I was already thinking about supper when I passed the return channel. My rod lay across the boat, the blue spoon still trailing in the water. Behind me, something broke the surface with the unmistakable sound of a heavy book being shut.
I stopped rowing. A wide ring spread from the entrance to the channel. I lifted the spoon, cleared a twist from the line and made one deliberately unambitious cast. It landed exactly where I had not aimed.
One more pass by the buoy
The bass struck before the spoon sank. Moonlit water erupted between the boat and the dock. I lost count of the turns of the reel; all I remember clearly is the orange lamp above the ladder and the fish rolling through its reflection.
I brought it alongside long enough to remove the hook, then watched a single sweep of its tail empty the water beside me. Supper was cold when I reached the station. The dispatch was the easiest one I had ever written.
The way home still belongs to the adventure.
