"Just go easy when you're getting in, would'ya?" she says, clearly pessimistic about his odds of climbing into the boat without capsizing the whole thing and dumping her into the shallows. "I took a bath like last week." And in marginally warmer water too.
Sure, he lumbers when he walks. Swings hard into punches and climbs with too much weight on his heels, but if there's one thing he's done enough times in his life to get right, climbing into a boat at the crack of dawn is one of them.
His boots and the tattered cuffs of his jeans are the only things that get wet, tilting the boat enough from the bank for his foot to balance on the dead center of it before shifting the other one right in. The kick from it sways them, but he's low and standing wide enough for it to hardly matter.
"Like you should talk. Have you smelled yourself lately?" It's a good-natured jibe, though her grip goes white knuckled when he gets in. The boat sways beneath her, briefly scuffing against the rocks under the draw of the boat before it bobs up, settling under Joel's added weight.
Ellie's fingers don't quite uncurl until she's sure the boat won't buck up again. Because that's totally how physics works. "Does the motor in this thing still work?"
"Nope. Shot to hell and back," He hunches over his knees, leans towards her to motion past at a cracked up oar tucked away behind the she's soaking up. "Go on and pass me that oar so I can get us started."
"Sure, okay," she says, but is awfully slow about shifting around on the bench and leaning down to pry the oar up from where it's half lodged between the bow of the boat and where she's sitting. She pulls it up hand over hand, passing it off to him. Once the oar's out of her hands, her fingers set on the edge of the bench and grip there as she steels herself for the moment of shoving off.
"You're not planning to take this thing down river are you?"
In truth it's not ever. The stillness of the lake is what he's aiming for, and lake trout don't care to stray far from deeper waters. He paddles out, swapping the oar from side to side and splashing water down across the tops of their shoes. Doesn't bother to stop till the house has shrunk down to more of a dark speck than something recognizable.
"There. That ought to do it." Joel eyes her bone-white knuckles before adding, "ever cast a line?"
It's cold out here on the water, though she expects that might change soon. The sun's only just coming up, turning the tops of the trees from dark smudges across the grey sky to a hot burnished brass. The way the boat sways from the pull of Joel's oar through the water makes her stomach go in knots, loosening in turn as the wooden hull coasts quietly away from the force between each row.
"Psh, have I ever cast a line," She scoffs and peels her fingers from the bench, feet shuffling around the tackle box and poles in the bottom of the boat. After a moment of steadying herself against the side, Ellie bends down to ungainly lift one of the rods up. She swings it around clumsily. "No, but how hard can it be."
"--don't just throw the damn thing around now, hold on." He catches the rod with his palm, leans back away from the tail end so I doesn't clip him in the face.
"If you want breakfast, you've gotta do this right."
He slides his hand down, nudges up against the spigot so her grip shifts into something lighter, something he can direct. "Drop that end in the water, get the line wet so it don't lock up on you."
"Lock up? It's just string on a coil or something. How complicated is this gonna get, Joel?" But for all her bluster, Ellie lets him guide her hands: grip softening on the handle. The boat rocks slightly as she whips the pole around, stabbing it down into the water like a needle through cloth.
After a moment she brings it back up - it doesn't have to like, marinate or anything right? - and props the butt of the handle on her knee as she tips the pole vertical toward the sky.
Manhandling it like a machete, he shouldn't be surprised. As a matter of fact he isn't.
"Other hand on the bottom. There you go. Just like that." One finger tugs down on the reel till it's angled forward, and he eases back to grab hold of the other rod, pulling it up into his own lap and checking the line. "Now, swing it back over your shoulder and toss it out lightly. Same way you handle that knife of yours."
He'd guide her arc, but he trusts her. That and if he's too close he knows he risks a hook to the eye.
Lightly, he says. What he gets after a 'sure, okay' sort of shrug and a shift in the angle of her hip and shoulders out toward the water, is a sharp snap of the pole. It's like swinging a baseball bat except at a different angle. The line travels out, plunking down a few sad feet from the side of the boat.
"Aw what. Hold on--" Ellie hastily cranks the reel, the bob on the line jerking steadily backwards until it comes sweeping out of the water, hook and all swinging wildly back in their direction.
She catches the line without a second thought before the hook at the end can snag anywhere less than pleasant, seemingly unaware of how close she came to it. Jamming her tongue in her cheek, she swings it out a second time with marginally better results.
He flinches when the sinker goes flying past, whips across to displace a few wayward strands of her hair. The way she's throwing it around she'll be lucky if she doesn't end up with a couple of new scars.
But Joel's not about to coddle her. One heavy sigh exhaled through his nose and he rolls his shoulder back to cast properly, lets the line draw out high over the lake till it splashes down and breaks the surface of he water a good ways away.
Which just earns a low, scoffing noise from low in the back of her throat as she slowly reels her line back in a second time. And a sidelong glance that follows the line of his shoulder and the twitch of his wrist as he casts his own line. Ellie slows the reel to watch his line sail out, sun catching and glittering briefly off the synthetic before it arcs down somewhere almost too far to really see.
"Uh, that's kind of cheating," she says, carefully flicking the end of her line up over the side of the boat. She catches it again, fingers dancing around the sharp points of the hook as she steadies the pole. The next cast isn't perfect, but it's passable: punctuated by a light, easy flick of the wrist.
Joel scoots back sideways to straddle the bench, arms slack at the elbows to follow the steady rock of the boat without jerking the line, eyes still fixed on the bobber floating off in the distance. Hers keeps inching closer; she's getting the hang of it exactly like he figured she would.
"Y'know normally we'd be using bait," He'd managed the lines before he woke her, tying the bobbers, the sinkers, the hooks. Unearthed dust and grit left behind in the tackle box from 20 years of decay, where roe and worms unsurprisingly don't keep. "I reckon we'll do just fine without, but the next time we go at this I'll see if I can't dig something up before we jump in."
Her gaze is locked out toward the bobbers on the end of their lines, predatory like a hawk waiting for some sign of a mouse - as if she could somehow will a fish to find its way to her hook. She does however tip her head slightly in Joel's direction, mouth going all lopsided as she frowns.
"If there's no bait, why bother? Do they just hook themselves for fun?" She tugs faintly at her line. You're supposed to do that, right? Just mess around with it until something comes along and gets curious?
"Well it ain't nothin on the end, there- that hook of yours still looks like dinner to them." He stiffens up slightly, momentarily consider reeling back in to point out the plastic he'd lashed onto the line-- but it was a good cast. He'd rather not waste it.
"Easy, Ellie, easy. Movement's fine, but no fish alive is gonna jump around the way you're tugging on that line right now."
Counting out the rise and fall of the boat in the water, Joel jerks his wrist up at the highest point before going all loose as they settle back down.
"Huh." She slows the tug back of the line, gazing out across the water. "Shit, fish are dumb."
For a moment or two she settles, quiet as the boat sways gently in the water. Her technique is clumsy, but she's got a sharp eye; copying the gentle way Joel twitches his own fishin rod back isn't really rocket science anyway.
"Not anywhere near what it takes to track a deer." He snorts, flicking the tail end of his pole again, synthetic twine sinking down to lay on the surface tension of the water. "Couple of hours if we do well. Hell, back in the day we'd spend all morning like this."
Yeah, but tracking a deer involves walking and stuff. This is sitting in a boat in open water, simultaneously doing nothing at all while trying to keep away from the sides of the boat, trying not to think about how much water is or isn't under them and what kind of freak accident of nature might possibly cause her to go over the side.
Ellie tugs her line absently, quiet. She hugs the bench with her knees. "If you say so."
"I paddled you around on a board and you're scared of this?"
Teasing her is all part of the fun. He doesn't expect her to shake her fear in the first hour of rowing out across a lake, but he doesn't have to keep his mouth shut in the middle of it either. Besides, after shaking off the aftermath of the university, the way he sees it neither of them really need that much quiet.
He catches sight of a few ripples not too far away from their bobbers.
"Hey, that shit's scary too," she snaps back at him, nose wrinkling as she gently tugs her line in time with the lap of the water. "This is just weird 'cause we're so...far from the edge." And they are: drifting along out into the middle of the lake, far from anything like shallows or shore or anything whatsoever to scrabble at for a handhold. There's no walls or edges or anything to grab for should something go wrong.
So yeah. Little spooky.
She doesn't notice the ripples - for all her hyper focus on the water, the minute change in the surface doesn't register - but she does notice the sudden dip of one of the bobbers followed by a distinct tug at her line.
"Alright, alright don't go all stiff--" He goes upright, dropping his pole till it hits the side of the boat, completely forgetting his own efforts from being swept up in hers. "You gotta tire him out, baby girl. Let him have a second to breathe and then tug him in bit by bit."
One hand settles behind her on the bench, he's looming over her shoulder with the fingers of his free hand twitching just near the spool in an effort to keep from interfering with her score. Whatever excitement he feels, this is all on her: catch or no catch.
She does what he says out of instinct; it's been a long time since she had question to do anything but. Though it doesn't mean her technique is anywhere near flawless -- Ellie scrabbles after the reel, fingers fumbling at it. She braces the bottom of her shoe near the side of the boat, as if it give herself more leverage to haul her catch in.
It's a series of pulls and reeling, pausing as it fights against the line-- "Oh man, it's gotta be huge," -- rewarded by the sudden bob of the rod as the fish is pulled free of the water, swinging wildly in their direction.
"Oh shit!" She drops the angle of her rod. The fish thuds, gasping, into the bottom of the boat. It's not a terribly impressive catch, but don't tell her that.
There's a momentary pause as the pair of them eye her catch, just before he claps her on the back and moves to pin the underside of its jaw between his thumb and forefingers. Given his heavy hands, it's a task to find enough room to pull the hook free and keep her fish from leaping out the boat.
"Go ahead and open that tackle box so your breakfast can't bolt on us." It's empty. Drawers and compartments all gutted to turn it into storage for anything they pull up.
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Sure, he lumbers when he walks. Swings hard into punches and climbs with too much weight on his heels, but if there's one thing he's done enough times in his life to get right, climbing into a boat at the crack of dawn is one of them.
His boots and the tattered cuffs of his jeans are the only things that get wet, tilting the boat enough from the bank for his foot to balance on the dead center of it before shifting the other one right in. The kick from it sways them, but he's low and standing wide enough for it to hardly matter.
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Ellie's fingers don't quite uncurl until she's sure the boat won't buck up again. Because that's totally how physics works. "Does the motor in this thing still work?"
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"Sure, okay," she says, but is awfully slow about shifting around on the bench and leaning down to pry the oar up from where it's half lodged between the bow of the boat and where she's sitting. She pulls it up hand over hand, passing it off to him. Once the oar's out of her hands, her fingers set on the edge of the bench and grip there as she steels herself for the moment of shoving off.
"You're not planning to take this thing down river are you?"
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In truth it's not ever. The stillness of the lake is what he's aiming for, and lake trout don't care to stray far from deeper waters. He paddles out, swapping the oar from side to side and splashing water down across the tops of their shoes. Doesn't bother to stop till the house has shrunk down to more of a dark speck than something recognizable.
"There. That ought to do it." Joel eyes her bone-white knuckles before adding, "ever cast a line?"
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"Psh, have I ever cast a line," She scoffs and peels her fingers from the bench, feet shuffling around the tackle box and poles in the bottom of the boat. After a moment of steadying herself against the side, Ellie bends down to ungainly lift one of the rods up. She swings it around clumsily. "No, but how hard can it be."
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"If you want breakfast, you've gotta do this right."
He slides his hand down, nudges up against the spigot so her grip shifts into something lighter, something he can direct. "Drop that end in the water, get the line wet so it don't lock up on you."
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After a moment she brings it back up - it doesn't have to like, marinate or anything right? - and props the butt of the handle on her knee as she tips the pole vertical toward the sky.
"Now what?"
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"Other hand on the bottom. There you go. Just like that." One finger tugs down on the reel till it's angled forward, and he eases back to grab hold of the other rod, pulling it up into his own lap and checking the line. "Now, swing it back over your shoulder and toss it out lightly. Same way you handle that knife of yours."
He'd guide her arc, but he trusts her. That and if he's too close he knows he risks a hook to the eye.
All right, he mostly trusts her.
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"Aw what. Hold on--" Ellie hastily cranks the reel, the bob on the line jerking steadily backwards until it comes sweeping out of the water, hook and all swinging wildly back in their direction.
She catches the line without a second thought before the hook at the end can snag anywhere less than pleasant, seemingly unaware of how close she came to it. Jamming her tongue in her cheek, she swings it out a second time with marginally better results.
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He flinches when the sinker goes flying past, whips across to displace a few wayward strands of her hair. The way she's throwing it around she'll be lucky if she doesn't end up with a couple of new scars.
But Joel's not about to coddle her. One heavy sigh exhaled through his nose and he rolls his shoulder back to cast properly, lets the line draw out high over the lake till it splashes down and breaks the surface of he water a good ways away.
"Told you, kiddo."
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"Uh, that's kind of cheating," she says, carefully flicking the end of her line up over the side of the boat. She catches it again, fingers dancing around the sharp points of the hook as she steadies the pole. The next cast isn't perfect, but it's passable: punctuated by a light, easy flick of the wrist.
"How the hell d'you get yours out so far?"
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Joel scoots back sideways to straddle the bench, arms slack at the elbows to follow the steady rock of the boat without jerking the line, eyes still fixed on the bobber floating off in the distance. Hers keeps inching closer; she's getting the hang of it exactly like he figured she would.
"Y'know normally we'd be using bait," He'd managed the lines before he woke her, tying the bobbers, the sinkers, the hooks. Unearthed dust and grit left behind in the tackle box from 20 years of decay, where roe and worms unsurprisingly don't keep. "I reckon we'll do just fine without, but the next time we go at this I'll see if I can't dig something up before we jump in."
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"If there's no bait, why bother? Do they just hook themselves for fun?" She tugs faintly at her line. You're supposed to do that, right? Just mess around with it until something comes along and gets curious?
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"Easy, Ellie, easy. Movement's fine, but no fish alive is gonna jump around the way you're tugging on that line right now."
Counting out the rise and fall of the boat in the water, Joel jerks his wrist up at the highest point before going all loose as they settle back down.
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For a moment or two she settles, quiet as the boat sways gently in the water. Her technique is clumsy, but she's got a sharp eye; copying the gentle way Joel twitches his own fishin rod back isn't really rocket science anyway.
Then: "So how long does this usually take?"
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Sarah didn't sit still for it, either.
"--Trust me, the wait's worth it."
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Ellie tugs her line absently, quiet. She hugs the bench with her knees. "If you say so."
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Teasing her is all part of the fun. He doesn't expect her to shake her fear in the first hour of rowing out across a lake, but he doesn't have to keep his mouth shut in the middle of it either. Besides, after shaking off the aftermath of the university, the way he sees it neither of them really need that much quiet.
He catches sight of a few ripples not too far away from their bobbers.
"Gettin' close. Keep it up."
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So yeah. Little spooky.
She doesn't notice the ripples - for all her hyper focus on the water, the minute change in the surface doesn't register - but she does notice the sudden dip of one of the bobbers followed by a distinct tug at her line.
"Whoa! Whoa! What now? What do I do? Joel!"
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One hand settles behind her on the bench, he's looming over her shoulder with the fingers of his free hand twitching just near the spool in an effort to keep from interfering with her score. Whatever excitement he feels, this is all on her: catch or no catch.
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It's a series of pulls and reeling, pausing as it fights against the line-- "Oh man, it's gotta be huge," -- rewarded by the sudden bob of the rod as the fish is pulled free of the water, swinging wildly in their direction.
"Oh shit!" She drops the angle of her rod. The fish thuds, gasping, into the bottom of the boat. It's not a terribly impressive catch, but don't tell her that.
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"Go ahead and open that tackle box so your breakfast can't bolt on us." It's empty. Drawers and compartments all gutted to turn it into storage for anything they pull up.
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