Fisherman

Michael waded out into the water, his box of bait sitting on a small flotation device attached to his hip, and his fishing rod in hand, the first piece of bait already attached to the hook and ready to be cast. It was a quiet day out on the lake, not a cloud in the sky or a breeze in the air - a perfect day for fishing. He couldn't help but smile as he flicked his wrist, flinging his line through the air and into the deeper water a dozen feet away, feeling the weight of the line settle as the hook sank below the surface, its floater keeping it from touching the lake floor. And then he single most prevalent part of the act - waiting.

Hours passed as he slowly pulled fish from below the water's surface, one by one, feeling their weight in his hands as they wriggled and shook, trying desperately to get back to the water, until they dried out and the life faded from their eyes. The he tossed them into an ice chest he had strapped to his back, weighted in the front to keep him from losing his balance, put on some new bait, and cast again.

Years of fishing in this manner had built his muscles well. His legs were strong, unfazed by the hours of standing in one spot, and his shoulders were broad and muscular, well accustomed to the weight placed on his back. He may be sore the next morning, certainly, but as long as it didn't bother him until then, he could fish happily in peace, knowing that the fish that he caught would keep him fed for the next week or two. But it wasn't just about survival. He thoroughly enjoyed the peace and quiet in the day, and the strain on his arms that it took to wrestle the fish from the water.

His mind would wander as he waited for the familiar tug of a fish on the line. He would think about how long he had been out in the water, and how long it would take to clean and gut how many fish he had caught, and how he was going to cook them all. He would think about what supplies he would need to buy when he traveled back into town. And he would think about what kind of stories he would write in the time remaining. His books were where his income came from. They were what let him live the life that let him spend so much of his time fishing. They may not be best sellers, but they let him make due. He didn't need much.

The sun was setting when he finally backed out of the water, lifting the ice chest from his back as he reached the shore to count how many fish he had caught - just to be sure. A dozen and a half fish, all of decent size. That would keep him going for a while, at least. It gave him time to get some new bait, to be sure. He lifted it up once more and carried it back to his truck, a smile on his face. It had been a good day.