Diglot Weave French Short Story – Passing Dawn

Lvl 3 Nouns & Verbs

The pluie est a brume so fine that the garçon, having regardé the ephemeral tacheschute’ since their arrival, couldn’t tell if they atteint the sol. They accrocher there, dérivant on courants of air that would not déranger the soft downy filaments of a plume. Each tiny gouttelette a point of lumière illuminé par the réverbère in the still matin air, gelé in temps.

The matin est froid, a crisp froid that coupe through everything and boucles froid doigts into trembling fists. When the garçon tire the air into his lungs, the froid semble to become trapped and spreads across his poitrine. It est not entirely unpleasant, and rather than dampening his excitation, it only serves to souligner it.

For despite the fact that it est perfect temps for sleeping in, for wrapping yourself tighter in the warmth of your draps and pushing back waking for a few hours more, the garçon en haut and habillé when his père gently tapoté on his porte at 5.30 am.

Each of the three pêche rods he tient a the crochets tiré down and verrouillé onto an œillet, their conseils courbant downwards as if a poisson est already tugging at the fin.

“Zip en haut your veste,” the père instruit.

But before the garçon peut move to comply, his père est already leaning in zippant it en haut for him, tirant the veste closed. He se débat the boys hair, then retourne to the tâche of unloading the gear from the voiture.

Whether par the zipped en haut veste or par a fathers amour, the froid that had gotten stuck in his poitrine est poussé back and remplacé par something that peut only être described as warmth.

The garçon mélange in endroit while his père prépare, the movement gardant him warm while also servant as an prise de courant for his restless anticipation.

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

The soleil was yet to breach the horizon, but as he watches his père threading the appât onto his crochet, the monde had never seemed so bright.

“There you aller copain.” The père mains the garçon the canne.

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

“Thanks papa.”

“Want me to jeter it for you?”

“Nah, I eu it..”

The garçon crochets his finger around the pêche ligne just above the moulinet and unlatches the bague that stops the ligne from unspooling under the weight of the tackle. The bague est called the “bail bras”. When Dad had brought the canne home earlier in the week, the garçon had studied the manuel with feverish diligence. Without hésitation, he could nom every element of the canne and moulinet and décrire its but.

With a steady posture, he garde a keen eye on the canne‘s tip, positioning himself for the jeter. Focusing on the tip of the canne est a habit he had choisi en haut while practising in his arrière-cour. A necessary adaptation to éviter the low-hanging branche of the neighbour’s arbre à gomme that atteint over the clôture. As he jeter towards the back of the yard every afternoon after school that week, his proximité to the branches had not initially été an issue. But par mercredi, debout par the overhanging arbre à gomme and targeting the far left back corner was the longest unobstructed ligne he could find in the confines of the arrière-cour.

He abaisse the canne until it’s parallel to the sol, then with a sudden mouvement, he claque it en haut over his tête, unhooking his finger from the ligne just a fraction after it passe directly over his tête. The appât and plomb balancer around each other as they naviguer through the air, créant an audible plouf when they frapper the eau twenty to thirty mètres dehors into the bay.

He laisse the plomb traction the ligne from the moulinet as it sinks, then claque the bail bras back in endroit and winds in the slack.

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

The garçon shrugs, but there est fierté in his voix as he replies. “I regardé how to faire it on youtube.”

His père rests his main on the back of the garçon‘s tête and leans in. “I wish I could have été there to help you practice.”

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

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

He brushes these pensées aside and définit himself to the tâche at main.

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

The garçon fait as told, nestling the canne into the stand his père had set en haut – a humble tube affixed to a sable screw.

“We’ll leave that as a set ligne,” he mains the garçon a second canne, “and we’ll use this one with a leurre.”

The garçon regarde en haut, eyeing the rubber poisson attached at the fin of the ligne, a crochet protruding from its ventre.

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

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

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

The garçon bouge with practised intent once more, plongeant the canne behind him as he crochets his finger around the ligne.

He claque the canne, and the leurre sails through the air in a graceful arc before hitting the eau.

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

The garçon laisse the leurre descendre and then gouttes the bail bras into endroit before enroulement in the slack.

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

The garçon tire the canne back, in his mind’s eye envisioning the leurre lifting hors the sable. He then rembobine it in, gardant the tension on as he abaisse the canne again, allowing the leurre to sink gently back to the seabed.

“You’re a natural copain.”

Pride remplit the garçon as he continues enroulement in the leurre with a rhythmic montée and chute. Until the leurre émerge from the eau, dansant across the sable coming to repos at the garçon’s pieds.

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

The garçon positions himself again and skillfully jeter the ligne over the eau. His père finishes organising the gear and définit en haut his own ligne, baiting the crochet on one canne and casting it dehors. He then jette the leurre, sending it dehors over the eau.

Father and fils jeter dehors from the beach, all the while chatting and enjoying one another’s company. They don’t notice the soleil peek above the horizon. They barely comment when the gently falling brume 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 garçon secoue as the canne est almost tiré from his mains.

“Dad!” The mot est a panicked plea, a call of excitation and uncertain frisson.

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

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

“No, you eu it, copain.”

“No, papa, I’m scared.”

The poisson on the fin of the ligne tire ferociously.

“Argh, Dad prendre it!”

The père kneels in the sable next to his fils. His voix est soft when he speaks, the monde gouttes away, and all the garçon peut hear est his père‘s voix.

“I know you peut faire this.”

The garçon regarde away from the canne, his bras tense, and regarde at his père.

His père‘s eyes fix on his, “You eu this, copain. Just like rembobinant in the leurre, traction it en haut then lower it down, rembobinant it in as you aller.”

The garçon struggles against the traction from the other fin of the ligne.

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

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

“I peut’t.”

“Yes, you peut,” There’s no room for doubt in the père’s voix “let aller of the winder and use your free main to adjust the traîner.”

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

But the fathers voix never waivers. “It’s ok if he breaks free copain, 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 garçon prend his main hors the winder and twists the dial on top of the moulinet, loosening the traîner. “Just a little bit.” Cautions his père.

He dips the canne and winds in a few pieds of ligne before raising it again. The traîner exécute perfectly, laissant dehors just enough ligne to buffer the tension as he raises the canne to it’s peak. With a fluid movement, the poisson est tiré closer to the shore.

“How’s that? Better?”

The garçon nods, intent now on the ligne. “Uh-huh”.

He abaisse the canne again, rembobinant in ligne as he fait.

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

The père barks a laugh, “I think it est, fils.”

The ligne slices through the eau as the poisson tire to one côté. The garçon instinctively counters par tirant the canne in the opposite direction.

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

The sourire est now plastered across the garçon‘s face, stretching from ear to ear. The père prend his eyes from the ligne and regarde at his fils. He oublie the poisson and perd himself in awe at how much a personne peut amour. His fils’s sourire remplit his entire monde.

“I think I peut see it, papa!”

The père regarde back to the ligne. It ends just a few mètres from the shore now. His eyes follow the ligne beneath the surface, and there, tirant against the ligne, the poisson. A flathead at least 40cm long shaking its tête from côté to côté.

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

Each montée and chute of the canne est now confident. No ombre of hésitation or incertitude reste.

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

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

He se précipite down, creuse the net into the sable beneath the poisson, and soulève dehors from the small vagues.

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

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

The garçon tient the canne aloft with one main and raises the other, clenched as a fist in triomphe.

The père cheers, “Yeaaaaah wooooo. You caught poisson!!”

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