Solitary

I sit on a bench by the Lake. I’m directly behind and a few steps up from a solitary old fisherman. He has white hair covered by a white baseball cap, a stoop by his shoulders, and he is wearing a jumper with the words “Extreme Rebel 72” printed on the back. He looks like he has been there for hours but for all I know he may have just sat down 10 minutes before I arrived. Fishing in itself has always seemed a lonely, solitary sport to me. I watch the old man latch a worm to the end of his fishing rod. I want to approach him. “How’s the fishing?” I would ask, as clearly he hasn’t caught any fish and it seems more tactful than, “How many have you caught?”

But after observing him for a few more minutes I decide to leave him in his lonely fish reverie. I feel he would resent my presence if I made myself known instead of welcoming it. After awhile he stood and cast his fishing wire out into the lake. Seagulls soar overhead always on the lookout for food. I see one not far out from the old man take a nosedive into the water. At first it seems that the bird has been hit by something mid-flight but as I see his head bob up from the water I realise he is hunting. For fish. Same as the old man. They are both seeking the same thing in vastly different ways and tools.

After ages I decide to move on, the wind is picking up and a chill is in the summer air. I leave the old fisherman with the distinct feeling that he won’t be successful in catching a fish and it makes my mood dip a bit. I long to call out “Good luck!” but fear he will see me as patronising. Standing up I take one last glance and with “Extreme Rebel 72” staring back at me, I make my way to the sandy beach and eventually towards home.