Searching for Crayfish


I recall one of those poignant and rare memories of what seems as

though it should have been childhood, but was no more than a year back, when

my father took me and my two half brothers on a fishing trip at Mammoth Lake,

(a year and thousands of miles having filled the space since I had seen them

last). We treked along in the direction our father had gone via a sandy

beach-side trail. "Daddy's girl and his two handsome boys", sand sifting into

our shoes and between toes, marched one behind the other, carrying each our

personal bundle until we came to a small path leading directly to the water.

Upon reaching the carefully chosen spot, my father was already crouching low

preparing a multitude of casting rods. Shirts and shorts were given up to the

care of nearby rocks; shoes slid from warm sandy feet exposing them to even

warmer sands. Unhesitant limbs accompanied by awkward fishing poles reached

and leaped for huge rocks licked wet and cool by small smacking waves. The

sun continued to beat hard and reflexive on still waters as impatient hands

set aside empty fishing poles and clamored to play among the rocks. My

father now held above him a 5 in. crayfish he had retrieved from the water.

At mere suggestion that another had skittered into the shadow of the biggest

rock, six dry feet splashed down into the water while six dark hands overtuned

slippery rocks...two small sons and one daddy's girl; parched, salty, and

tanned; faces and backs absorbing a setting sun...two searching for searching for time lost.