memories of fishing

Dear Robert,

I have these memories of being a little girl and fishing with my dad and sister. We'd pack up the boat with a cooler full of turkey-Miracle Whip sandwiches and pop, Dad's tackle box, a little styrofoam cup-o-bait, lifejackets for all, and my red Snoopy fishing pole. I was always eager to spend a quiet day on the lake, basking in the warm sun, waiting for my red and white bobber to plop unexpectidly under the surface.

Being too young to really help, I'd wait off to the side while Sarah assisted Dad in getting the boat in and out of the water. She'd hold the boat close to the dock as he'd tie or untie the ropes to wooden poles, and direct him as he backed the green Aerostar and the boat trailer onto the launchpad in the twilight of the night. I'd squat off to the side--out of the way--with my arms wrapped around my bare legs, damp in my swimsuit, a bit tired and a little cold, but always pleased with our day and our catch and the stories we'd tell Mom when we got home.

Or, we'd climb into the minivan without the boat (but with similar snacks and supplies) and head to a pier, preferably the one in Frankfurt with the big, white lighthouse. We'd walk for what seemed forever on the cement runway, past dozens of men and their sons sitting on buckets, casting their feathered and brightly patterned lures into the choppy waters at least twenty feet below. Eventually we'd find our "spot" and settle down for a bit...or at least until Sarah accidentally kicked the bait into the water.

Here in Cairo, men sit along the banks of the Nile every night, dangling their hooks into the water from up above. Some men have multiple rods precariously propped against a railing, with tiny green lights marking the ends of their long poles. When a fish decides to take a nibble, the lights bounce and up and down in the darkness, dancing like lightening bugs in summer. I'm not sure they catch much with all the florescent pop-music-blasting falukas (river boats) powering on by. I'm also not sure they'd want to eat anything they catch (the Nile certainly isn't known for its freshnes). But I'm sure they go back to their wives eager to tell tales as long as their fishing lines.

Love,

Miss Emily