Migrators by Ike Hamill Page A

the dock and handed the poles and bag into the boat. Alan blinked at the blue spot in his vision and watched his son gingerly testing his weight in the boat.
    “It doesn’t leak, right?” Joe asked.
    “I don’t know,” Alan said. “I didn’t really test it.”
    “Really?”
    “No, not really. I had it in the other day,” Alan said. “I only took it out to put on the registration sticker. It’s fine. You can trust me—I’m your good old dad. Untie that rope, will you?”
    Joe moved towards the front as Alan turned to the motor. He set it up and pulled the cord. The engine fired and caught immediately. Alan smiled in the dark. He adjusted the engine until it idled smoothly.
    “Okay, push us off,” Alan said.
    Joe gave the dock a shove and sent the boat towards the weeds.
    I should have been more specific, Alan thought. Maybe I should have tracked down proper oars for this thing. That little paddle isn’t going to do all that much good. Well—I wanted time alone with him. I suppose I’ll get it either way.
    Alan put the little engine in gear and gave it some gas. The boat spun back towards the dock. Alan straightened it out and pointed the bow upstream. It was working—they were chugging through the water, sending ripples off to the sides. Alan felt like shouting his triumph. Nothing his own father had done prepared him for this moment. He’d manufactured this success with his own hands and imagination.
    The lake in front of them was like glass. It reflected the deep blue of the sky. On either side, the trees framed their progress in jagged black lines against the glowing blue. Joe was facing the stern. He hunched and blew into his balled hands.
    “Turn around, Joe,” Alan said. “You’re missing all the action.”
    Joe looked over his shoulder and then pulled one leg to the other side of the bench. His motion was nervous and awkward. The boat swayed as he found his position. Joe gripped the metal seat and then tucked his hands into his armpits. Alan breathed the early morning air. It smelled sweet and round.  
    He angled the small engine a little to the right to accommodate the curve of the stream. They passed another little dock. This one ran parallel to the stream like a little deck instead of reaching out into deeper water. After a few more gentle turns the lake opened up. Alan closed the throttle, reducing the little engine to a slow drone. On the horizon to their right, the sun had lit a couple of clouds with pink fire. Alan killed the engine and they drifted forward as the water lapped at the metal hull.
    The lake was quiet, dark, and beautiful. Alan drank in the sight.
    Joe turned. “Now what?”
    “We fish,” Alan said.
    Joe picked up one of the poles and investigated the reel.  
    “How do you work it?” Joe asked.
    “Hand me one,” Alan said. “The black and white one.”
    Alan gave his son the benefit of everything he’d learned the previous day. After reading and watching videos, he’d figured out how to tie a hook onto the line, put a fake rubber worm on the hook, and then cast the worm into the water. His personal record for casting was about ten feet. Alan wasn’t sure, but he suspected he might be terrible at it.
    Within minutes, Joe matched Alan’s proficiency.
    By the time the sun was high enough in the sky for them to see their surroundings, Joe was able to double Alan’s best cast.
    “Dad!” Joe said. “I think I caught something.”
    Joe pulled back on his rod and it bent over with the tension. Alan pulled in his own line and set down his pole.
    “Okay, did you set the hook?” Alan asked.
    “What does that mean?”
    “You jerk back to set the hook in the fish’s mouth.”
    “Gross.”
    “I know,” Alan said.
    Joe jerked back on the pole and it bent farther.  
    “Now reel it in,” Alan said.  
    Joe turned the handle and the reel clicked. The boat began to move.  
    “Keep going. What does it feel like?”
    “I don’t know,” Joe said. Joe stuck his