed page later, the day is over and ride home is quiet. Eight hours in the sun can take a lot out of a person and my husband is wiped out and I am arranging thoughts in my head for another story. Later, as the sun sets we discuss the day. We both are content with the great day we had, no matter what the differences were. We agree that we could not pass time like the other does. Will we do it again? Only if we get the chance.
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