Peace at the End
By: Sadie Cwikiel
Harbor Springs High School
1st Place - Prose
Muck squelched under my boots. With each step, my feet sunk deeper and stuck longer in the soggy ground. Reeds slid across my waders. Waugoshance Point curved out in front of me into Lake Michigan. Wind played with the top of the water – rippling and swirling into the shore. Purple lake irises and orange wood lilies swayed gracefully against the dark green cedar backdrop. My thin, brown hair fell past the wooden net hanging from my vest. Flies punctured the foam strip on my chest; deer hair and feathers bound to a hook by infinite wraps of thread. A line clipper and a hemostat hung from zingers. Eight feet of flexible, slender carbon fiber extended from the cork gripped loosely in my hand.
Reaching the farthest pool from the mainland, I stripped my line and waded into the chilly June water. My dad and I had made this hike a myriad of times. I knew the path well; we had made it ourselves. After casting to hundreds of fish, we found that the last pool was the best. Today I had seen another set of human tracks. Hopefully whomever they belonged to would not disturb me. I was alone. Finally. Society was five miles of muck and reeds behind me, and only the simple reality of nature surrounded me now.
I flicked my wrist back and forth, giving the fly line enough time to loop gracefully through the air. I let the line go – the fly drifted silently onto the surface of the mighty lake. It was the perfect time of year for bass fishing in the shallows. The farther down the point you hike, the bigger the fish you find. Luckily, not many people realized that.
Before long, the fly was sucked under the surface. The tip of the fly rod bent sharply towards the water. I set the hook and brought the line in with my hands. I pulled the net from its magnetic latch on my back and guided the smallmouth bass into it. I firmly grabbed the fish’s jaw and slid the hook out of its lip. It was big enough to keep and eat, but I lowered it back into the water and let it slip through my fingers. It flicked its tail and disappeared.
I watched the murky spot in the water where the fish used to be. It was too windy for a Lion King type reflection. I saw my father’s face instead. I saw him hooked up to IVs and oxygen masks and too much life support. I saw his life drain slowly through the tubes keeping him alive. The numerous conversations we’d had about his plans for a dignified death were no longer applicable. I wouldn’t be able to push him to the sunset in a canoe, or take him to the woods and let him sit with the trees forever. He would die surrounded by machines and beeps and pain. He would die.
A green bucket hat floated silently through my father’s face. It wasn’t soaked all the way through – the owner must have just lost it. Colorful flies for every type of fish punctured the hatband and fluttered in the breeze. I scooped it up out of the water and started to hike upwind. I followed the small deer trail and noticed a single boot track in the mud. And there he was. A man in dark green waders similar to mine slumped on the shoreline, leaning against a sun-dried log. His tan vest blended with the grasses around him. I called out. No response.
I approached warily, the green hat hanging loosely in my hand. I came closer to the man and tapped his shoulder with the tip of my fly rod. He did not flinch or look up. I watched his chest. No movement. A flash of panic burned in my stomach. I circled around to the front of the man. His eyes were closed as if he was merely taking a nap in the afternoon sun. But he was dead.
Instinctively, I pulled out my cell phone and swiped to the left for an emergency call. My thumb hovered over the 9. I glanced at the man. White tufts of hair tickled his forehead. His body melted into the land – his back rested comfortably on the worn driftwood. His face was peaceful. This was what the old man wanted. This was what my dad had wished for – what I couldn’t give him – what I wished for myself – what everyone wishes for at the end: peace. I could give this man the eternity with nature that he died here to find. I could save him from cremation and funeral homes and burial in a box that would never decompose. I sank to my knees on the bank next to him. Tucked into his vest was a folded slip of paper. I reached forward, slowly and deliberately, being careful to not disturb him. I unfolded the paper and read the small note scrawled in shaky cursive:
leave me here
Just three words. No name or explanation. But I understood. I refolded the paper and slipped it underneath his vest, exactly as I had found it. I delicately placed the dark green bucket hat onto his balding head. He was just an old man sitting on the shore of Lake Michigan, taking an eternal nap with the land. His hand curled tenderly around the soft, cork handle of his beautiful bamboo fishing rod. The wind picked up slightly – ripples kissed his boot soles.
I gazed out into the lake and slowly turned back towards the mainland. The sun was almost touching the horizon now; it was time to go home. I gathered irises and lilies into a loose bundle and set them softly on his lap. The reeds swished together beside me as I hiked back. The old man sat peacefully by the lake. Forever.