The Refinery

It’s Never Too Late for Redemption

The water gargled and trickled as it flowed around the cobble stone; the riffles of red, orange, and dark green were occasionally interrupted by a boulder and darkness just on the other side that quickly turned colorful again as the deep pocket once again became a cobbled river bed.

Patrick recognized those dark spots as prime fishing water. Although the change in flow interrupted the serene image of marbled stone under the water, trout loved the slow flow to conserve energy. Another perk? The water flowing around the rock was sure to bring food right to their doorstep.

The sun was high and warm, the water perfectly cold. It was late in the season, and the water was at a scenic depth. The trees on the shoreline towered above him, casting no shadow but providing a perfect wall to keep the breeze from holding back his cast. The flies he was casting were light, the line much heavier, even a slight breeze made hitting his target much more difficult.

Patrick was new to this hobby. Fly fishing was no easy endeavor. The entry into the activity was costly and the learning curve was steep, but that did not mean his zeal was quenched. He had always loved being outside, and this was the perfect thing for him to pursue. Up to this point, he had tried everything – bouncing back and forth between endeavors. But, this one seemed to stick and make difference. His goal? To improve as fast as possible to move past the learning phase.

He had a lot to learn, and that’s why he was here. Alone, in the mountains, applying the research he had done on technique and water reading in order to teach himself how to catch the fish hiding underneath the surface. He had a fly box filled with new flies. Enough line for three summers worth of fishing, and plenty of tools to get him out of a wide range of situations. His research had told him that he could never have enough stuff. Apparently the more equipment the better, but Patrick could not help but think about how difficult it was getting used to his kit and wondered if that statement was true. 

Patrick was jolted out of thought by a sudden splash in front of him. He looked down just in time to see the tail of a brown trout whisk the surface and slither down in the rocks, disappearing among the colored stones. He had missed the surfacing fish, but that’s ok, there would likely be dozens more that afternoon.

Thinking about what he was doing now, he finished sloppily tying on his fly, shrugged away his poor workmanship, and let his fly drop into the water, turning his attention upstream as he did so.

The sky was clear and blue, it was a perfect day. As far as he could see, not another soul was present in the river. It was only Patrick, the fish, and a perfect day to enjoy the water. He set his stance, feeling his thick waders press into his legs as he gripped the slippery cobble stone underneath him. His boots had a hefty sole, giving his feet plenty of support in the current. His pack was light, but filled to the brim, every pocket perfectly organized.

With what he considered to be grace, he pulled back the nine-foot rod and performed a few casts over his head, allowing the line to extend and gain momentum. After a few back and forths in the sky, making sure to hold perfect form, he finally delivered his strike. 

His target was a strip of slow moving water along the bank maybe eight feet long. The smooth water churned with potential as it flowed underneath some low hanging brush. His goal was to land his fly at the start of the water that looked so productive, giving any fish waiting under the surface plenty of time to react. He watched the water as his fly gently cascaded towards the surface, missing the branches over the water and filling Patrick with confidence as his caddis glided onto the water with so little as a ripple.

He watched intently as his perfect cast travelled through the zone without a hitch, almost guaranteeing a strike, fluttering on top of the water, perfectly imitating the insect it was meant to. Any second he expected something to target his fly, but the slot passed by with no reaction, not even a flash from anything lying in wait underneath the surface.

Patrick squinted his eyes. He understood that what he was doing involved patience and sometimes failure, but that was the best shot he could have delivered. How did he miss? He shook his head and continued his casting, this time, hoping for a little more attention, he decided to aim directly for the water under the shrubbery. This, he hoped, would bring more attention to his lure.

The line whistling above his head as it made its pass soared through the air, directly at where he was aimed, allowing Patrick just enough time to admire his accuracy before the fly wrapped itself around an overhanging branch, dissipating his pride. He made a face and grumbled, realizing that now, he would have to walk right through the perfect fishing spot to retrieve his fly. He paused, thinking about how he could get it untangled without spoiling the smooth water underneath it. But, after a few moments, he began the stumbling trudge through the moving water.

Before long and without a lack of frustration, Patrick was now standing in the middle of the river eyeing a collection of boulders with several churning pockets just behind them and forgetting about the last few minutes of struggling in the water with his hands in the bushes. Whipping the line out of the water, utilizing the length of his rod to do so, the line took a roundabout way into the sky, creating a thin wave in the air. A few trips back and forth above his head resulted in the fly once again heading directly towards its target.

The heavy line landed first, allowing the fly and thinner line to circle around above the water and land gracefully into the feeding trough. As the fly tickled the surface, Patrick heard a car door slam, and, all of a sudden, was transported to a place he knew all too well.

It was dark, only a street light illuminated the cracked sidewalk around Patrick and Veronica. Patrick had been driving and the passenger car door had just slammed. The asphalt was still warm underneath their feet as they stood in a quiet part of their small town. Veronica was fed up. “How could you do this to me?” She yelled at Patrick who was leaning over the hood of the car, utilizing it to support the weight he no longer wanted to hold up.

Patrick had spent the last few weeks carrying on two relationships, and Veronica had just found out about the other. In response to his girlfriend, he said nothing, which only made things worse.

“How could you do this?” She asked again, this time expecting an answer. No answer would be given. Patrick knew what he did was wrong, but no words could communicate how much he understood, nor how much he enjoyed it. Patrick wanted as much pleasure as possible, and he knew Veronica was someone he could spend his life with. But, he could not restrain himself from the temptation of variety.

The thud of Veronica’s foot making contact with his bumper was followed by her footsteps quickening and slowly dissipating in the gravel as she disparagingly walked away from Patrick and their relationship, her quiet sobs growing louder as she distances herself.

Those footsteps slowly morphed back into the flow of the river as Patrick’s present environment once again took hold. He shook his head. He had hoped to forget what he had done. His new life, the one he was living, was free of those things. He wanted those decisions to disappear, but they continued to make an appearance. Now, to his relief, he was once again standing in the cool, flowing water, and he quickly started scanning the water again for his prize.

An abnormality in the water stole his attention, his eyes darted left. It was another trout, surfacing next to a rock he had been fishing. How did he manage to keep missing these fish? He was fishing the right spots, but he was failing to catch what he was after. He decided it was time to buckle down. Now along the bank, he could see a spot along the opposite bank with slow moving water. It was shallower, but he knew there would be fish in that pocket.

Letting out more line, he prepared for a long cast he knew would be side swiped by the faster water in the middle of the river. He brought his rod forward, allowing the line to pull tight for a good cast. Bringing the tip of the rod up, the line left the water, dripping on its way up. He proceeded to perform his normal cast, allowing the line to coast above his head in the space between strokes until he finally let it go.

Once again, the fly landed gently on the surface, creating a natural ripple in all directions as it made contact and sat nice and tall on top of the slow water he was aiming for. But, as Patrick knew it would, the current in the middle of the river took control, pulling the floating line faster than the fly, leading to an accelerated float, one that would surely prevent any fish from striking. Patrick angrily pulled the rod back, ripping the fly out of the water and getting it caught in a tree behind him.

As the fly became stuck in a branch, he once again was transported out of the river and into another setting. This time he had to settle himself into his dream, or was he actually there?

Now, he was at his favorite bar, but not in good shape. The memory of this night would be reconstructed after the haze of alcohol had dissipated.

The lighting was low, the neon lights advertising different beer brands created a haunting haze across the wood paneling on the walls. Setting his glass down with a clinky thud on the wooden bar, he slid off the stool he had been on for the last few hours. The few people left in the bar mostly ignored him as he stumbled towards the door bumping into the occasional obstacle. The sound of his feet swished across the wooden floor more than they thudded. Making it out the door, he dizzily found his truck parked towards the middle of the lot.

Fumbling for his keys, he clicked the unlock button and lit up the interior of his truck which he knew he would need in order to successfully climb into the driver’s seat. He missed the first few tries, but eventually found the ignition key hole and turned the truck on, letting the muffler-free engine roar to life. Pulling down the shifter, he drove out of the lot, narrowly missing the stop sign right next to a gas station clock that read 1:57 AM.

His night would end with Patrick in a jail cell, his truck totaled in a ditch, and the people he loved most surrendering him to the world after years of attempting to convince him of his life’s trajectory if nothing changed.

Patrick’s heart rate rose, his breathing accelerated. He shook his head, and with a jolt, he was back in the river, knee deep in the water, leaning on a boulder for support. He looked up towards the trees above him, the breeze only slightly moving the branches. He felt it in his face evaporating the nervous sweat from his forehead.

He panted for a second, allowing the water to slow his heart rate as he remembered where he was, and why he was out here. He looked at the gold reel just below his right hand. It was wound with a bright green line that extended down the black fly rod, his dry fly skipped on the water as the current whipped underneath it.

The life he was living now, it was a far cry from the life he had lived. He was a different man, but why didn’t he always feel that way? It came in waves. There would be times where his memories would remind him of his past, his mistakes. So why, right now in the middle of this river in a picturesque landscape, were those memories coming back to haunt him?

He looked at the water and reached his hand down, letting his fingers dip just below the surface before reaching his whole hand in and splashing his face, hoping to shake some sense into himself. As the water dripped from his nose, he heard footsteps on the gravel above.

“How you doin?” Came the voice of an obviously older man.

Patrick looked up to see a trim man standing above him. He was wearing waders and had a net strapped to his back. His rod was held in his left hand and his right held a paper bag. His hair was white and matched his remarkably thick beard. His skin was tan, but not sun damaged. His long sleeve shirt was a dark green and almost matched the tan color of his waders. His outfit was topped off with a white and ragged, round brimmed hat.

His face was calm, as if inviting conversation. 

Patrick stood up and cleared his throat. “I’m doing great, how are you?”

“Hmm, you don’t seem like you’re doing too good.” His comment teemed with calm inquisition.

Patrick knew he was not doing well at that moment, but he did not know how he felt about this conversation. So, frozen in thought, he said nothing but instead watched the older man in front of him.

The man looked up towards the trees, presumably watching them waver back and forth in the breeze, as if he would regret looking away. “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you join me for lunch?” He held up the paper bag, it crinkled as he did so.

Patrick thought for a second. It was lunchtime, and he realized that he had forgotten to eat all morning. Time passed much quicker on the river than anywhere else. He looked again at the paper bag in the man’s hand, did he mean to share his lunch? It didn’t matter, Patrick had his own.

He nodded, “Yea I could use lunch.” The man motioned towards the other side of the river and jumped into the water next to Patrick, splashing waist deep and holding his bag above the water so as to not get it wet.

“Well, let’s go then!” 

Reasoning through his next decision, Patrick thought he should be more careful about who he talked to. What were this man’s intentions? But, something about him did not scare Patrick away.

He did not understand why, but Patrick had no qualms about following this man. He seemed to know what he was doing, so he tailed him about 50 yards down river, retracing the steps he had just taken up river, until they came to a long patch of bramble. It was inconspicuous and surrounded by thick trees. From the outside, it seemed like a patch of land that would be unusable and unenjoyable. Patrick had passed this exact spot some time ago thinking nothing of it.

“Follow me!” The man seemed excited. Tucking the paper bag under one arm, he reached both hands into the brush, creating a gap in the foliage just big enough to squeeze through. Looking over the man’s shoulder, Patrick could see a large, flat rock face on the other side. The man stepped up onto the bank, ducking his head through the branches and disappearing behind the bush, leaving Patrick alone in the river.

He thought for a second. Was this a setup? What did this guy have in mind to do with him? He had no idea who this man was, but was blindly following him into a bush on the river. He shrugged his shoulders, what was life without a little adventure?

Having tucked his rod into his vest, Patrick reached his right hand into the same area the man had just travelled through, he pushed through the prickly foliage and pulled aside the branches, partly revealing the rock slab he had noticed earlier on the other side. Reaching his other hand in to make a way, he tucked his head down to avoid getting his face scratched by the harsh brush. He did not look up until he had crossed through to the other side. When he was sure the risk of getting poked in the eye was passed, he let his eyes draw upward to see where they were. And it was nothing he had expected to see

The rock slab he had seen from outside was large and smooth, like the river had chosen to smooth only that rock face. The slab was surrounded by color. Flowers of all kinds sprouted and grew along the edges and off into the trees. Honeybees, butterflies, and colorful insects across the spectrum buzzed around them creating a sort of symphony beneath the pines with the songbirds carrying the melody. Looking up towards the thick trees that surrounded them, it seemed as if those trees created a new landscape. The sunlight filtered through the pine branches in a way that caused the air to glow around them, pollen and dust creating texture in the sky. It was like nowhere Patrick had ever been. He instantly felt as if his worries had disappeared.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” The man’s voice broke the busy silence.

Patrick shifted his attention to the sprawled out man before him. His vest sat behind him, folded neatly with his rod resting on top. The man himself sat upright with his legs stretched out in front of him. The paper bag that had been in his hand was now laid down with a simple meal of a sandwich, apple, and can of soda on top of the remarkably flat surface. The man gently tapped the spot next him, signaling Patrick to join him.

For the next several minutes, neither of them said anything. Instead, their lunches beckoned to them. Patrick had failed to recognize how hungry he was. Fishing seemed to distract him from his own desires, but every now and then he now recognized that he would need to take a break. Patrick allowed a few moments to pass before digging into his own meal of beef jerky, a can of juice, and a turkey sandwich. The two of them ate in silence, only the sounds of them chewing interrupted the beautiful scene around them. As the chewing slowed, conversation took its place.

“Do you fish here very often?” The old man began first.

Patrick shook his head, “One of my first times actually. I’m still new to this whole fly fishing thing.”

“Oh yeah? How long have you been doing this whole fly fishing thing?” The question was tainted with sarcasm.

“Only a few months. I’ve tried a lot of different hobbies. I’m hoping this one sticks.”

The old man just nodded, as if he understood Patrick’s statement. 

“How about you? Do you fish here often?”

The old man just shrugged, “I do. I’ve been coming to this river for years now. I never really counted how many years it’s been.” He started to laugh, “Let’s just say it’s been a long time. I don’t want to make myself seem too old.”

Patrick just smiled. This man was endearing. He was easy to talk to and Patrick felt strangely comfortable with him. Another pause in the conversation allowed Patrick to once again enjoy where they were. He watched as a bumble bee bounced from flower to flower, latching onto them as they swayed in the breeze and rubbing its legs all over the surface, collecting all the pollen it could before bouncing to the next. 

The songbirds in the branches above them filled the natural silence with something graceful. The breeze only slightly rubbed the pine needles together, creating a percussion while everything else sang along. 

“You said you have tried a lot of different things. I want to ask you something. You’re not just referring to hobbies are you?” The tone switched from sarcastic and playful to longingly inquisitive.

Patrick did not immediately reply. The depth of the question stood out from the surface level small talk he was used to in most conversations. His guard went up in response. He looked at the man, scanning for any sense of deception, but he could find none. His tone seemed to be understanding.

Patrick looked down at his feet, quickly looking for an answer that would hide his shame. But, failing to grasp one, he answered, “No, I’m not.”

The old man nodded. “Hm. And when I ran into you in the river, you were having a moment. It would not have anything to do with said things?”

This man saw right through Patrick. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of.”

The man allowed a smile to take over a small corner of his mouth while the rest of his face brought peace. “You and a lot of other people my friend.” He paused. “Let’s sit here for another moment, and then we will fish together.”

A few more moments passed by. Patrick thought about how this man had found him, hunched over in the river, on the verge of some sort of breakdown. Yet, here he was, not shying away from conversation, and seemingly enjoying lunch with Patrick. Breaking his eyes away from his feet, he noticed a monarch perched atop a daisy. Its glowing wings flickering in the wind as it stabilized itself. 

A few more moments passed by before anyone said anything, “Alright,” The man grunted as he crinkled up his paper bag and shoved it into his pocket. He stood up, reaching down a hand to Patrick as he made it to his feet. “Let’s go.”

Patrick reached his hand to meet the other, much rougher, hand in front of him. Being lifted to his feet, they snuck back through the brush, stepping carefully into the stony water, and began fishing once more. This time rejuvenated and with full bellies. 

Patrick had already fished this water, so he knew a few good spots. Deciding to make his way just slightly up river to another patch of brush, the same patch he had become stuck in earlier, he set his feet in the cobblestone and began false casting, once again aiming to sling his fly just under the brush.

Whipping the line through the air, he sent it careening towards his aim spot just under the brush. At the last second, a small breeze grabbed the fly and lifted it above the water, placing it gently in the brush. Quickly, Patrick became frustrated. Not knowing why or where his sudden outburst originated, he angrily yanked the rod tip back, breaking off his fly and leaving it for future fisherman to find.

The old man glanced in his direction, noticing something more than just a lost fly. “How’s it going over there?” He asked.

“Just great.” Came Patrick’s reply as he somehow still seethed with frustration. 

The man laughed, “Ok.” His legs pushed water out of the way as he made his way over to Patrick. “You’re aiming for the brush right?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, here’s the deal. You can’t aim for the brush itself. You see that water above it? How it funnels underneath?”

Patrick looked to see what he meant. The water that would end up underneath the brush did not initially look castable. It looked too rough, like it would sink his fly before allowing it to float where he needed it to. 

“Look closely.” he encouraged.

As Patrick watched, he noticed a seam of water up stream from the brush. A rock underneath the surface was creating a small pocket of smooth, fast moving water that gave him enough space to cast into. If he hit it, his fly would float directly into the strike zone. Patrick tilted his head, “Yea, I do.” He sounded surprised.

“Sometimes you have to let the river do the work for you young man.” The man turned around and walked off to his next spot. Patrick watched as he walked smoothly over the cobblestone.

Turning his attention to the slot of water above the brush, he carefully began casting once more, gently tugging the line back and forth through the air, aiming for the ripple that would guide his fly underneath the brush. With one final throw, he sent his fly towards his target, and missed. It was swallowed quickly by the white water surrounding it. 

“You won’t always get it the first time!” Came a muffled yell from up river. The old man was facing away from Patrick, how did he know he would miss?

Scrunching his brow, Patrick began his false casting once more, this time he was able to watch his fly drop gently right into the slot and kept his eye on it as it traveled through the trout water he had disrupted earlier. With a quick splash and a flash to accompany it, Patrick felt the tug at the end of his rod and jerked it quickly upright, setting the hook into the mouth of the fish he had been chasing all day.

With vigor, he fumbled his hands as he reached to ensure his net was ready for action, battling the fish as it darted in and out of the current. Being careful not to put too much pressure on the animal, he reeled in his prize and scooped it out of open water and into an enclosure where he would be admired for a few minutes.

Carefully and awkwardly, Patrick made his way to shore, keeping the fish in the water and in the net until he was safely sitting on a boulder letting the water run around his shins. He watched as the clear water washed over the silvery and brown scales, quickly disguising and then revealing the yellow and red dots that gave the fish its color. For a brief moment, Patrick felt as if he had finally achieved what he had desired for the day.

As he watched the fish slowly swim off, dropping into the rocks as it did so and practically disappearing, he felt at ease. But, that would only last a little while longer. As he sat there on the rock, feeling the water press the waders into his legs, he was transported once more, this time he was lying on his couch, the orange sunset sunlight revealing the dust floating in the air of his one bedroom apartment. The lines of sunlight creating a kaleidoscope in his musty home.

He looked down towards his coffee table to see several bottles lying on the floor, a few standing on the table itself. His most recent bender had ensured that he only left his home to go to the liquor store, but by this point, it was all he understood now. He had disappointed too many people, caused too much pain, all in the pursuit of his own happiness. He could no longer bear it.

He stood up, staggering as he did so, steadying himself just enough to make it to the refrigerator to grab another beer. Cracking the lid off, he sat back down on the couch and took a sip. By this point, it all tasted the same, but he was not drinking for the taste. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if he would have a job when he had gotten his fill. It did not matter to Patrick, whatever happened, he would find a way to make it work. Instead of worrying, he just enjoyed the buzz and let it ride.

With a startle and a jolt, he was back in the river, the now cooler air blowing lightly on his face. He felt a gruff hand on his back as he shook his head, attempting to remove the memory from his mind’s eye. 

“You alright?” Came the old man’s concerned voice. He was once again right next to Patrick.

Patrick cleared his throat. “Yea, I’m alright.” he shifted his body as he spoke.

In a moment of clarity, the old man spoke words of wisdom, “You know, everyone has done things they regret, and those things come with consequences. But, your new life, the one you’re currently living,” He gestured to the scene in front of them. “To me, it doesn’t look like they define you anymore. You can let them go.” 

Patrick nodded, “Easier said than done.” 

The man just smiled, “But if you’ve been freed from them, it’s necessary.”

He considered this man’s words, and thought them true. But why and how was this old man saying exactly what needed to be said? Patrick turned to see this man standing just up river facing Patrick. His wrinkled face radiated peace and contentment. “Who are you?”

The man thought for a second, a corner smile sneaking onto his face. “We have met before. It’s just been a while.” And standing up, he said, “I’m going to move up river for a bit. Would you want to join me?” Patrick considered his offer. He had not realized it, but he had been stuck fishing in the spot he was in right now, all day. He had not moved. 

Patrick felt his outlook change. Somehow, the man’s words made him feel less stuck, as if the invitation was an invitation out of his self-inflicted misery. This man had shamelessly met him there and stayed with him without complaint or comment as if his aim was not primarily fishing, but also Patrick himself. 

Patrick looked up, seeing the sun still mostly high, but beginning to dip beneath the tops of the trees. With a few more hours of daylight, they would be able to get a lot of fishing done, and it seemed this man had a lot of experience on the river to offer. But, as Patrick thought, the longer he was around this man, the more he seemed to recognize him, as if they had met before. The longer he thought, the more he realized his day had become much less about fishing and much more about moving past many of the mistakes he had made in his life. The man standing next to him, although initially causing Patrick’s guard to go up, had proven himself to be someone only interested in Patrick’s well-being. 

After a moment of deep consideration, Patrick made up his mind. “You lead the way.”

The man reached a hand down to lift Patrick off of the ground. Now on his feet, Patrick asked the man, “Where to now?”

“Follow me!” Commanded the man excitedly. The two of them walked smoothly over the cobble stone, enjoying every second of the rest of the day until the sun crested the ridge and their day ran out of light, not only ending the day, but also giving Patrick a new perspective on the life he was living. For new life, one must not turn back to the old.