Shrouded in a volcanic smog,
aboard a captain’s gig,
the anchor is lowered as we gently roll atop the salty sea.
We are in Kaneohe Bay near Chinaman’s Hat on Oahu, far from the eruption.
Geared up and primed as I peer down into the aqua-crystal depths.
Below lies another world, oblivious to the surface distress. The captain prepares to cast his line, the water slurps, pops, and plunks against the hull; nothing else matters.
The bait, a small hunk of chopped squid, is hooked
and lowered deeper into the bay
until it rests just above the seabed, amid a field of live coral. On the radio,
a guitar twangs out a dreamy ballad. I hum along, thinking his mother loved to fish.
Today is her birthday.
Coconuts bob and weave in the chop, schools of fish tighten and leave their trails, and in the distance, a reef shark lingers. Hawaiian time creeps by like an African land snail in this enchanted bay. Here, the sun sails from west to east. It is directly overhead when, as if by cue, the reel unwinds with an energized squeal, then the shaft flexes and bows. As the challenge begins, only the practiced will win.
1/31/26
Corney Press 