Chapter 1:Winter
You start by listening for the inevitable, fatal, crack of the ice. It will come unsuspectingly, like a gunshot, out of nowhere. Just a matter of your feet planted on the wrong spot.
One shoe goes out in front of you, like you are about to stand on glass of an unknown thickness. You hesitate to let the other shoe leave the shore. One foot in the grave. Straddling a fence. Half and half. This ice is slippery, worse than glass, because glass would not melt at the mere friction of your soft soled sneaker.
But the man is standing in front of you, extending his hand. You do not want to seem afraid; ice fishing requires a select set of skills. Patience and sturdiness on ice being the top. Conversation would be a plus, and you are still not sure about your reticent partner. Early mornings, earlier than the commuters even, early enough to watch the sunrise over the frozen Pond. This benefit is stronger than anything else you could put a price on. (Opportunity cost)
You are afraid. Afraid to slide across the ice, forward, knocking him down. Afraid to slide straight down, landing on a variety of points on your body that were never accustomed to any calculation of psi. Afraid the wind will take you back, catch your coat like a sail, pulling you back to shore and humiliating you. Afraid that now gravity is acting against you on all sides, pulling on you like the ocean, like that wave off the island. The one that made you think of death, of life, of how fragile your body was against the current of angry water.
But onward you go, taking little steps. Your friend has already gotten smaller with the distance he has put between the two of you. But it is hard to tell how far, the ice offers you no perspective. Maybe he’s halfway across already. You keep your focus on balance and use all the muscles you can to keep your legs rigid and bending inward against the slip which would carry one foot into an unnatural position.
He’s so casual. Does this all the time. This freeze doesn’t seem to bother him. The tips of your ears are giving you a headache, maybe if you broke them off like potato chips, it might not hurt as much. Your nose, your eyes. Nothing is warm. And he keeps walking. Maybe he will be the one to go through the ice. And you will have the moral obligation to save him. Lie on your belly on the frigid ice, your whole body sticking to it like a tongue on a flagpole. Crystals forming into claws, making you a prisoner.
And then it hits you, the further out you go, the further it will be from shore.
475, 10/31/13, 11:14am
1486 words at 11:14am
1486 words into project
