John and I were in a rowboat. Symbiotes—I rowed from the rear and he sat in the bow, summoning fish with the casting of his line. We would have fish for dinner. He wore a worn salmon-colored polo shirt made of some soft fabric with a white trim at the collar. The shirt felt good on my skin when we hugged. I had on running clothes: stretchy shorts and a stretchy top.
Early May sun sprinkled the water of this small twig of the West Branch of the Delaware River. The Cannonsville Reservoir fed this small twig. Created in the sixties, the town of Cannonsville was drowned in sacrifice to the water supply for Manhattan. “The Taking,” locals called it.
As I dipped in the oar, the cold water splashed on my hand. My palms were already sore, unused to this work. I could see the bottom. Stones, sand, occasional fish, sunken treasures of old bottles, cans, and other debris, reclaimed by the water and now green with algae or long freshwater weeds that billowed like a naiad’s hair in the current. We didn’t speak, but the fish, their pink spotted sides, silver-green backs, and cool white bellies, told us they were alive, alive! in flappy protest as we plucked them from their home. John caught a chain of six fish, just under the limit for size. On this narrow water, we were both poachers and police. Only us and the fish.
