There is something about the smell of salty air and slippery squid bait that acts as the quickest catalyst to recalled memories of my youth—more than any other sensory perception. I stood over the rail of the boat, listening to the seagulls hover above, pulling anchovies out of buckets and hooking them through the eye—I hadn’t done this since I was 9, but it brought back those early mornings perfectly.

It was still dark out—the only light came from tiny orange bulbs in lamps along the sidewalk. I hated waking up in such darkness—the Kuala-like part of me that craves a lot of sleep was apparent at a young age—but loved what it would reveal after the length of a truck ride.

I remember the hats, netted in the back, with logos on the front. Trucker hats, all of them, neatly hung from a rack in the room leading to the porch—like a woman might overzealously care for her expensive shoes, so my Pop-pop cradled his hats—a neatly aligned collection out for display. He too would choose his accessory well for the day’s adventure, which otherwise would have just been cut-offs and a plaid button-down.

Aside from my standard dingy pair of Keds and a ill-fitted cardigan, I cared very little about what I wore to go fishing. My always glamorous grandmother would be screeching at me to comb through my hair, to match my outfit, to put on my newer sneakers, but I wouldn’t listen—everything would just get filthy anyway and I just wanted to begin the daily summer ceremony of slamming the pick-up truck door and hearing that engine rev.

In a few moments we’d be at sea, just in time to catch the mauve and yellow sun rising above the horizon.

The cracked, half-rotted board walk became a path to something unlike the rest of my days. Surrounded by water, smoothed over rocks and sand, it was simple, quiet, and thoughtful. Walking along the creaking slabs of wood, I felt older and wiser. Each step meant I was further from chaos and closer to peace. The sure-footed jump that I’d need to take onto the gripped platform of our rocking boat was the first time I’d be exposed to the thrill of danger (and the most alluring part of our morning excursions)—if I lost my footing, I’d fall into water as dark as the midnight sky, but if I landed safely, if I hopped at the right time and balanced perfectly against the strong, aged arm of my Pop-pop, my heart beat would slow down and our day of fishing could begin with ease.

I gained muscle and agility from these trips—having to spread my weight evenly into a rooted stance so I could help carry the cooler of Bohemia, the rods, and the bait; so that when the time came to reel in a fish I could do it on my own, although I always let out a girly squeal when the fish was finally pulled up out of the water. I’d look on with a blend of fascination and disgust for the slimy little creatures—a moment of triumph and then defeat when it wasn’t big enough to keep.

But at the time, I didn’t really think about any part of the picture, not the way things looked or smelled, but rather the dreamy landscapes I got to wander off too when it was just the two of us out on the ocean. I didn’t think about any sort of danger, nor of the upcoming school year, nor my friends and family…I didn’t think that one day my Pop-pop wouldn’t be able to fish anymore—that he would lose a leg and lung to cancer…

The world seems vast when you’re looking at a blank horizon, and I just dreamed about the places we could travel on that tiny boat…always so far from whence I came…