Maybe, she
was the first one finished that day. Or
perhaps, she was the last labor of love handled before a pair of hands paused
to unpack a brown-bag lunch. It could
have even been that the work-clock struck “that’s
a wrap,” and the family-owned builder’s doors closed upon having crossed all final touches that
constitute their holy custom of hand-assembled creation. After yet another saintly shift of men and women aligned, in the light, to bind blank materials into the bending-benefit
experienced of anglers the world over. An
hour, in the evening, that sealed the ending of the ordinary for some, but rather
birthed the extraordinary for some unknown some-one. True, it may have simply been a setting of
sun that was preceded by fifty-eight years (at
the time) of those very same resin-ating,
time-honored traditions of molding excellence and issuing parabolic-passports
to other worlds-wet by cork-taping the fulcrums of fish-finding freedom, but it
was of some achieving hour imprinted of October during 2006 when the hands of a
craftsman carefully set aside the final and freshly-fitted standing-length of a
gleaming, graphite-dream. One aching to
begin the arcing life.
A celebration day, that the expert craftsmen, engineers, and designers who
all humbly huddle between those honored walls and work under that legendary
roof in Park Falls fell inspired to anoint with a unique name for their newest,
avid kin. She was to be introduced as FJ00689.
Measuring at a respectable ten-feet in length and weighing a healthy eleven-point-four
ounces, every adorned feature of her tapered figure embodied the handcrafted
pride of inspired imagination braved from a workshop in Wisconsin.
Whatever
the case, I’ll never know. What matters
most, is that a star was born that
day. Of
a star. One rebirthed, to spiral wrap and layer as the integral element of her graphite
backbone. Carbon, reshaped as an agile
authenticator of Newton’s third law of motion (for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction). A slender and sleek super-model that demonstrated
such with every loaded cast it rocketed from shore like an arrow fired into the
sky from a drawn bow. A veritable
slingshot crafted of the very fabric
of atoms that were formed through nuclear fusion as the reactionary byproduct
of stellar nucleosynthesis once burning deep in the belly of a now extinct star. Thus, to really
fancy over it, one of the best rods on Earth was eventually distilled
from those very seconds spanning the universe’s evolutionary infancy marking
the beginning of scientific time. So, it
may have been a near-eternity in the making, but I obligingly learned that she
was worth the wait.
By her very nature, it only seemed fitting then, that this surfcaster grew to know his accomplice best under star-light, where she shined most-frequently of a bending-benefit. Those untold and unforgettable outings seasoned of salt and sand when the battling-bow of her spine and straining genuflection before the giving sea and pulsing tip startled alive by turning-tugs pulling within the tumbling wave and my white-knuckle grip frozen unto her upper-handle of cork were those shaking slices of time won of a bonding virtue. Those innumerable, intransigent instances of influence she beached forever onto the banks of memory.
Ten years gone. The thousands
and thousands of casts. Dare I even imagine how many miles have unspooled through her concentric
holds of ceramic. Those polished passageways
which have effectively guided me
before waters gin-clear and steely-gray and Jersey-green. Each faraway heave or short fling, a toss
that tickled her to speak of swish-sounds as spiraling braid spewed into those
haunts familiar or spilled before latitudes new and mysterious and afar. One then inhaling silently to take it all
back in. A night-stick, bending always
for those slopes sandy and drumming of pounding waves or trickling of wash by
the seaside. Of the ocean. The Hook. Harbors.
Sounds. Flats. Inlets.
Riverside. Atop an esteemed grassy-knoll. Over hills and dunes far away. Road-trips to the stone-strewn forefronts of
submerged boulder fields. Baptisms
adventured of storied, east-coast meccas.
Montauk. Islands. Before the houses of the holy. Nearest the stairways of surfcasting heaven.
Beside
angling strangers. In the silent company
of friends. With friends no longer with
us. Alongside my father. In the whisper of midnight conversation disrupted
by laughter. Among calls yelling, “they’re over here!” Among points out to sea indicating, “they’re way out there.” Under the informing swarms and swoops of feathered
fishing-finding shrieks fluttering in-front in-range. Posed in a fish-hoisting picture. Balanced in-hand or rested over
shoulder. Broken down in-car or mounted
upright to front-bumper. Laid upon grass
or settled over sand. Always asked of one last cast.
Among
blitzes and between blow-outs of weather.
In drenching rain and season-ending snow. Of good times, of bad times. Snapped of line. Snagged a many lure. Gone lifeless to lost battles. Beached beauties. Substantiator of, the epic. Chased bait-balls, pinpointed
boils, cheered-on blow-ups, and aimed toward tail-slaps. Pursued invariably under soaking summer sun
and subtle shadow of autumnal moon and constellations of twinkling light and grey-colored,
low-pressure bellies pressing of childhood imagination.
Through
showers of salt. The wearing and tearing. Those drops, grazes, bangs, scratches,
scrapes, chips, and crashes. Tolls cast
to time. Freshwater wash-downs and soapy
cleanings. Safe, tucked-away leanings. Inert winter hibernations. Readying spring dustings. An eventual reunion of two, agreeing sections. The engagement proposal of a reel. The rhythm of that first-cast made
again. All of that, and so much more.
A whole lotta love. For the reverence of a rod held in-hand. For a purebred. A mid-western-made medicine. An arcing elixir of graphite-fed adrenalin. For dreams that may finally be witnessed in
colors littoral and living. You shook me. Your song will forever remain the same. Thank you.
