Intro 1

I always thought a fish might come nibble at my fingers if I laced them through the water long enough. If I had the patience to keep my hand semi-submerged in the cold. If I had the fortitude my father always talked about. I learned slowly the salt of my fingers didn't compare to the desire for desperate, wriggling worms pierced through with a hook. I'd turn to look at my father at the stern, sitting on a life jacket, patches of dark spots on the thighs of his jeans where the water had spattered from the paddle, left and right, right and left. He'd smile and tell me that only loved little girls were allowed to leave the house with the rise of the sun. Only adored little girls sat in the middle of the canoe to trace the ribs with her fingers, the scent of Iranian coffee on the breeze. "You must be quiet," he'd say, "the little creatures we're after are more shy than you." His friend, his brother, would smile at the bow and lead the way.