A Midsummer Night’s Feast

The morning air is thick with anticipation, and the grass is still cold with dew when we head down to the boathouse. Only three grown-ups and two children can fit in the old flat-bottomed rowboat. The boat smells of tar and salt, and the oars bite into my hands as I row slowly out toward our net. Once we have reached the bright yellow buoy marking the beginning of the big net, the kids hang over the boat’s gunwale, scouting for the shimmering silver of the salmon in the dark water. “I can see something down there! I can see something down there!” they whisper excitedly, most of the time just seeing their own reflections in the waves. Then we start pulling our way through the net. It is heavy and cold, and sometimes a sea nettle has been caught in it, making your hands even sorer. Everyone is quiet, sensing the authority of this ancient tradition—you don’t play around or make noise in a small rowboat when you are out inspecting the salmon nets. And then we see the big strong body of a silvery fish coming toward the surface, still struggling in the net. Once the fish is brought on board and untangled, and the rest of the net examined, we turn back toward the boathouse and breakfast. By the time we arrive, the boat is covered in shimmering silver dust from the scales of the fish. “We always get a good catch when you come along,” I hear my father-in-law whisper to his daughter, as he always does when they go fishing together. And, as always, I can see it makes my wife proud, giving her the extra strength to carry the big, heavy fish up to Grandma’s house.