Rust, Pine, and Fish On

Before you read the short story, open up your fave music streaming service and chuck on Edward Sharpe - Home (Spotify).

The old Ford pickup, affectionately nicknamed "The Rust Bucket," rattled and groaned its way down the pothole-riddled road leading to Carant Lake. Inside, Liam, all nervous energy and brand-new fishing gear, bounced beside Finn, who looked like he’s been wrestling with the vehicle for years. Finn’s beard was a tangled forest, his flannel shirt perpetually stained with something unidentifiable, and he radiated an aura of practiced nonchalance.

“You sure this is the spot?” Liam asked, adjusting his polarized sunglasses. “My uncle said Carant Lake was legendary.”

Finn snorted, a puff of air ruffling his beard. “Legendary for what? Mosquitos and disappointment? Your uncle’s seen too many fishing shows.”

Liam, a recent college grad desperate to escape the pressure of job hunting, had latched onto Finn, a childhood friend who’s somehow managed to carve out a life of… well, not much, but a life of his own terms. Finn worked odd jobs, mostly fixing things or helping farmers, and spent a ridiculous amount of time fishing.

They set up their gear, the contrast stark. Liam’s rods were sleek, graphite, and equipped with fancy reels. Finn’s were battered, hand-me-downs, held together with duct tape and hope.

"Alright," Finn announced, casting a line with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Let’s just…chill. No pressure. Just… fish."

The morning was slow. The lake, nestled amongst ancient pines, was beautiful, but the fish weren’t biting. Liam fretted, checking his bait, adjusting his line, consulting a fishing app on his phone. Finn just sat, occasionally casting, occasionally staring at the water, humming off-key.

“I’m going crazy,” Liam muttered, finally. “I need to catch something. My uncle is going to think I’m a complete failure.”

Finn grinned, a flash of genuine amusement in his eyes. "Relax, man. It’s just fishing. Seriously. Look around. Smell the pine. That’s the good stuff.”

Suddenly, Finn’s rod bent double. “Whoa! Now that's a fish!” He wrestled with it, a grunt escaping his lips. After a tense battle, he landed a surprisingly large trout.

"Fish On!" Finn yelled, grinning widely.

Liam, momentarily forgetting his anxiety, laughed. "Wow! That's a beauty!"

“Fish…on…Carant!” Finn added, almost as an afterthought, a ridiculous, rhyming chant. It just felt…right, in that moment of simple triumph and shared absurdity.

Liam joined in, “Fish On Carant!”

They spent the rest of the afternoon laughing, fishing, and chanting "Fish On Carant!" It became their mantra, a silly, nonsensical phrase that somehow captured the easy camaraderie they rediscovered. They didn’t catch a lot more fish, but it didn't matter. The pressure Liam felt had dissolved. He’d been so focused on proving something, he’d forgotten to just enjoy being present.

Later, as they drove back in The Rust Bucket, the setting sun painting the sky in fiery hues, Liam said, "You know, 'Fish On Carant'… it’s kind of catchy."

Finn chuckled. “It’s our thing, buddy. Just don’t tell anyone. It's gotta be a Carant secret."

Liam grinned. Maybe, he thought, “Fish On Carant” wasn’t just a silly chant. Maybe it was a reminder to let go, find joy in the simple things, and embrace the unexpected. And maybe, just maybe, he's found a little piece of that life he’s been searching for, right there by Carant Lake. He might even start a social media account… just to see what happens.