The Old Man and the Lake

“Now is no time to think of what you do not have.Think of what you can do with what there is.”— E. Hemingway, 1951 “The Old Man and the Sea”Retirement began on Saturday morning in a 16-foot aluminum boat. Coinciding with the Victoria Day long weekend, a traditional harbinger of summer, it also marked opening day for trout fishing on Dickey Lake. It’s been years since I last observed this traditional rite of passage, reserved for those who appreciate the serenity of the lake and the fumes of gasoline.There is much to consider in the planning for such an outing. The alarm was set for 6:30 a.m. in order to accommodate the fastidious/ scheduling of my friend and neighbour, L.V. It would be his conveyance, powered by an eight-horse-power Evinrude, that would weigh anchor precisely at 7:15 a.m. It never ceases to amaze that I can always pre-empt the annoying rhythmic ringtone when anticipating important life events. And so with the rising of the morning sun, I prepared for the day. There is joy in properly outfitting for such activity. A faded fishing shirt from L.L.Bean, which has travelled far and seen many a river, water-repellant pants that have seen better days, fishing vest with Swiss Army knife, Kelly clamp dangling from carabiners and far too many pockets, all topped with my “Hungry Trout Lodge” baseball cap, a nostalgic acquisition with a storied history on the Ausable River, proximal to Lake Placid, N.Y.The equipment, the essential tools of the trade, have sat idly by for many years. Two rods with spin-cast reels and eight-pound test line have patiently waited over several seasons in a cob-webbed corner, instruments of excitement and adventure. The two-tier tackle box has lures of all descriptions, colours, sizes and specific clinical indications. They long for the waters, a proving ground for their efficiency. This day, it will be “spoons,” shiny silver and gold offerings, some with enhancements of iridescent red. The net is a spring-loaded fold-down model, an optimistic yet vital accompaniment. A life jacket is slung casually over my shoulder, a reminder that the OPP has a propensity to intrude even on small Kawarthas lakes. This morning will see a total of four boats in pursuit of the elusive lake trout, not a flotilla.May is the infamous month of the black fly both here and in North Ontar-eye-O. They are disrespectful of every accessible human orifice and their carnivorous predilections leave hemorrhagic remnants in their wake. Deep Woods Off is effective in repelling mosquitos. But an AK-47 would be no match for this audacious and invasive arthropod. I spray with the eye of faith just the same, praying for prophylaxis and hoping for a modest breeze to carry the ultralight creatures far from our chosen path. The boat’s motor hums quietly beside the floating dock in readiness. We set our rods before departing, a prelude to the troll. Casting off, the lake is a glass-like calm, the surface unbroken, reflecting the trees along the shoreline. The only sounds, the distinctive call of a distant blue jay and the splash of a lure as it hits the water. The course is marked, strategically respecting the depth and underwater structures that have affinity for boat propellers.The stillness of the early morning on the lake is palpable. We sit quietly watching the subtle, nodding motion of the rod tip and the monofilament that extends outward, disappearing somewhere far behind. The jolt comes suddenly, the whirr of the line reflexly peeling off prompts the jerky pull that sets the hook. Fish on! I stand carefully, balancing precariously as the boat goes into neutral. Rod tip up, I remember. Steady rhythmic reeling. Let the fish run against gentle resistance. L.V. stands with net in hand ready to swoop under the now-rippled surface and bring the fish safely into the boat. The “fight” is not the ilk that marlin legends are written about. The fish is landed, the treble hook gently extracted and the silvery, sleek and speckled fish placed on the stringer and returned to the water. This will be a successful morning’s venture. Four lake trout is a respectable beginning to summer, a long-awaited summer after a year’s long journey, seemingly without end.I don’t recall much of last summer, which came sandwiched between the frenzied melange of pandemic and retirement. My focus was frequently and easily distracted by upheaval. Practising in the time of COVID was a Wallenda act, balancing the necessities of patient care with the ultimate relinquishing of same. Embracing, in fact, consuming virtual and remote medicine was a “giant step” for me, but I accommodated. The planning and implementation of retirement is an endless exercise in patience and anger management. Corporate entities that are perceived as reliable and efficient are often revealed as incompetent. Contractual agreements are deftly ignored, unbreakable promises, somehow shattered, “sorry” spoken with far too much ease and little remorse.Telecommunication giants, computer and technical support companies, property management consultants and even Canada Post all found unique ways to screw with my obsessive organizational behaviour. It should be noted that these misdemeanours were perpetrated throughout the active planning stage and for too many months following my September 30 exit. Only last week, I received a cheque from Bell as compensation for services they continued to provide well beyond the confirmed cancellation of services we had agreed to, in writing and with an email thread as evidence.It is now eight months since we turned out the lights in Suite #306. The “pandemic effect” has blurred the days and weeks ever since. Sleep has been a long sought-after commodity but, once induced, is not efficiently processed. For the first time in my adult life, I’ve had to plan my days, usually around a Zoom call or webinar or just a walk in the park. Those tranquil times are now spent with my wife—not that I need more bonding with her after 14 months of shared solitary confinement. The previous physically distanced hikes with friends are now forbidden fruit. Social circles are a function of the efficacy of Wifi suppliers, which in cottage country can be fickle even on good days. Productivity is directly proportional to focus X motivation, but, then, everything is relative.This is not a time for grandiose plans. Perhaps less is more in recovery from COVID. The safari in Kruger National Park has been thwarted, replaced by a motor trip to Massachusetts to see our kids. March 2022 in Palm Springs remains plausible but having precipitously left there in 2020 on one of the last flights out before the border closed, we’re not likely to deposit our Canadian funds at current U.S. exchange rates on a long shot. We’ve assumed a “less is more” posture, accepting and grateful for our health and that of our children and grandkids. The age of perspective has arrived and it has changed the dynamics of life.On May 1, I had the unique opportunity of spending 12 hours with an eclectic group of medical colleagues, literally from sea to sea, all with a common goal. This was a virtual writers’ retreat for physicians intent on learning about all genres of writing from mentors, experts and professionals. The guidance and counsel provided were thought-provoking, stimulating and motivating. Discussions were enthusiastic, encouraging all participants to engage actively. We were collectively inspired. Breakout sessions allowed for individual tastes and flavours to be addressed. A face-to-face encounter near day’s end gave me direction and an affirmed commitment. I would redirect my negative and passive retirement energies and write. I had found my voice amidst the ruins.The following day I wrote a poem, although not my chosen format of expression. Aptly titled, “Unmuted,” it is a synopsis of a day’s work in pursuit of tangible meaning. It ends with:“Where next, you askThe tools and templates are upon usThe pen is poised at paper’s interfaceI’ve read the rules and now I must translateFrom lost to foundIf there is a voice inside, speak nowRelease the bindings, the sinews of restraintAnd I will write tomorrow and the every days that follow”Retirement began on Saturday morning.Dr. Howard Goldstein is a recently retired Toronto-area family physician.

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The Old Man and the Lake

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