I rubbed my sleepy eyes and fought to maintain my balance. It was still dark though the lower folds of the horizon had begun to give way to a lighter hue. Not too far from me, Robin was speaking excitedly over some assortment of subjects as he prepared our rickety little rowboat. I could only yawn and nod my head in way of response. It was still a mystery to me how this all came to be, but the last thing I wanted to do was to disappoint Robin. Even if that meant accompanying him on this wretched little fishing journey.
"All ready!" announced Robin. He hopped into the boat and beckoned me to join him. The cheeky little waves lapped bravely at the wooden boat, rocking it back and forth. I dangled my foot above the deck for a moment as I waited for the right time to board it. Robin must have noticed my hesitation for he sprang up and guided me safely into our vessel, taking hold of my hand and hip in the process. I muttered an embarrassed 'thank you' to him and took my seat on the port side.
Taking grasp of my oar, I looked beside me to check Robin's readiness. He nodded and wordlessly we began to row, halting every now and then only to recapture our rhythm. Finding the depths of the waters too murky to talk about, we went about our business in silence. The soundscape of our rowing consisted of only the torrid throes of the waves against our planks and the palpable bursts of our own exertion. Not a single passing seabird intruded upon our outing. The weeping stars still visible in the heavens above us, Robin occasionally glanced up to study them. As for me, I could not read the celestial map.
"This should be far enough" I nodded in agreement and relinquished my oar. Robin reached down between our legs to procure the rods and tackle box. Meanwhile, I tried to rub the soreness out of my chest and shoulders, but to no avail.
While Robin set himself to the task of preparing the rods, my mind flitted back and forth in contemplation of the acquisition and subsequent loss of a set of finely detailed Russian dolls back during my childhood. They were knock-offs, I think, and the lead paint describing their laced clothes would often chip off as I played with them. Still, the warm memories they offered remained lodged in the recesses of my soul and I'd often declare to myself that I'd purchase replicas of them just as soon as I got the time to do so. Yet, here I was; waiting patiently as Robin fumbled with the lures and hooks.
"Those are artificial baits, I hope."
"Yeah, yeah. I know you well enough not to bring anything else. Here, help me with this. Will ya?"
Robin presented me with a length of fishing line which he apparently could not thread himself. I held it surgically in my mouth while I located the tiny hole in the hook. It was only a matter of seconds before I had finished tying the knot and then repeated the process on the second rod. So focused was I, that I did not notice to what Robin paid his attention whilst he waited, nor did his masked eyes betray any insight into his thoughts.
Robin cast out first. His form whispering images of ideal cinematic display, the line glided effortlessly through the early morning air and plopped gracefully into the waves some fair distance away. Satisfied with this cast, he spared no time in guiding the line inward a few breaths out of habit, then sitting down so that I may cast out myself. Somehow, the electricity of his expectant gaze found refuge in my own and a fluttering of emotion washed over me. It was the sort of happy unease which inspired hope and confidence even as one's unsuspecting shyness gave way to shame.
I rose. A wave of the intoxicating sea breeze tickled me through my clothing, but did not in the least deter me. The rod felt heavy in my hand. I twisted back to collect momentum, then exploded forward into my swing. I smiled cheekily as the fishing line spluttered out across the waves. Though my technique could not match Robin's, it excelled in embodying the strongholds of youthful eagerness for which the ocean was famous. I allowed myself a brief glance backward and saw that Robin had indeed noticed the unspoken language of my cast. He nodded approvingly as I took my seat across him.
Premature bursts of sunlight peeked over the horizon and nestled themselves nicely upon the curvature of Robin's shoulders in a manner reminiscent of renaissance paintings depicting generals posing triumphantly as they returned from battle. I imagined myself rubbing against them; purring as I'd lather myself against their strength. I let the dream fester volatile delight in my mind before allowing it to pass out of my considerations. Robin did not appear to notice my use of him in this way. For this, I was thankful.
Robin sequenced his actions with much care. I observed how his cycle of waiting always began with a re-positioning of his hips upon the the boat. He followed this with a nervous shuffling of his feet upon the deck, leaving them just slight wider than shoulder-width apart; his left foot ending up just a bit further in its advance than the right. Next, there'd be a gentle licking of his lips as if somehow chapped from the salty ocean air. All this culminating into a sententious gaze toward the ocean waves. I could not track his eyes beneath his mask, but I new them all the same. He could hide no secrets from me. I knew well how his interest bobbed up and down with the excitement of the waves. Then it would be time for the cycle to begin itself anew. I lost myself in how many times I've thus far witnessed it.
I felt a stiff pull on my line. I let out a yelp of surprise at the suddenness of this catch and promptly stood erect to better position myself for the ancient struggle. I thought back to the night before when Robin first propositioned me to join him on this outing. How I thought I could never give myself over to participation in such barbaric activities. I felt the sheer essence of life hang in the balance at the end of my line, and knew that I must prevail over it. That it must know that I could exert complete control over it. Then I was the fish. At once, regretting my unthoughtful surrender to gilded shell of temptation while I wriggled back and forth in my futile resistance. The path I once thought I could freely walk dissipated in the violent revelation that the thread of destiny was uncaring of my desires. Whenever it calls, I must come though I do not obey. The ocean pressed down on me invariantly with obscene pressure. Blood spurted out around me as my movements only allowed for the hook to burrow deeper into my flesh. The pressure was immense.
With each new tug I felt my end draw closer. Light as I never knew it rained down upon me. My flesh burned in ecstasy. My breathing became rapid, but could capture no substance. The world seemed to fall away from me like a pair of discarded vestments. I knew then that I stood naked at the fountain of youth, but I could not bathe because there was no water there. Nor could any inflow ever quench it, for the fountain seared fire from its cherubs and bled sand from its head. I begged it for relief, but it could only give me climax without story. And the story would never come. I realized then that could I have written the story as it presented itself to me so long ago, I might have lived. But I denied it, for I doubted my ability to gift it creation. And so I could struggle no more.
From that day forward, I felt sick whenever I crossed paths with Robin. Each time he laid his eyes upon me I could not help but remember the event. How he congratulated me when I showed him the floundering beast, or how I so ferociously kept up the fight despite knowing what I knew. Many times I've cried that I could not help but continue my efforts to complete the task. That I was utterly enraptured by the divinity of the moment, but I knew I could have cut short my engagement in the actions. I've often cowered in my room and clenched myself unceasingly because of what I had so shamelessly done that day, and most of all because I had felt such joy in doing it.