I remember a time when I was younger, probably around 15, when my father, brother and I went out to fish. We woke up early that morning, we gathered our things and I watched my father pour us all a tall Stanley Thermos full of coffee. Joel and I always loved watching Dad in the mornings as he sat in his chair and drank from his mug, with a paper in his hand. It was a sort of ritual he took part in daily that he was now involving us in.
We left and drove to a nearby lake. There was fog on the water as we took the boat down the launch ramp. We had fished before off the shore, and maybe once or twice off a small aluminum boat, but today was different, and we could tell Dad was excited. The Centurion was a ski-boat admittedly, but today we were using it for other pleasures. Once on the water we dropped our lines, bobbers on, weights on, hooks on. And then we waited.
No fish. Not one. Who catches a fish at a lake? Not us. None of us.
But this is not a fish story, this was the day Joel and I decided we would be men. This was the day we would drink coffee like Dad. That beautiful black liquid we had always grimaced at when we placed it to our lips, lest there was cream and 3 tablespoons of sugar. Today was a day we wanted hair on our chest, and warmth in our bellies. Because what Dad did, we would do as well.
And so we drank...and so it began...