The Last Fish:

(First in a 4-part series)

It was hard watching my buddy stand alone in the mud – refusing to give up hope as even the seasons abandoned him.

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Three months ago, just after the first wind and rain of fall, I slowed down while driving across a bridge and gazed in the direction of San Francisco – looking for signs of the great run.

There!

A tall figure, silhouetted against the silver gray water, stood alone in the mud. The outgoing tide swirled around his rubber boots. This was the best sign.

An angry driver honked, disturbing me but not Craig, who was in reverie. He just kept moving his hands and arms and upper body rhythmically.

It wasn’t over yet; not as long as Craig stood his ground.

I smiled. I had stood there with him many times over the years. I knew he would stay until the last fish of the year was gone.

I frowned, knowing my days of standing with him are over.

A few days later, even Craig was blown off the mud flats by the onset of winter and hasn’t yet reappeared. But he will, soon. March is when it returns – the flooding run of striped bass from the open bay into the little bay, driven by urges all creatures have in common.

I think the bass are confused by the river-like rush of water. It takes about a month for most of them to figure out their mistake and escape north to the Delta, where they find real rivers to swim up and wrestle in as lovers.

True-believers like Craig use the calendar as a guide. Come on. It’s March. Get thee to the mudflat; but they aren’t bound to it like rigid church-goers are to Sunday. They know the run could come any day and look for signs of it in the heavens and in the waters.

I took a look last week along the shoreline, as much out of curiosity as a lifetime of habit. It was low tide and the stink of exposed mudflats filled my nostrils. I snorted it like the addict I still am.

But it takes every sense to figure out this story, especially uncommon sense.

Anyone can read a tide table to find those windows of time when surging flows are most likely to stir baitfish into confusion – and into the mouths of bass. Reading, though, can’t tell you where the underwater restaurants are. If you would learn, put down that glass of wine at sunset and walk into the water with burning curiosity. Prepare to spend the rest of your life trying to understand what it is like to be a fish. To know where in the water column our cold-blooded bodies feel warm, where we can rest when tired and where to lurk when hungry. There are neighborhoods under there, and highways, and dark alleys.

Many years ago, I camped along the Trinity River with a very good woman who wanted it to be a romantic trip, but as she tried to cuddle I heard the river’s personality rushing by and imagined its currents and hiding places, and where I would put myself, if I had fins, to lie in wait for insects or bait fish. The next day along that river with my feet in it, I was lost in the cast-after-cast rhythm of seeking those places with my lure – feeling the thrum of its blade, feeling it bounce among the rocks, sensing when it slightly slows along the edge of currents where …

“Terry!”

Huh? The woman had been tugging at my arm, speaking my name over and over until she yelled it out loud.

“What?”

“I think you would rather fish than fuck.”

Still in my trance, I looked at her and had to think about what she just said.

Had to think about it?

The relationship died right there in the middle of a salmon run.

(Tomorrow – Part 2: Partners In LIFE!)  Subscribe