The Old Man in the Kayak

When the corn grew knee high, Willie and I would gather our gear and head for the back end of a small Bayou off the Owashtanong River. It was bass season. The bayou was a narrow, lightly fished, body of water about 50 yards wide and a half mile or so long. At its head, the water seeped out of a cattail marsh where the water was about 2-3 feet deep. Around the edges of the marsh water from 4 to 15 feet deep provided sanctuary for bass ... big bass. 

The trip along the dusty, gravel road to the undeveloped launch area was an adventure in potholes and discussion usually involved whose turn it was to get their feet wet pushing the boat into the water. Willie was 250 pounds and we usually needed him in the rear of the boat in order to float off the shallow landing so I usually ended up fishing in wet shoes. I didn't mind...it was bass season and Willie was always good company. Now that I reflect on it, maybe he was always cheerful because he didn't have wet feet from launching the boat.

Willie and I nearly always encountered an old man that appeared in his seventies or early eighties, paddling a kayak slowly along the edge of the marsh using a fly rod and popping bugs. Sometimes we beat him there, but not very often. I don't remember when we first noticed him or when he first began to recognize us. A flannel-shirted arm would rise in the distance and we would likewise return his silent greeting.

I don't think we ever did learn his name. When we talked about him, we always referred to him as the old man in the kayak. We even spoke to him a couple of times over the years when we would return at dark. He would be loading his kayak into his pickup truck always turning down our offers to help although it never seemed as if he struggled. He never offered to help us either, but I suspect that he knew we would manage just fine. We never considered it necessary for him to offer.

Over time, we learned that he was retired, lived nearby, and spent time on the bayou almost every day. Once, he showed us the bass bugs he used, mostly brown or black, and all of them somewhat ragged from bass attacks. Over the years, Willie and I shared the bayou with the old man in the kayak, never once encroaching on each other’s territory. He respected our presence as we his. Our watercrafts moved silently around the bayou as if dancing a slow waltz to the gentle music of the cattail marsh. Willie and I worked our surface lures, spinner baits, and plastic worms while the old man in the kayak worked his fly rod into the late evening. To us, he was as much a part of that marsh as the Great Blue Herons, Redwing Blackbirds, ducks, and cattails.

One year, after a few weeks had passed and the corn was almost waist high, Willie asked if I had seen the old man in the kayak. No, I hadn't. We both felt a little melancholy for not realizing his absence earlier in the season. The old man never did return to the bayou as far as I know. Once or twice after that, Willie or I would briefly mention the old man in the kayak and we would remark about how something must have happened to him or he certainly would be at the bayou. We both knew our silent partner was not returning to the dance although we never spoke of his passing. The bayou also felt his absence and the soft song of the marsh reeds became the old man’s requiem.

Years passed before I realized how much I learned from the old man in the kayak. Watching him over the years, I learned to move slowly and quietly on the water, use shorter and more accurate casts. He taught me to use dark lures in the late evening against a dark sky and to let the lure sit on the water for half a minute or so before moving it. From the old man, I learned to fish every little pocket in the weeds, and how to use a fly rod for bass. The old man in the kayak probably never realized what he taught me from a distance, but today I try to advise young anglers to practice courtesy and good stewardship on the water. I tell them to enjoy their time on the water, to honor it and the life it sustains. I owe that to the old man who may be watching over the bayou.

As time passed, Willie and I fished together less frequently. We both were busier at work ... or something. The trips to the Owashtanong bayou were never quite the same; the bass would still bite but something was missing. Eventually, my career drew me away from the area. I don't remember when Willie and I last fished together, but whenever the corn gets knee high, I think about him ... and the old man in the kayak.

Royal Dun