In an hour it was over, the water drained and slowing, the sun high and warming, the terns veering purposely east toward the ocean. The crowd was now about thirty, seated or standing on the rocks behind me, silently claiming their water. No one had so much as hooked a fish. No one had left. There was nothing else to do, so I did it as quickly and simply as possible. I strung up my fish, slung them over my shoulder, and paced out of the water onto the tracks, passing directly in front of the assembled mass, and back to my car, without a word or a glance that might be interpreted or misinterpreted. After the ten minute walk, throwing the fish into the trunk, I finally looked back. No one had moved. I had major doubts whether I could ever return to fish at the bridge. Driving back into town, I realized I was going to be late for my 8 o'clock lecture. I parked my car at the dorm and walked directly to class. The lecture hall was one of those classic, high-rise ampitheaters, scrunched up tothe back seats towering above the lecturn. I climbed the stairs, entered inconspicuously through the back, and took a seat. My 100 classmates, heads down writing or peering intently at the blackboard covered with diagrams of neuroanatomy were dressed in slacks and sportshirts mostly, but some in sports coat and ties. This was serious business. I was the only one in slicker, waders, and carrying 8 striped bass. As I said, obsessions can be embarassing at times. Trump Doyle McKenzie Flyfishers September 1991
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