CityView Magazine

12 | March/April 2018 his book from his salon seat and solved a few world crises along the way. He placidly reached over into the ice box and he extracted a Miller Lite. e ice chips were running down the sides of the bottle. He twisted to open. And then, without any change of expression or emotion, he said the words that sent me on the path to not only redemption, but also to tournament heroism: "I thought we came to fish." At 9 a.m., in the pea soup that was the ocean all around us, and with nary another boat in sight, we set out our lines with a decided lack of enthusiasm. Watson pushed the one laboring engine into gear, chunked all those maps and charts to the bottom of the sea and started trolling to the east. Voltaire once said, "God is a great comedian, playing to an audience which is afraid to laugh." At 9:15, Doc was finishing that Miller Lite and thinking about the prospect of another, when the pin popped on the le flat line and the reel started screaming to the tune of a big fish going the other way. Five seconds later, the le long line did the same thing. ere is unique chaos when a fishing boat's cockpit is jarred into action, when, as Doc used to say, "your whole world changes in one second." is was double that chaos. In 15 minutes or so, we released a 150-pound blue marlin. A few minutes later, we released his twin brother. 800 points by 9:30 a.m. Captain Watson, the smartest fisherman in the fleet, radioed tournament headquarters that we released the first blue marlin of the day, and then the second, from those verdant waters where no one else was fishing. en he called in a white marlin release 45 minutes later. And then another. About 11:30, the first boats appeared on the horizon, steaming to get to where we were. en a dozen more. Before fishing ended at 3, we were dodging boats like bumper cars at a county fair. Me and my clumsy foot, along with Doc's pronouncement of our having come to fish, won that fishing tournament. is past December, I heard in the hushed tone of impending sadness that the doctors were not going to further treat the cancer growing in Bob Caviness. e strategy would be to bring physical comfort to squeak out another year with some quality of life. On January 6, 2018, I rode out to see the Marlin Fisherman Emeritus, the adoptive dad for all of us who wished to be adopted. He was bundled up against the winter chill and stirring a pot of canned soup. His wife Beegie and I prattled on about nothing. He listened and chuckled and sipped his soup. I told Doc that if he would call me in the next few weeks, I would drive us to Watson's farm in Granville County with two bird dogs and more Miller Lites, the kind with chips of ice sliding down the sides of the bottles. We never made that trip. ree weeks later, Bob went on a much longer journey instead, arm in arm with a Savior. As I was rising to leave, I asked Beegie to take our picture. I got on my knees next to Doc and picked up the paring knife on the table, brandishing it at the camera, foolishly defying anyone or anything to try to abscond with my Companion Emeritus. Had I only known, I would have wielded a much bigger blade.

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