“Oh! I think I’ve got something!” Her eyes go wide, rod bending. “It’s huge! It’s fighting me!”
I watch her reel in, face glowing like she’s about to haul up Moby Dick. A dripping tangle of seaweed breaches the surface.
“It’s massive,” she says proudly, then frowns. “Oh. That’s... not a fish.”
“No. It’s not.” I bite back a laugh. “Good effort, though.”
She deflates. “The fish are probably down there laughing at me. ‘Look at that numpty, catching salad.’”
“You’re doing fine.”
She sets her jaw, as she casts again. “I’m crap at this. Honestly, I’m humiliating the entire herring industry right now.”
“Hey.” I steady her elbow as she lines up another throw. “It’s all in the trying.”
She gives me a look. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. You’ve got patience. That’s half of fishing.”
She snorts but tries again. And again. Line tangling, rod jerking, curses spilling out under her breath. Determined little thing.
Finally, a tug bends the rod. Her squeal splits the air. “I’ve got one!”
She reels, her whole body involved, practically wrestling the rod. A fish, barely bigger than my thumb, breaks the surface.
“Oh my God, I did it!” Then, as the thing flaps helplessly, her face crumples. “I can’t. I feel too mean. It probably has a fish family.”
“Georgie—”
She’s already loosening her grip. “I can’t.”
Before I can respond, she lets it slip back into the water. It disappears in a silver flash.
“Sorry, little friend,” she whispers to the water, then looks up at me, sheepishly. “I’d make a terrible fisherwoman. I’d end up apologizing to every herring.”
She stands there, hair tousled by the wind, genuinely concerned about the emotional well-being of a fish the size of a sardine.
“We can stick to catch and release,” I say.
She smiles. “Thank you for being so patient. I’m obviously rubbish at fishing. But I love being out here. It’s so peaceful.”
She’s right. The sea is calm. Gulls circle overhead. She’s not skittish or anxious like she usually is. She’s calm. Happy.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t get on that flight on Monday. I couldn’t stomach leaving her upset over a bit of jewelry, even though it made no bloody sense. So, like a fool, I canceled meetings to spend two hours hauling myself up the Old Man of Storr, only to return to the Land Rover and find the chain wedged under the gearstick.
But she’s wearing it now, fingers brushing it absently every few minutes as if checking it’s real, and that smile makes the whole miserable trek worth it.
What rattles me is knowing I’d do it again tomorrow if she looked at me with those eyes.
“Patrick?” She glances up at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good. Had enough yet?”
“I don’t know. What’s the socially acceptable amount of time to fail at fishing?” She wrinkles her nose. “You caught that impressive trout while I’ve caught seaweed. And guilt about disturbing fish families.”
“It’s lunchtime anyway. We’ll eat fish caught by people who know what they’re doing.”
She beams like I’ve offered her the moon. “Thank you so much for this. I hope you’ve had an enjoyable time, and it doesn’t just feel like I’m a burden.”
