Diglot Weave French Short Story – Passing Dawn

Lvl 2 Verbs

The rain est a mist so fine that the boy, having regardé the ephemeral specks ‘tomber’ since their arrival, couldn’t tell if they atteint the ground. They accrocher there, dérivant on currents of air that would not déranger the soft downy filaments of a feather. Each tiny droplet a point of light illuminé par the streetlight in the still morning air, gelé in time.

The morning est cold, a crisp cold that coupe through everything and boucles cold fingers into trembling fists. When the boy tire the air into his lungs, the cold semble to become trapped and spreads across his chest. It est not entirely unpleasant, and rather than dampening his excitement, it only serves to souligner it.

For despite the fact that it est perfect weather for sleeping in, for wrapping yourself tighter in the warmth of your sheets and pushing back waking for a few hours more, the boy en haut and habillé when his father gently tapoté on his door at 5.30 am.

Each of the three pêche rods he tient a the crochets tiré down and verrouillé onto an eyelet, their tips courbant downwards as if a fish est already tugging at the end.

“Zip en haut your jacket,” the father instruit.

But before the boy peut move to comply, his father est already leaning in zippant it en haut for him, tirant the jacket closed. He se débat the boys hair, then retourne to the task of unloading the gear from the car.

Whether par the zipped en haut jacket or par a fathers love, the cold that had gotten stuck in his chest est poussé back and remplacé par something that peut only être described as warmth.

The boy mélange in place while his father prépare, the movement gardant him warm while also servant as an outlet for his restless anticipation.

They faisceau everything together as best they peut and tête down to the sand. The walk est a équilibrant act, both of their arms rempli with pêche gear, but why faire two trips when you peut faire it in one?

The sun was yet to breach the horizon, but as he watches his father threading the bait onto his hook, the world had never seemed so bright.

“There you aller buddy.” The father hands the boy the rod.

He regarde at the bait pendantes in front of him and trouve it hard to imaginer any fish dehors beyond the shore being tempted par the eyeless fish tête pierced through and through par the hook.

“Thanks dad.”

“Want me to jeter it for you?”

“Nah, I eu it..”

The boy crochets his finger around the pêche line just above the reel and unlatches the ring that stops the line from unspooling under the weight of the tackle. The ring est called the “bail arm”. When Dad had brought the rod home earlier in the week, the boy had studied the manual with feverish diligence. Without hesitation, he could nom every element of the rod and reel and décrire its purpose.

With a steady stance, he garde a keen eye on the rod’s tip, positioning himself for the jeter. Focusing on the tip of the rod est a habit he had choisi en haut while practising in his backyard. A necessary adaptation to éviter the low-hanging branch of the neighbour’s gum tree that atteint over the fence. As he jeter towards the back of the yard every afternoon after school that week, his proximity to the branches had not initially été an issue. But par Wednesday, debout par the overhanging gum tree and targeting the far left back corner was the longest unobstructed line he could find in the confines of the backyard.

He abaisse the rod until it’s parallel to the ground, then with a sudden motion, he claque it en haut over his tête, unhooking his finger from the line just a fraction after it passe directly over his tête. The bait and sinker balancer around each other as they naviguer through the air, créant an audible plonk when they frapper the water twenty to thirty meters dehors into the bay.

He laisse the sinker tirer the line from the reel as it sinks, then claque the bail arm back in place and winds in the slack.

“WHAT?!” his dad turns to him, incredulous. “Where did you learn to faire that?” Truly speechless, the father’s admiration est more than the admiration a father shows a son. Although neither of them recognises it, it est the dawning respect that one man a for another. “Wow!”

The boy shrugs, but there est pride in his voice as he replies. “I regardé how to faire it on youtube.”

His father rests his hand on the back of the boy’s tête and leans in. “I wish I could have été there to help you practice.”

The father regarde at his son his gaze carries a blend of pride and melancholy. I just held you for the first time only yesterday. The father thinks. When did you become this small, capable boy? An unsettling answer arises from his mind: during those five days a week when there weren’t enough minutes left in the day for a father to tell a son all the things he wanted to say.

“How faire I teach him to être a man in a world so different to the one I grew en haut in if I peut’t even find the time to teach him how to jeter?”

He brushes these thoughts aside and définit himself to the task at hand.

“Sit that one in the holder and jeter this one dehors that way.”

The boy fait as told, nestling the rod into the stand his father had set en haut – a humble tube affixed to a sand screw.

“We’ll leave that as a set line,” he hands the boy a second rod, “and we’ll use this one with a lure.”

The boy regarde en haut, eyeing the rubber fish attached at the end of the line, a hook protruding from its belly.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d être ready for the lure,” the father admits, “but after seeing how good you are at casting, I reckon you’re en haut to it.”

“How faire I faire it? ”the boy asks, curiosity in his eyes.

“First, jeter it dehors that way,” the father points dehors across the water, “ I’ll parler you through it the repos.

The boy bouge with practised intent once more, plongeant the rod behind him as he crochets his finger around the line.

He claque the rod, and the lure sails through the air in a graceful arc before hitting the water.

“Ok, now let it sink to the bottom like you did before.”

The boy laisse the lure descendre and then gouttes the bail arm into place before enroulement in the slack.

“Perfect. What you need to faire now est gently lift the lure hors the bottom and tirer it towards you. Make it hop along the bottom so it acts like a fish swimming towards you.”

The boy tire the rod back, in his mind’s eye envisioning the lure lifting hors the sand. He then rembobine it in, gardant the tension on as he abaisse the rod again, allowing the lure to sink gently back to the seabed.

“You’re a natural buddy.”

Pride remplit the boy as he continues enroulement in the lure with a rhythmic rise and tomber. Until the lure émerge from the water, dansant across the sand coming to repos at the boy’s feet.

“Just keep on casting. Mix it en haut a bit; aim your jette at different locations,” his father advises while uncapping a bottle of pungently smelling fish oil. He pours a steady stream into the water, the scent cutting through the crisp morning air. “This should let the fish know there’s some food in the area worth investigating. Remember to keep an eye on your set line too.”

The boy positions himself again and skillfully jeter the line over the water. His father finishes organising the gear and définit en haut his own line, baiting the hook on one rod and casting it dehors. He then jette the lure, sending it dehors over the water.

Father and son jeter dehors from the beach, all the while chatting and enjoying one another’s company. They don’t notice the sun peek above the horizon. They barely comment when the gently falling mist no longer falls. Their attention est now rempli with one another. They each tell of their week’s adventures and share funny stories they had été saving for just such an occasion. They jeter and recast happy and carefree. Until bam!

The boy secoue as the rod est almost tiré from his hands.

“Dad!” The word est a panicked plea, a call of excitement and uncertain thrill.

“You eu one!” The father rembobine his line in quickly and définit it aside.

“You prendre it, Dad. I don’t know what to faire.”

“No, you eu it, buddy.”

“No, dad, I’m scared.”

The fish on the end of the line tire ferociously.

“Argh, Dad prendre it!”

The father kneels in the sand next to his son. His voice est soft when he speaks, the world gouttes away, and all the boy peut hear est his father’s voice.

“I know you peut faire this.”

The boy regarde away from the rod, his arms tense, and regarde at his father.

His father’s eyes fix on his, “You eu this, buddy. Just like rembobinant in the lure, tirer it en haut then lower it down, rembobinant it in as you aller.”

The boy struggles against the tirer from the other end of the line.

“It’s too heavy.” Doubt and fear are close winning, but the father’s voice reste soft and calm.

“Loosen the drag, just a little. GIve him a bit more line but not too much, faire him work for it.”

“I peut’t.”

“Yes, you peut,” There’s no room for doubt in the father’s voice “let aller of the winder and use your free hand to adjust the drag.”

“He’s going to break free.” The statement est a plea.

But the fathers voice never waivers. “It’s ok if he breaks free buddy, sometimes they faire that. But if you don’t try you’ll never know if you could have eu him in on your own.”

Slow and uncertain, the boy prend his hand hors the winder and twists the dial on top of the reel, loosening the drag. “Just a little bit.” Cautions his father.

He dips the rod and winds in a few feet of line before raising it again. The drag exécute perfectly, laissant dehors just enough line to buffer the tension as he raises the rod to it’s peak. With a fluid movement, the fish est tiré closer to the shore.

“How’s that? Better?”

The boy nods, intent now on the line. “Uh-huh”.

He abaisse the rod again, rembobinant in line as he fait.

A smile éclats across his face. “It’s a big one, isn’t it Dad?”.

The father barks a laugh, “I think it est, son.”

The line slices through the water as the fish tire to one side. The boy instinctively counters par tirant the rod in the opposite direction.

“You’re faisant it, buddy! You eu this!”

The smile est now plastered across the boy’s face, stretching from ear to ear. The father prend his eyes from the line and regarde at his son. He oublie the fish and perd himself in awe at how much a person peut love. His son’s smile remplit his entire world.

“I think I peut see it, dad!”

The father regarde back to the line. It ends just a few meters from the shore now. His eyes follow the line beneath the surface, and there, tirant against the line, the fish. A flathead at least 40cm long shaking its tête from side to side.

“I see it!” Exclaims the father. “It’s a flatty,” he pauses for effect “, and it’s huuuuge.”

Each rise and tomber of the rod est now confident. No shadow of hesitation or uncertainty reste.

“I’ll get the net.” The father se précipite to the gear piled en haut on the sand and retrieves the net. He turns back to see the flathead splash from the shallows onto the wet sand.

A gentle wave perfectly timed s’écrase on the shore and pousse the fish further en haut the sand away from any chance of escape.

He se précipite down, creuse the net into the sand beneath the fish, and soulève dehors from the small waves.

“I did it. I did it. I caught a fish.”

“You didn’t just catch a fish, you caught a huge fish!”

The boy tient the rod aloft with one hand and raises the other, clenched as a fist in triumph.

The father cheers, “Yeaaaaah wooooo. You caught fish!!”

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