Man's capacity for faith is infinite. He is able to believe with passion
in things invisible. He can achieve a fantastic confidence in the
Unknowable. Here he sits on the breakwater near the Municipal Pier, a
fishpole in his hand, staring patiently into the agate-colored water. He
can see nothing. The lake is enormous. It contains thousands of square
miles of water.
And yet this man is possessed of an unshakable faith that by some
mysterious legerdemain of chance a fish, with ten thousand square miles of
water to swim in safely, will seek out the little minnow less than an inch
in length which he has lowered beside the breakwater. And so, the victim
of preposterous conviction, he sits and eyes the tip of his fishpole with
unflagging hope.
It is warm. The sun spreads a brightly colored but uncomfortable woolen
blanket over their heads. A tepid breeze, reminiscent of cinders, whirl
idly over the warm cement. Strung along the pier are a hundred figures,
all in identical postures. They sit in defiance of all logic, all
mathematics. For it is easy to calculate that if there are a half million
fish in Lake Michigan and each fish displaces less than five cubic inches
of water there would be only two and a half million cubic inches of fish
altogether lost in an expanse containing at least eight hundred billion
cubic inches of water. Therefore, the chance of one fish being at any one
particular spot are one in four hundred thousand. In other words, the odds
against each of these strangely patient men watching the ends of their
fishpoles--the odds against their catching a fish--are four hundred
thousand to one.
* * * * *
It is therefore somewhat amazing to stand and watch what happens along the
sunny breakwater. Every three minutes one of the poles jerks out of the
water with a wriggling prize on the hook.
"How are they coming?" we ask.
"Oh, so, so," answers one of the fishermen and points mutely to a string
of several dozen perch floating under his feet in the water.
Thus does man, by virtue of his faith, rise above the science of
mathematics and the barriers of logic. Thus is his fantastic belief in
things unseen and easily disproved vindicated. He catches fish where by
the law of probabilities there should be no fish. With the whole lake
stretching mockingly before him he sits consumed with a preposterous, a
fanatical faith in the little half-inch minnow dangling at the end of his
line.
The hours pass. The sun grows hotter. The piles of stone and steel along
the lake front seem to waver. From the distant streets come faint noises.
On a hot day the city is as appealing as a half-cooled cinder patch. Poor
devils in factories, poor devils in stores, in offices. One must sigh
thinking of them. Life is even vaster than the lake in which these
fishermen fish. And happiness is mathematically elusive as the fish for
which the fishermen wait. And yet--
An old man with a battered face. A young man with a battered face. Silent,
stoical, battered-looking men with fishpoles. A hundred, two hundred, they
sit staring into the water of the lake as if they were looking for
something. For fish? Incredible. One does not sit like this watching for
something to become visible. Why? Because then there would be an air of
suspense about the watcher. He would grow nervous after an hour, when the
thing remained still invisible, and finally he would fall into hysterics
and unquestionably shriek.
And these men grow calmer. Then what are they looking at, hour after hour,
under the hot sun? Nothing. They are letting the rhythm of water and sky
lull them into a sleep--a surcease from living. This is a very poetical
thing for a hundred battered-looking men to attempt. Yet life may be as
intimidating to honest, unimaginative ones as to their self-styled
superiors.
There are many types fishing. But all of them look soiled. Idlers,
workers, unhappy ones--they come to forget, to let the agate eye of the
lake stare them into a few hours of oblivion.
But there is something else. Long ago men hunted and fished to keep alive.
They fought with animals and sat with empty stomachs staring at the water,
not in quest of Nirvanas but of fish. So now, after ages and ages have
passed, there is left a vague memory of this in the minds of these
fishermen. This memory makes them still feel a certain thrill in the
business of pursuit. Even as they sit, stoical and inanimate, forgetful of
unpaid bills, unfinished and never-to-be-finished plans--there comes this
curious thrill. A mouth tugs at the little minnow. The pole jerks
electrically in the hand. Something alive is on the hook. And the
fisherman for an instant recovers his past. He is Ab, fighting with an
evening meal off the coast of Wales, two glacial periods ago. His body
quivers, his muscles set, his eyes flash.
Zip! The line leaps out of the water. Another monster of the deep, whose
conquest is necessary for the survival of the race of man, has been
overcome. There he hangs, writhing on a hook! There he swings toward his
triumphant foe, and the hand of the fisherman on the municipal breakwater,
trembling with mysterious elation, closes about the wet, firm body of an
outraged perch.
* * * * *
A make-believe hunt that now bears the name of sport. Yes, but not always.
Here is one with a red, battered face and a curiously practical air about
him. He is putting his fish in a basket and counting them. Two dozen
perch.
"Want to sell them?"
He shakes his head.
"What are you going to do with them?"
He looks up and grins slowly. Then he points to his lips with his fingers
and makes signs. This means he is dumb. He places his hand over his
stomach and grins again. He is going to eat them. It is time to go home
and do this, so he puts up his fishpole and packs his primitive
paraphernalia--a tin can, a rusty spike, a bamboo pole.
Here is one, then, who, in the heart of the steel forest called
civilization, still seeks out long forgotten ways of keeping life in his
body. He hunts for fish.
The sun slides down the sky. The fishermen begin to pack up. They walk
with their heads down and bent forward like number 7s. They raise their
eyes occasionally to the piles of stone and steel that mark the city
front. Back to their troubles and their cinder patch, but--and this is a
curious fact--their eyes gleam with hope and curiosity.