RadioProfile | The Gods of the Corner

Demanded to a delirious change of schemes, alleged infallible theses in the field of common education, without any possibility of glimpsing even the venerable remains of so many so-called classes, of which the maxims, ironies and clear reasons of my old teachers still shake me, I resort, like many, to the search for an archetype, perhaps in aid of my simple daily process. Rod fishing gave me, among other things, the pleasure of finding and carefully keeping one: the Englishman Izaak Walton.

From his calm anonymity that was, fortunately, overcome by the heat of his dialogues and stories, I drew, already at the beginning of my readings, a custom, or perhaps a rite, which was fishing, the constant search for corners, of a corner in which there would be a possibility of exchange between the spirit and the environment that surrounded me. That we could both, mentally, switch roles. This is how I came to have my favorite corner. What’s more, patient talks with my brothers warned me that I am not the only one in these findings and, consequently, neither is I the only joyful one of that blessedness.

I try to describe a simple bend in a stream in the Second Section of the Delta, whose name is still undefined, since it is called Aguaje de la Laguna Laura or del Marqués, Capitancito or Duraznillo. More than half a century has elapsed since the day I first paddled and paddled across it. From that initial appointment, a huge Moorish heron remained, clear in my memory, which spread its wings, flew and perched, tirelessly, always within sight of our bow. An almost secret place at the time, it abounded in cannon feats of any kind. It is today that it holds the maximum weight in dorados for the region, captured by trap, that is, with a tied leash and tied to a flexible but resistant branch.

Over the years I renewed my fleet and came to visit him almost every week. Many times alone, I would moor the boat in my corner, that “First Horqueta”. There were the mojarras and their executioners the dorados, tarariras, manduvas and some surubí. On the other hand, the big bogas, in the middle of January, preferred the veins of fresh water from their deep pools.

But the corner was and will be one of the pages of my intimate diary. In those solitudes I encouraged myself to the riskiest self-analysis. Each being chooses his own payment, although there was a time, which seems very brief to me, in which I shared it with my brother; Later, my son arrived, but it is difficult to combine two generations so far apart in an instant. Despite this, they were also happy moments, and, among all of them, I choose the one I am counting now.

It was February and the holidays. Mom, dad and the kids. The girl was reaching for bluebells from her honeysuckles; her father glimpsed the possibility of a tell-tale tail slap; and the child had plunged into a biscuit from which only the mother could rescue him. Finally, on the neighboring shore and in the still water, a fleeting cut of gold and a wake indicated the presence so desired and sought. Soon, the floating rod propelled the buoyon with the live crappie. Everything happened as in “fast motion”. The rig shot toward the reeds, and at the first stroke of the rod, it veered dizzyingly into the deep water. At the same time, “the Benjamin” of the family who shouted:

– I got it, dad! I nailed it! He is a gold!

The man perfected calming the boy, exalted in his novice fisherman’s gesture, and continued attending to the trip of his own buoy, which went, returned and disappeared. The entire crew joined the raging fight. It was a beautiful piece and he was about to break free several times. Finally, with his arm cramping, the man bagged the fish in the hand net, and in silence, with intimate satisfaction, he raised it to the boat, to remove the hook, savor that moment that tastes of glory, and return to his Medium to yellow colossus.

Only then did he pay attention to his son’s request, who, withdrawn, waited submissively, for his time to come.

-Dad, can I fish for my dorado now?

I could not believe it. With his beginner’s rod, my son had another copy on, since before my bite; and frightened by the unjust postponement of his father, I had kept, with the still rod, the development of my fight with the other fish.

Precisely, as I write these lines, the obvious mistake is repeated, and the unease that invaded me and that barely made me collaborate, with all the affection possible, yes, in the task of the little one who, finally, and by the grace of the gods of the chosen corner, came to a very happy term. Then I put my hand on his little golden head and I could hardly say:

-It’s bigger than mine! Congratulations!

All the characters were changing; but the fork remains the same; and the scene is minutely repeated. On the condition that for this, I must arrive at the place in absolute solitude, and stay with the rod in my hand, waiting for some black heron and other inexplicable fishing.

Text by Rodolfo Perri

by Juan Ferrari