“What gives,” I say as we pull into the parking lot of an upscale mall.
“Where’s the water?”
Ten minutes later I cast my line, aiming for lengths of plywood in the grass beside the freeway. After a couple misses, my old man yells over traffic, “Give it more wrist!”
Cars slow. Drivers begin to ogle.
I assume they are confused by the sight of grown men with fishing poles on the side of the road. I expect they would be more confused were I to explain to them that my father, myself, and five other gentlemen are paying to fish in grass.
Over the sounds of amused honking and cars trundling along, I hear a plink followed by giddy laughter. I turn.
My father has hit the plywood with his lure.
The instructor claps his hands and I see
my father: grinning, happy, proud.