Fishing ($*CrazyHick*$) Mar 18, 2009 16:58:45 GMT -6
Post by .~.T.e.a.k.~. on Mar 18, 2009 16:58:45 GMT -6
A cool, padded leather jacket lay on the ground alongside him, along with a tackle box, two fishing-rods (both having line cast out into the water), and small dark blue cooler filled with water, ice, a few drinks and a bologna sandwich. He'd been out since before daylight that morning, and it was nearing ten o'clock. For a warm spring day it had been surprisingly cold that morning. His truck was parked halfway across the lake, as he'd explored all over before finding a suitable fishing area. The area was hidden almost completely by a bundle of trees, he'd only found the spot by accident, but he was glad that he had, for the area was more than perfect.
The man was tall and built well; he had the look of an outdoorsman, a guy who worked outside and enjoyed it. It was truth, he did ejoy working outside...That was one of the reasons he had become a vet tech. He was tanned, showing his Cajun inheritance through his dark skin, eyes, and hair. Anyone who'd seen him a few days before could easily see that he had indeed had a few good days of rest. His eyes were no longer tired and red-rimmed, though the dull, depressed look hadn't left, nor would it, not for a long while yet. His posture was relaxed, not slumped in defeat and fatigue like it had been only days earlier, and he appeared to have gotten a few good meals as well.
With a sigh, Travis picked up the closest fishing pole and drew in the line, looking languidly at the clean hook. The fish had taken the night-crawler, but had managed to evade the shiny metal. He reached across to the can of night-crawlers, completely passing by the cage of grasshoppers and the bloody meat that he'd found some fish to like, and, after moving the dirt around a bit, came back with one of the energetically wriggling red worms. He had dirt and quite possibly worm and fish guts underneath his short nails, for sure there was blood from the few fish he'd already caught, beheaded, and wrapped in foil before placing them in the cooler.
The Louisiana man baited the hook and cast it back out into the water, hearing the faint 'plop' it made as it hit and sank. He'd already checked the other pole a little earlier. Fishing was a great relaxant, and one of his favorite past-times. He just wished his son was there with him, playing along the waters edge like he'd done so many times before. Travis shoved the thought to the back of his mind almost as soon as it appeared, not wanting to get lost in the past anymore than he already was.
He ran a hand through his hair, not minding the fish blood, guts, and scales and the worm guts at all. Seconds later he picked up the can that sat in a dug out depression to prevent it from getting tipped over, and swallowed the last mouthful of the alcohol. He didn't drink much, usually only when fishing, or after a particularly hard day. On a relaxing day like this, though...