Ice Fishing
by John McCaffery
Stephen’s boot dropped like a stone through the hole his father had just cut in the ice. Air bubbles popped through the concentric circles made by the descending footwear. Stephen stood silent, his right foot exposed and dangling in the air, his thick woolen sock flopping in the biting breeze.
His father’s voice boomed, “Where’s your boot?”
“It fell off,” Stephen sniffed.
Stephen’s father dropped the auger he was using to carve out another hole less than ten yards away. He was a big man, almost six foot three, and seemed even bigger, gigantic to Stephen, as he stomped toward him in the orange snowmobile suit he wore when ice fishing.
“Where’d it go?”
Stephen wiped his runny nose with a mitten. The hood of his parka drooped over his brown eyes. From behind its shield he mumbled, “The water.”
“Son of a . . .” His father nipped the oath short, remembering his wife’s warning not to curse in front of Stephen. He peered into the hole. A sheet of clear ice was forming across it. “How in the heck did that happen?”
“I was trying to measure if my foot was bigger than the hole,” Stephen paused for a moment, retreating deeper into the parka. “And it just fell off.”
“We’ll have to go now,” Stephen’s father growled. “You can’t be out here on the ice with only one boot.”
“I can stay,” Stephen’s voice rose. “I’m not cold.”
“No, you can’t. We have to go.”
Stephen’s father scanned the lake. It was early morning, and clumps of men were scattered along the ice cutting holes and setting lines. The weather was crisp and sunny.
“Maybe we could call Mom and ask her to bring me some new boots.”
“I’m not going to call your mother.” Stephen’s father paused and then spat near the hole. “She’ll just blame me, and you’ll never be able to come ice fishing again.”
“No, she won’t. I bet she’d bring a pair.”
“We’re going.”
“But Dad,” Stephen whined.
Stephen’s father waved his hand. It was encased in a huge, black, waterproof mitten with a slit across the palm so his fingers could work in the open air. “Sit down and let me gather things,” he snapped. “And wiggle your toes inside your sock so you don’t get frostbite.”
Stephen hopped to an upside-down plastic bucket and sat down. The bucket was used to haul the rods and auger and bait. It also doubled as a seat for Stephen when ice fishing. He watched as his father reeled in the line, removed the red and white bobber that signaled a fish’s bite, and cleaned the hook of bait. They were using tiny larvae – Michigan Wigglers – mealy looking things with legs and antennae. The tackle shop owner sold them live, a dollar-per-dozen, in water-filled baby-food jars. Perch loved them, and that’s what Stephen and his father were after. Yellow perch. Beautiful little fish with banana-colored tops and fluorescent orange and green bottoms. Coming up an ice hole they resembled an ascending rainbow.
Whooping shouts came from behind their place on the ice. About fifty yards away, a heavyset man with a hatless, shiny bald head sprinted toward a tip-up, a contraption that straddled a hole and signaled a fish was on by a waving flag. Stephen and his father watched as he snatched the tip-up, disengaged the miniature rod connected to it, and jerked wildly toward the sky to set the hook.
“Missed him,” his father snorted, as they watched the fisherman stamp his feet in frustration. “Serves him right. That’s why I never use tip-ups. You can’t be a second late when you get a hit. Any delay and they’ll strip your bait.”
Stephen nodded and wiggled his toes. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said, looking down at his sock.
Stephen’s father lifted his eyes. His cheeks were tinted red from the cold. The sun glinted off his black-framed glasses, reflecting spears of light onto the shimmering ice. “I don’t know how you can lose a boot,” he sighed.
Stephen continued to stare at his sock. Between it and another wool sock was a plastic Baggie. That was one of his father’s standard defenses against the damp cold of ice fishing: sock – Baggie – sock – boot. “It keeps the moisture out,” he told Stephen, who hated slipping his foot into the Baggie. It felt suffocating, like his foot was a baloney sandwich.
“Last week your rod almost fell down the hole,” his father let out a forced laugh. “If I don’t tie a leash on you, you’ll go through next. Then your mother will never forgive me.” He cleared a stream of snot from his nose by pushing a finger against his right nostril and blowing. The mucus landed near Stephen, its gooey consistency marring the mirror-smooth ice.
“Up,” his father commanded, tapping Stephen on the shoulder.
Stephen stood and hopped away until he was directly over the hole. His father snatched the bucket and began tossing the rods, remaining bait, and auger into it.
“Dad,” Stephen’s voice cracked with excitement. He was peering into the hole. “I can see my boot. It’s floating.”
Stephen’s father placed the bucket on the ice and walked to the hole. Stephen had sunk to his knees and was pointing with his mitten. “See, right to the left of the hole, under the ice.”
“I’ll be…there it is.” Stephen’s father removed his glasses and also kneeled on the ice. The boot was bobbing slightly with the gentle swell of the lake. He whistled through his long white teeth. “It must be hung up on something. Get me the auger.”
Stephen scrambled over to the bucket, his sock skimming the ice. He skidded back to the hole and handed his father the boring tool. It was about four feet long, just a few inches shorter than Stephen, and had a grooved blade at the end, like a crescent moon. His father kept it razor sharp, and it cut through the thickest ice with ease.
Stephen’s father gripped the handle and dipped the grooved blade into the water. “I think I can drag the boot near the opening,” he said. “The water pressure should push it to the surface.”
Stephen watched his father angle the auger down through the hole and under the boot.
“Almost had it,” his father exhaled. He removed one of his massive mittens and gripped the auger with a bare hand. “Move away,” he snapped. “You’re blocking the light.”
Stephen skidded back as his father lowered the auger again. “I think I’m under it,” he said. “I’m going to pull it toward me.”
Stephen bounced in place. “Did you get it?” he asked.
“Almost. it keeps bobbing away.”
Stephen’s father lowered the auger even deeper. The cuff of his snowmobile suit dipped into the water. “Just a bit more,” he grunted.
Stephen spun in a circle on the ice. He jumped a bit on his boot. “Did you get it?” he asked again.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
“What is it?” Stephen asked, moving backwards.
His father drew his arm from the water. His hand was dripping. It was empty. “The goddamn auger slipped out of my hand,” he hissed. “Damn.”
More shouts came from across the lake. A different fisherman was sprinting toward an erect tip-up.
His father stood and shook water from his arm. “Forty-five dollars,” he moaned. “That’s what a new auger costs.” Stephen nodded. His foot throbbed, and he shook it up and down.
“It just fell out of my hand,” his father continued. “I should’ve left the damn boot alone.”
Stephen stared at the fisherman who was pulling line in steadily. Like magic, a long, dark-brown fish popped out of the hole. It was huge, at least three times the size of the perch he and his father usually caught.
“He got one,” Stephen pointed.
Stephen’s father gazed over at the man who was resting the fish on the ice. It flopped a few times, then lay still.
“Dad,” Stephen’s voice was small, almost a whisper.
“What?”
“Can we go home?”
Stephen’s father shrugged his shoulders and reached down for the bucket. He handed it to Stephen. “You carry this,” he said. “I’ll carry you. You can’t walk on the ice with that foot.”
His father bent down, and Stephen climbed onto his back. As they trudged off the lake, Stephen, high on his father’s shoulders, wiggled his bootless foot, closing his eyes against the sun that melted the cold from his face.
Later, as they drove home, his father turned to him and said, “Don’t tell your mother I swore. OK?”