The morning sun peeked over the horizon, painting the water in a beautiful array of pastel colors. The lake was deserted, just as the man had hoped, though rising before the dawn had helped. His son had grumbled, but not excessively, after all, it was their first fishing trip together, and they'd planned this day for weeks. The man had also hoped today would be a good bonding experience for them since they got so little time together.

Yet, he hadn't expected to share his dark secret that fateful morning, but startling truths have a way of worming their way to the surface when you least expect them.

The pair set their poles and tackle boxes in the small aluminum boat along with the containers of nightcrawlers. The boat had been tied off to the public access dock, so the man could park his rusted-out pickup truck and trailer in the gravel lot near the boat launch.

"Climb in, and I'll hand you the coolers," the man said.

"Yes, sir," the boy replied happily.

The man smiled. The boy was a good kid despite his mother's influence.

With one hand on a dock post for the support, the boy tentatively placed one foot in the boat. It shifted as far as the ropes would allow before bouncing back against the dock. The ten-year-old found his sea legs and set the second foot down on the thin metal floor before taking a quick seat on the front bench.

The man handed over a small blue cooler that contained their lunch; sandwiches, apples, and several cans of soda. The boy set that down in the nose of the boat. Next came a larger red cooler with a white lid that the boy placed that in the open space between the benches. It was surprisingly light, with only a thin layer of ice lining the bottom.

Jumping gracefully into the boat, the man untied it from the rear mooring. The boy did the same in the front, and the man yanked on the starter rope of the old 85' Evinrude outboard. The motor sputtered, fired once, and then stalled.

"Damn it!" the man cursed.

His voice carried across the quiet lake. The boy looked around nervously.

The man adjusted the choke, pulled harder on the rope, and the motor roared to life. He pushed it into gear, the boat puttered towards a drop-off at the far end of the lake. He'd fished in hundreds of lakes in Michigan, but this body of water was new to the man, however, it was not too far from the boy's new home and using a satellite image, he'd mapped out a couple good spots the fish may be hiding.

When they reached their first location, the man anchored the boat precisely, so they could cast easily into the shallows.

The boy snatched his pole from its resting place. "Can I start?"

"Go for it. Do you need help with the worm?" the man asked, secretly hoping the boy would say no.

"I'm good."

The boy removed a fat wriggling nightcrawler from a pale blue container. It eluded the sharp point of the hook twice before the boy could stab the slimy thing through its center. He released the spool lock, cocked the pole back away from his father, and then jerked his arm forward. Worm and line sailed through the air.

Ker-plunk.

It landed perfectly just beyond the drop-off. The man could not have cast it better himself. Ripples cascaded out in ever-growing circles.

The boy reeled it in slowly, pausing, then reeling again to entice the large-mouth bass waiting in the deeper waters for an easy meal. The man stared at the line, willing a fish to take the bait.

His meditation paid off. A fish grabbed the boy's worm, pulling the line rapidly away from its resting place. The boy reeled it in quickly. His tiny hand a blur of motion. The line darted from side to side, but then suddenly went slack.

The boy's shoulders slumped. "It fell off."

Nodding, the man said, "Did you set the hook?"

"No. I forgot."

"Did it feel like a big one?"

"Yes." The boy grinned.

"Well, I bet he has some friends. Put on another worm and get your line back out there."

The boy repeated the procedure with the worm, only taking two tries this go-around, after which he rinsed the worm guts from his hand off the side of the boat in the lake. The boat rocked from side to side, and the man adjusted his weight accordingly.

With his arm angled back for another cast, the boy noticed his father's pole still lying in the bottom of the boat. "Aren't you going to fish?"

"Umm ... Yes."

Only after the man hooked a worm did the boy cast again. The man half-heartedly dropped his line into deeper waters before returning his focus to the end of his son's pole with the hopes of willing another fish onto the boy's hook. Today's trip was about the boy and making memories, not about him. The man hadn't always been so good with the boy, but when you lose everything, it forces you to reevaluate your priorities.

Across the lake, a loon landed, its wings slapping the water like sticks on a snare drum. The bird immediately began its distinctive wail, an eerily treble that cut across the cool morning air. To their left, high up in a tree, a morning dove cooed, as a strong breeze rustled the leaves of its perch in a cacophony of sound. But, none of this pulled the man's attention away from the thin filament draped across the lake.

It worked.

The tip of the boy's pole bent down an inch and then twice more. The boy anxiously turned to his father who gave him an approving nod. The boy jerked the pole up, but only a little, so that he didn't rip the worm from the fish. The pole bent nearly in half, and the reel screeched against the drag. The hook was set this time.

Hot damn! He'd snagged a big 'un. A keeper for sure.

The boy reeled the line in as fast as he could, but the fish put up a terrible fight. The man provided gentle words of encouragement but stayed to the sidelines. The boy needed to win this battle on his own. Slowly, inch by inch, the boy brought the fish closer to the boat. The man readied the net. When it was mere feet from them, the bass launched itself in the air, displaying its green and black striped body, the spiked fins on its back spread wide.

It fell back to the water with a loud slap.

Across the lake, the loon dove from fright only to resurface fifty yards away. Its head cautiously poking out the water like a serpent. The man didn't notice. His attention was solely on the epic struggle playing out in front of them.

"Don't let it get underneath the boat or it'll cut the line," the man said calmly.

"I won't!" the boy squealed with excitement, extending the pole out as far as his little arms would reach.

The man leaned over the side of the boat and stuck the net in the water. "Try and hold her, and I'll get the net under it."

"I'm trying."

The boy brought the tip of his pole closer to his dad. The fish swam against the shortened line but had spent itself, the fight mostly gone. In one quick motion, the man netted the fish and hauled it over the side of the boat.

"Oh my god. I caught one." The boy bounced in his seat.

"Yes, you did."

"Can I hold it?"

"Yep, one second."

The man freed the hook from its mouth before he carefully passed the fish over to the boy who inserted his thumb into its large bony jaw. The fish bit down and kicked its tail from side to side. The boy almost dropped it into the bottom of the boat, but he gritted his teeth and held on. The man let out a low whistle. The fish as a beauty. One of the finest he'd seen in years.

"Wow, son. She's a looker."

"Looker?" The boy cocked his head to the side while keeping his grip on heavy fish.

"Oops. Did I say looker? I meant to say lunker."

"What's a lunker?"

The fish flailed wildly at its moniker.

"Don't drop her son."

"I won't."

The man pulled his phone from a Velcro pocket on his cargo pants. "A lunker is a monster bass. Most men only catch one their entire life.

The thin muscles on the boy's arm strained as he maintained his hold. "How much do you think this one weighs?"

"Five, maybe six pounds."

"Is it big enough to eat?"

"You bet your ass it is. I'll fillet and fry it for you tonight. I got a fresh onion on the counter, so we can make onion rings too. You can help me."

"Really?"

"Really." The man took aim with the camera on his phone. "Let me get your picture."

The boy held up the fish and smiled.

"Put your other hand underneath his tail and hold him sideways," the man instructed.

The fish had grown weak and didn't resist the movement.

"Now hold him out from your body a little bit. It will make him look bigger in the picture."

The boy did as he was told, and the man zoomed in and snapped the photo. He checked that the image was centered and focused. Yes. It looked perfect, but he snapped two more just to be sure. He would post it on Facebook. If his ex-wife wanted a copy, she'd have to pull it down from his son's profile. They certainly weren't Facebook friends.

"Can you send it to me?" his son asked.

"Yep. As soon as I have service."

"Thanks. What now?" the boy asked, still holding the fish out from his body.

The man opened the red cooler. "Set him in here."

A lot of fishermen preferred to use a stringer, but the man despised them. His stomach clenched every time the chain links scraped on the side of the boat, scaring off the other fish. Not to mention, the strung fish needed to be held up whenever the boat was moved to a new location, else they took a terrible beating. The man believed a cooler was more humane if you meant to keep them, otherwise toss them back right quick.

With his hands in his lap, the boy asked, "Did you ever catch a lunker, Dad?"

"I've caught a few." The man stroked his chin and looked off towards the horizon. "But there was this one time, that I caught one that would've been the biggest one hooked in this whole county. It was the best night— I mean day of my life."

"How big was it?"

"Ohh— She must've been just shy of eight pounds."

"Wow. I bet that was so awesome. Could you eat it all in one sitting?"

"No. If I would've done anything with it, I would've had it stuffed and mounted on my wall as a trophy, but I couldn't."

"You didn't?" The boy gasped. "Why not?"

"It was right before the bass-season opened, so I had to release her."

"That sucks."

The man let his son's language pass because it had sucked, no doubt about it.

"Did you try to catch her later?" the boy asked.

"Of course. I went back at the end of May, and I fished the hell out of the lake, and all summer long for that matter, but I never saw her again."

"What do you think happened to her?"

The man shook his head. "Probably ended up on some other guy's pole. A fish like that doesn't stay in the lake very long. Every fisherman worth his salt will take a shot until somebody reels her in."

"Shoot," the boy muttered.

"I tried to move on. I caught other fish, even one that was almost as big. I took that one home and had it stuffed, but I couldn't get the other one out of my head."

The boy stared at his father, eyes wider than ping pong balls.

The man cleared his throat. "Umm— Do you want to fish some more?"

"Sure." The boy picked up his pole and hooked another worm.

The pair fished late into the afternoon. They each caught their legal limit, which filled the cooler. After filleting and frying the bass, dinner would be enough to stretch their bellies to bursting, plus leftovers. The man was very happy with their day. The boy was a little sunburnt but appeared happy too.

As they packed up their gear, the man said, "Today was a good day. We should do this again soon."

The boy's whole face was lit up. "Can we?"

"I have you again in two weeks. I'll find us a bigger lake to try, though we may have to drive a little farther. What do you say?"

"You don't need to do that. I think this one is just fine, Dad."

"But, what if we already caught all the big ones in this lake?"

"I happy just fishing here with you, Dad."

The man shrugged. "Yes. Me too. But, don't you want a monster lunker to hang on your wall?"

"Not really."

"You don't?"

"No." The boy dug the toe of his tennis shoe in the dirt. "I don't like trophies. They're for show-offs."

Damn! The boy was smarter than him. Just like his mother.

"You're right." The man grinned. "I should be happy with what I have, instead of worrying about the one that got away."

Oops. The man covered his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Truth be told, the man had left the boy's mother little choice but to leave him or be trapped in a loveless marriage. At least, she'd found happiness in the arms of another. The man couldn't begrudge her for that. Well, he could, but he shouldn't. Nor should he ignore the lesson that was slapping him in the face today.

The boy grinned too. "We all make mistakes."

"That's true, but I should've known better. I was an idiot."

"It's all right. A wise man taught me that you're never too old to learn."

"Who was that?"

The boy pointed at his father. "You."

"Did I?"

"Not in so many words."

"I guess." The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "We were talking about fish, right?"

"Umm— yeah, what did you think we were talking about?"

They both laughed.

"OK, then. We have a date in two weeks on this very lake," the man said.

"Awesome."

They climbed into the truck and buckled their seatbelts. The man started the engine and dropped it into gear. The truck and trailer bounced and rattled over the uneven gravel lot.

Turning down the radio, the man asked, "How is your mom? How is Imogene?"

"Mom's good."

"And James?" the man asked, turning to study his son's face closely.

"Good."

"He doesn't put his hands on you, does he?"

The boy shook his head. "No. Never. He's cool."

"Good."

Looking down at his shoes, the boy asked, "Do you think we have enough fish that I could take home some home to Mom and Jim?"

The man turned the question over in his head and answered, "You bet. I'll make extra onion rings too."

"Thanks."

The man turned out of the lot and onto the tree-lined country road. They drove in a comfortable silence until the boy whispered, "I love you, Dad."

The man's whole body warmed as if he'd been placed in the sun. "I love you too."