The Hero

Midfield Wisconsin, a medium-sized city by Midwestern standards, lies perched high above the shores of Lake Michigan. A long Coast Guard pier juts one mile out into the lake, slants sharply to the south then out for another quarter mile. This structure helps form a channel creating one of the best harbors on the lake, from which a fleet of commercial fishing boats goes forth each morning, accompanied by hundreds of swirling, squawking gulls. Huge merchant ships come and go, supplying coal and iron ore for the many industries which spread north and south of the pier for several miles, providing the major source of employment for the workers of Midfield. The beacon and foghorn from the pier, the hoards of whirling gulls, the storms that sweep in suddenly from the northeast, lend a New England seacoast ambiance to the town.

Above the lakefront hill, most streets are lined with large spreading oaks, hickories, chestnuts, maples and stately elms. I suppose it is an average American town, but to me it seems a special, almost mystical place. Downtown, a park complete with the usual gazebo and diagonal walkways, surrounds a handsome old court house with spired clock tower. For several blocks around the downtown area stately two-and three story Victorians mingle with large Colonials. On the near north side, three blocks of genuine mansions line Sherman Road, perched on the edge of the steep hill which runs down to the lake, their rear windows providing a high unobstructed view of the lake, over the tops of the factories which line the shore.

On a typical summer Saturday morning, Ernie, my little brother and I wend our way through the dark streets. the morning of the promised fishing trip to the "Govemint" pier. Though the journey begins as a dreary 5 A.M. chore, it soon brightens as days do which Ernie and I share. On the long trek down "below the hill" we play "Get It Boys" , fantasy game of our own invention in which we are each in kingly control of a vast and powerful mob which can instantly seize for us any luxury item we desire, mostly cars. The first to tell "his boys" to "get" the particular item, owns it thereafter. Me and Mike, my all-time 'good buddy' and friend for life, have also often played, though we now see ourselves as becoming too old for this childish game. Ernie and I soon tire of the game, however, since in Midfield, not many cars are racing about at 5:30 A.M. on Saturday, and walk the rest of the way quietly, the backs of our hands sometimes bumping softly together. The gentle grey silence of false dawn is unbroken, save for the clacking and clanking of tackle boxes, bamboo poles and minnow bucket.

We arrive at Bobby's some minutes before the shop opens. Though Ralph, the proprietor, can be seen behind the fence, scrounging among the huge bubbling tanks of minnows of all varieties, like a mad warlock stirring steaming cauldrons; he will not even glance our direction until his six A.M., opening time.

At precisely 5:59 by the huge round Coca Cola clock visible through the glass door, a red and white neon sign, brilliant in the dusky morning, but dulled by many years of accumulated grime, bursts into life. Ralph unlocks and opens up, grumbling about "those Hunter boys bothering people so early and tryin' to take all the perch and smelt out of the lake and not leave none for nobody else."

"Hey Bobby! Got any minnows? " Ernie exclaims, falling easily and readily into this game we have so often played. Although he has told us about a gazillion times that his name is Ralph, detailing the history of his buying the business twenty years ago from his elderly uncle Bobby, the Hunter clan insists on addressing him as "Bobby".

"No! I ain't got no minnows," Ralph replies. Grinning sardonically, he sweeps his arms around the large screened-in area containing about eight huge tanks five feet long and about thirty inches wide. "I got lots of hamsters, though. That's what I got in these here tanks. These are just their swimmin' pools. Their apartments are inside. Most people don't know it, but hamsters love to swim."

"Well, give us about three dozen of those striped hamsters, then Bobby," I say, enjoying the patter, but anxious to get fishing. "Oh, and Bobby! Could we get live hamsters this time. Perch don't like dead hamsters." "I got a special deal goin' on trolley lines," Ralph says as he goes about the task of rinsing our bucket and filling it with fresh water and minnows. "Only four bucks!" All three of us know that when Ralph is finished, the bucket will contain about fifty minnows, for Ralph's external bluster barely \conceals his true affection for all the Hunters.

"Kin I . . .Uh. Could I see 'em?," Ernie asks shyly.

Ralph places the now-full bucket on the concrete floor, then guides my brother over to the dingy display case. Almost as if he were the older brother, I tag along behind. This area of Bobby's is inside. Behind the closed door to the left is where Ralph lives. I have not the slightest notion of the particulars of his life: how he lives or with whom, married or single, kids or not. In my typical adolescent consciousness, Ralph exists only for those few moments, several times a year, when he is actually in sight. In, under, around, and behind the aging and dusty display case, mysterious , esoteric and awe inspiring fishing accessories, implements and trivialities of all sorts are crammed into all available space. There are stringers and bobbers and sinkers and bells; leaders and lines and hooks and nets of all sizes and colors and kinds. There are many things whose design and purpose I cannot even guess. In short, this is a kids' paradise, the kind of place which pushes a young brain into a nearly meditative trance. As I stand there breathing in the chimerical essence of mystery, Ralph and Ernie's voices grow dim and their forms begin to waver and fade. I am moved to lay my arm across Ernie's shoulders, suddenly grateful for this excursion, grateful for Ernie's presence, his existence. There is an ache in me to have Duane's arm across my shoulders, and Dad's across his; a fear that all this magic will soon be lost to me in my body's mad rush to mature. Overhead, the joist spaces hold cane and bamboo poles from tiny three foot ice fishing size to the whopping twenty footers. These are our usual implements for snagging our prey, but the trolley line Ernie now gazes fondly upon, is efficiency simplified, the perfect implement for coaxing reluctant "jumbos" from the murky depths. He digs in his pockets to produce a wad of bills and change, some of which tinkles to the floor. We smack heads as each bends to retrieve it, nearly knocking each other over and my spell is broken by raucous laughter. Ernie, it seems has been saving his nickels and dimes for this expedition.

As it turns out he has, after all, not enough to purchase the trolley line of his dreams. I toss in a buck-and-a-half, though, and that yields enough to purchase a 'power line', a contraption of rubber band, anchor, rope, line, leaders and hooks; which allows for the baiting of six hooks at once, and sending them farther and deeper than any pole.

Out on the pier, Ernie is now forced to carry his own pole, plus the tackle box containing his new purchase, since I am now burdened with two gallons of water and fifty minnows, plus my fifteen-footer and a spare ten-footer for emergencies. We never fish on the near end of the pier, for it is our heartfelt belief that the true 'Jumbos' lurk out beyond the bend which signifies the quarter mile mark. It will take some time to launch Ernie's new contraption, which we have seen used, but never ourselves employed, so I make him bait and secure the three poles while I try to fathom its intricacies.

The anchor, a heavy piece of lead shaped like a buoy, with tentacles of heavy gauge wire, is fastened to a four-foot length of stout rope. This is tied to a piece of rubber band about thirty feet long, which, in turn, is attached to about one-hundred feet of fishing line, with six snap swivels spaced eighteen inches apart along the first eight feet. Thankfully, it has come to us fully assembled. We have only to unroll the whole thing from its wooden winder, lay it out along the pier without tangling it, and toss it out. The idea is to fling the anchor, with everything but hooks attached, out as far as possible and let it sink as far out and as deep as possible. Once it is caught on the bottom, the hooks can be attached and later baited simply by hauling on the line, stretching the rubber band. When hooks are baited, one simply releases the line and the rubber springs back, carrying the hooks back down to the depths where the "jumbo" perch are in residence, and hopefully hungry.

I am far from satisfied with my first two attempts to launch the device an acceptable distance. Both times I am able to successfully retrieve the anchor by hauling very rapidly. For my third attempt. I climb to the upper area of the pier, about eight feet higher. Swirling the short piece of rope above my head like my hero, Hopalong Cassidy wielding his lariat, I finally manage to fling the heavy lead about forty yards. As the anchor strikes the surface with a great splash, I glance over to discover that Ernie has been holding the not-fully-unwrapped line not very securely in hand. The thin piece of wood, line, leader, rope and anchor attached, goes sailing out into the air above the choppy grey surface of the lake. Time seems to slow to a crawl as many things happen in a few seconds. I glimpse the look of horror on my little brother's face as his wonderful new gadget seems lost forever. I jump down to the lower section of the pier and, without a second thought, fling myself into the lake, trying desperately to keep the flying gear in sight.

When it strikes the water, it is rapidly pulled along the surface by the still descending anchor, leaving a wake like a tiny motorboat. In the end, it is luck that saves me. The small piece of wood, several yards of line still wrapped tightly around it, floats serenely about thirty yards from the concrete structure where Ernie is jumping up and down yelling indecipherable words.

Slowly it dawns on me that I am barely afloat about a million feet above the lake bottom, weighted down by several layers of clothing and heavy camping boots rapidly filling with icy water. I grasp the thin piece of wood as if it were a life preserver, and turn back toward Ernie. With great resolve, I manage to ignore the vast amount of water below and behind me, concentrating only on the salvation ahead.

Reaching the pier is scary, but not too difficult, as I am a decent swimmer. (two summers later, at summer camp, I will qualify as a Red Cross life-saver and earn Lifesaving Merit Badge to become a Star Scout, two steps from Eagle). As I transfer the gear to Ernie's outstretched hand, his foot knocks our tackle box into the lake. I grab for it but miss. So once again I plunge into the freezing murky depths. All our precious fishing stuff is sinking, plowing down about two feet ahead of my desperately reaching hand. My brain goes into automatic, processing information faster than conscious thought. My hand stops reaching and strokes instead. The heavily laden metal container is racing me. The finish line is the murky lake bottom, about fifty feet away. I do not wish to go there. Pulling even with the box, I reach, but the reaching slows me and the box eludes my grasp again. Next try, I stroke strongly until I pass the container and snatch it as it passes. Until this moment, my urgent need for oxygen has gone unnoticed, but now becomes immediately urgent. I will be damned if I will release my hold on the heavy box. There is nothing but to stroke for the surface.

Somehow, despite the lack of oxygen to my brain, my limbs continue to function properly; push, paddle, kick; push paddle, kick, push,paddle,kick. I experience an eerie, frosty, looking-glass effect, a surreal, ice- water, out-of-body sensation. A sense very like a sound echoes up from the deep bearing a message of truth: that I have just died for a motley assortment of hooks, lines, and sinkers.

Just before I open my mouth to laugh at the irony of it all, my head breaks the surface. Ernie seizes my hand and yanks with all his puny strength. It is just enough to keep the bulky metal from dragging me back to the depths. With the last of my strength, I hoist my load onto the concrete edge. The effect is immediate, bobbing me upward like a message in a bottle.

Despite my frigid clothing, we stay the rest of the day, catching about forty-five perch in all. It is by no means a record, but will make a good sized meal for the family. Ernie is very proud of his new gear, which has produced a major share of the day's catch. We knock off early, about 3 P.M., because I feel near to death from exposure, but also because there is a long trek home and many fish to clean.

No words are ever exchanged between Ernie and me about my foolish actions that day. Mom and Dad are told one of those necessary lies all kids tell their parents to protect them. The only viable lie involves my being clumsy enough to have fallen in, which is reinforced by, and in turn reinforces, my recent reputation as dreamer and klutz.

I do not take ill and die of exposure, as would happen in the books I cherish. That day, however, enhances my kinship with my little brother. About two years later I will overhear Ernie telling a friend about the time his crazy brother jumped off the pier to rescue a bunch of crappy fishing junk. However, the subtle but unmistakable sound of pride and admiration in the words, which I will cherish for years to come, with a pride far greater than merited by the deed itself.