Fishing Weather

Dawn at the ramp, the sky already sweating. I’m standing over the console with three weather apps open, their screens glowing like tiny prophets who can’t agree on lunch. One says clear skies, one says thunderstorms, and one—boldly—says “undefined.” I average them together.

“That’s how real science works,” I announce, thumb smudged with sunscreen and denial.

Dave peers over my shoulder. “So what’s the call?”

“Consensus achieved,” I say. “Partly legendary with a chance of glory.”

He looks toward the horizon—thick, metallic, the color of regret reheated. The flag by the marina is flapping in Morse code for turn back, but I’m busy explaining my system.

“I’ve triangulated three forecasts into certainty,” I tell him. “Meteorological fusion. Statistical optimism. Thirty percent chance of rain means seventy percent chance of legend.”

Dave opens his mouth, closes it, checks the sky again. “You can’t just—”

“Confidence,” I interrupt, “is the barometer of destiny.”

Forecast math says 89% of fishermen see “partly cloudy” as “go time.” I intend to uphold that proud tradition.

The air smells of ozone and misplaced confidence. A humid promise curls off the water. The boat engine coughs awake, a grumpy omen ignored. We load the cooler, skip the rain gear—again—and declare ourselves ready for greatness or electrocution, whichever comes first.

As we idle away from the dock, the light sharpens to a pewter sheen. Clouds stack like paperwork no one intends to finish.

Dave watches a bolt flicker somewhere inland. “You sure about this?”

“Lightning’s just nature doing a sound check,” I say.

Dave nods. “Good—means the headliner’s about to cancel.”

The first wind gust slaps the hat off my head. I pretend it’s tactical. “Airflow testing,” I mutter, retrieving it with dignity that fools no one.

Rain begins as a polite applause on the bow. The surface freckles, darkens, gathers momentum. Dave pulls his hood tight. I raise my drink to the sky, condensation mingling with drizzle. “That’s just applause,” I tell him, smiling like a man endorsed by thunder.

The cooler rattles; cans clink like backup percussion. The smell of wet aluminum mixes with fuel and bravado. I check the radar again, as if pixels could justify stubbornness. The storm cell pulses red, approaching like a deadline.

“Think it’ll miss us?” Dave asks.

“It can try,” I say. “But I’ve already scheduled sunshine for noon.”

The boat rocks gently, wind shifting, temperature dropping fast. The clouds thicken until the world turns the color of wet metal. Somewhere out there, bass are diving deep, smarter than us by several evolutionary laps.

A low rumble rolls across the lake—long, theatrical, perfectly timed.

“That rumble?” I say, lifting my chin. “Applause.”

Dave shakes his head, grinning despite himself.

Then lightning cracks—a white vein across the bruised sky, clean and arrogant. The flash catches in my sunglasses, sharp as truth. For a second I see everything: our tiny boat, our big talk, the sheer comedy of belief against weather.

I raise the can again, salute the storm. “Encore.”

Forecast: mostly delusional with scattered insight.