2001-04-26 - 8:46 p.m.

some of the dialogue here is approximate.

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I go to the beach. I walk out along the big stone slabs, down along the beach in the direction of the beacon that�s hanging over the lake at the end of a long stone path. I�ve been here a hundred times, but I�ve never realized until now that it�s shaped like a hook. And I never imagined until now that there would be so many people fishing off the edge at five on a Thursday. I hoist myself up from the sand onto the surface rather than walk around.

Up ahead there are four guys in their 20s motioning over the edge. The wind has apparently blown one guy�s tackle box and chairs over the edge.

�I�m gonna go get it.�

�That water�s fuckin� cold, man. Don�t do it.�

�That�s hundreds of dollars worth of stuff down there, man.�

While the rest have continued fishing, he has stripped to his underwear and is beginning to lower himself over the ledge, which goes about six feet down to the water.

�Is he gonna do it?�

�You�re crazy, man. Don�t do it.�

I am staring over the edge with them, caught up in the suspense of the moment. It�s so warm up here that I�ve taken off my overshirt and tied it around my waste. The shirt is just an old thing that this guy gave me in Virginia because he didn�t like flannels.

�Hey, man. If I go in there, can I wear that that sweater?� he asks me.

I tell him sure, even though it�s not a sweater. He is very concerned about the coldness of the water. Down at the beach, where the water doesn�t go past your knee, it�s not too bad, but to plunge your whole body in and search around for a tackle box is something else.

One guy lowers a pole down to him to help him fish out a few pieces floating around. Another guy doesn�t want him to use his pole.

�Do what you want with your own stuff, man, but don�t mess with my stuff,� he says as he baits another line.

Now the guy down at the water is standing up somehow, I can�t see what he�s holding onto but there must be another ledge down there. He�s pumping himself up for the plunge.

�Do it, man.�

�Shut up. I have to pace myself.�

�Just shoot right down there, grab the stuff and pull it back up.�

�I know. I know.�

He stands there for a while, building up for the big moment, some of us wondering if it can really be that big a deal, if he could really get hypothermia down there if it�s so warm up here.

�You have to be ready to pull me up.�

�All right, man. We�ll be here.�

And then I look away and look back a moment later and he�s disappeared, leaving a swarm of white bubbles where he dove. And a few seconds later he�s back up again, and he�s got something, a tackle box. But he�s breathing so heavy and he�s trying to lift it onto the ledge in front of him but for some reason he can�t.

�Get out of there, man. Get out of there.�

�I�have to�putontheclasp,� he sputters as he fumbles with the clasp. Then he�s got it up on the ledge, and he�s up out of the water himself, and he hands up the tackle box and two guys pull him up, one arm apiece.

He starts pacing around and I give him the shirt and he starts talking about how that was only half his stuff, he�s got all his tackles down there, that you can only catch certain kinds of fish with what he�s dredged up but there�s a whole bunch more down there, all together in one spot right where he could find it, and if he could just dive down there one more time and scoop it up and push himself off and get out of there, he�ll be fine.

One guy is raising his voice in protest. Another friend has already wandered off because he�s nervous about them swimming illegally. Other people along the pier are starting to take an interest in all the commotion.

�I can do it. I know right where it is.�

�It�s not worth your life, man. You can buy new stuff.�

�Come on, man. I can do it.�

�Just do it and let�s get out of here.�

�Don�t tell him that.�

�People were fishing just fine before we got here. Somebody�s gonna call the cops.�

But he makes his way down there again and stares into the blue water. He can�t see that big pile of tackle he saw before, in fact it looks like it�s all drifting away. All it looks like he could get are two old beach chairs that fell down with the box, and they�re not worth much anyway. But he�ll stare down at the water for a while, and he�ll grab the two chairs when his friend pulls them from the bottom with a fishing pole. And then his friends will lift up his goosebumped body, and he�ll shiver around for a bit and put on that old shirt and thank me again. And he�ll go home and wonder why he was so stupid to put his chair so close to the water, and why didn�t he grab the other tackles when he was right there and had the chance, and he can imagine them so clearly down there that it feels like he could go right back down there and scoop them back up, but then he�ll realize that they�re already scattered across the floor of Lake Michigan forever.

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