In my youth, I chanced to date a girl whose family had a cabin on a lake. The lake was Bay Lake, just north of sprawling Mille Lacs Lake in central Minnesota.
Going to the cabin was an escape from reality. Annie’s father took good care of the place, and when we made our too-infrequent visits, it was nothing but relaxation. The boat was always running. The lawn was always mowed.
Being a fisherman, I would have fished all day if I thought it appropriate, but no one else fished, so I stifled my enthusiasm and relegated my angling to a few lazy casts off the dock.
Our days at the cabin were filled with waterskiing and tubing. In the evening, Annie’s father and grandfather sat on the porch, talking and drinking Black Russians. The outhouse was a two-holer, although individual privacy was always respected.
The cabin was a special place; a relaxing place. When I think about that place, it’s always summer, the sun is always shining, and I never have a care in the world.
There are always rituals and traditions in such a place, and the one I recall most vividly was going to church on Sunday mornings. There was no reason to leave such a beautiful place, and services were held out on the island. We would all filter along the shoreline, and nobody minded if you walked through their lawn. We’d gather in front of one of the cabins, which I believe may have been owned by a Mr. Johnson, if memory serves me. Mr. Johnson owned a large pontoon boat and he would ferry us all out to the island, perhaps 15 or 20 people at a time. He was as faithful as a lighthouse keeper and always seemed to enjoy doing his part in the Sunday service. It always took several trips to get everyone over to the island.
On the island were rough wooden benches in a half-circle out in the open where we all gathered for the morning service. There was often a guest pastor, frequently from the Twin Cities, so you never knew just who would be giving the sermon. It was always a relaxing time with emphasis on fellowship. Everyone was a good neighbor. It was a glimpse at an ideal society, at least for a few moments, even though road rage might return to the church-goers in just a few hours as they fought through weekend traffic to get back to their hectic lifestyles. But for an hour each Sunday, there was peace and tranquility on the island. It was a beautiful experience.
I don’t know what time the service began – maybe 9 or 10 – but it was always the same. Some of the anglers knew the schedule and would take a break from their fishing to attend the service. Some would beach their boats and join in on the wooden pews, while others simply anchored a few yards from shore to listen.
Some of the braver anglers would even soak a bobber while they listened. I secretly suspect some in the congregation may have looked down on the bobber-soakers who couldn’t take a one-hour break from their fishing to worship the Lord. But if they felt any ill will, they hid it with a smile, even if it was faked.
Being an angler myself, my gaze frequently drifted off to those boats during the sermon. What a life, to spend a morning fishing, then go to church without leaving the lake or getting dressed up. I could get into that kind of lifestyle. I, for one, admired their use of time. Why not multitask? There are plenty of references to fishing in the Bible. Curiously, however, those anglers never seemed to catch anything during the service. Maybe this was a sign from above that the fishermen could give up at least a little time each week to pay homage to their Maker.
And so, one fine Sunday, there I was, sitting on those outdoor benches with Annie and her family, attending church on the island. There was a guest pastor, as usual, probably from the Cities. I made an effort to listen to the sermon, at least for a little bit, but soon, my rumbling stomach began thinking about the cake and cookies that awaited us at the conclusion of the service … another perk of church on the island.
My attention shifted between the sermon and the boaters anchored just offshore. I know church isn’t about entertainment, but let’s face it, some speakers are better orators than others. This must have been one of the, err, less-entertaining pastors.
Back and forth I switched, between staying on task and nodding my head at the right times, and thinking about the anglers in the boats. It was during one of those straying moments when I thought I saw a bobber slip below the surface.
In my peaceful stupor, I had to do a double-take. Well, there were two anglers in the boat, all right, but there was only one bobber in sight. Of course, there was always the possibility that I just couldn’t see it or that it was on the other side of the boat, but I could have sworn that just a few minutes ago I saw two bobbers.
I had been pondering the bobber count for perhaps 30 seconds. Just then, I saw one of the anglers turn to the starboard side. A second later, I watched her pluck her rod from the rod holder. Coincidence? Well, now she had my attention. Slowly, deliberately, she took in line, pointing the rod tip at the lake’s surface. She paused for a few moments, then suddenly reared back on the rod! The rod bent in a steep arc. She had clearly hooked something!
I straightened on my bench, the better to watch. Although I could hear the pastor droning on in the background, the lady in the boat now had my full attention!
I expected, I suppose, that she’d simply reel in the fish. I guess it’s something I’d never witnessed at the island. What would she even catch there? A walleye? A small perch or rock bass seemed more likely. However, after a few seconds, it became clear that whatever she had hooked wasn’t simply coming straight in, and judging by the bend in the rod, she had latched on to a pretty solid fish.
About that time, a few other members of the congregation must have noticed too, as I heard a few faint whispers. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was seeing from afar, but the lady had stopped reeling and the rod was bouncing sharply. The telltale sound of a squealing drag buzzed through the morning stillness, alerting even more church-goers. A couple pointing fingers got the pastor’s attention and – so help me – he stopped right where he was in his sermon and turned around to see what had distracted everyone.
The fish was really peeling drag now! This had to be a pike. If it was a walleye, it was huge! The pastor didn’t know what to do. This had never happened before. But he seized the moment, turned to his congregation and grinning said, “It looks like the Lord has blessed one of His flock this morning.”
Some snickered at the remark, but most were now thoroughly engrossed in the battle unfolding just beyond the shoreline. The lady was reeling now – pumping and taking in line when she could. The fish made another run. The reel sang and she plunged her rod into the water to allow the line to clear the bottom of the boat. This was by far the most entertaining service I had ever attended!
She began re-gaining line on the fish, only to watch it take off on another blistering run. It had to be a pike. It seemed at any moment the line would snap as the fish headed for the depths and we held our collective breath. The run ended and the fish was still on. In a moment of passion and religious fervor, the pastor cried, “Hail Mary!” as the line held throughout battle. The congregation, confused on how to react, broke into a few asynchronous “Hail Marys.”
Once again the woman gained line. If she didn’t realize it before, by now she knew all eyes were upon her. Her husband rummaged around for the net and tried to stay out of her way.
The water boiled and the woman gasped. We couldn’t see what it was from shore, but whatever it was, it must have been huge. Once again the fish took off, although the duration of the screaming reel was shorter. The fish must have been getting tired.
Some members of the congregation were now standing in an attempt to see what was going on. The pastor seemingly realized that trying to get back on track was futile and he seemed both content and curious to watch as well.
The lady led the fish toward the boat as a splash of water broke the surface and the fish took off, but only for a short distance. She raised the rod again and now the husband stepped toward the bow of the boat with the net. He bent over the starboard and dipped the net into the water. The lady carefully swung her rod toward him. He bent, leaned out of the side of the boat and …
Annie’s elbow slammed squarely into my ribs. “Wake up! You’re embarrassing me!” she hissed as I shot straight up on the bench, then quickly slumped down in a weak effort to hide from the attention Annie had now drawn to me. She just glared at me as I wiped a trickle of saliva from my mouth and nodded at what the pastor was saying.
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