Ken and Scott feed newspapers to the fire in the trash can, rubbing their hands above it. It’s ten degrees out, and a lot colder with the wind. A few feet away sits a bucket of salmon eggs, and three fishing rods rest over three holes in the ice. It’s past 2:30 and they have only one small perch to show for four hours of standing on the ice in numbing gusts. Every so often Scott goes to round up more wood for the fire, and Ken fiddles with the rods. One of the rods has a contraption that pops a yellow flag if there’s a bite. But the flag hasn’t moved all day.
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In the summertime, the atmosphere around the lagoon is quite different. Joggers and strollers pass picnickers and sunbathers along the paths. On the high stone embankment around the lagoon the fishermen stand elbow to elbow, casting for perch, crab, or trout. The buzz of the reels fills the air. Faces, if not names, are familiar along the canal, and over the months and years at least a few words are exchanged between regulars.
“He’s one of . . .” Rify searches for the word. “One of the best fishermen,” he confides. “He wears the glasses, so he can . . . see the fish under the water . . . but that’s . . .” Rify disdainfully flicks his hand.
“Sell it? Sure!” Hank says, and trots to the embankment with the fish. The postman examines it; they confer. Ken and Scott watch as the postman hands Hank a few dollars.
For those with a day off from work fishing the lagoon is a pleasant way to spend the hours, a way to escape the perhaps too-familiar confines of home. But for those who can’t work, or won’t work, whose days stretch before them like an endless row of hurdles to get over, the lagoon is a refuge.
