Trust

“How'd you miss that frog, Doc?” There was a tinge of irritation in Ezra's voice.

No use making an excuse. I steadied my balance, planting both feet astride the flat-bottomed boat and squeezed my eyes shut to stop the stinging. Sweat ran over my brow, down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. It had a bitter, coppery taste from the headlamp.

“That's awright. Don't worry about it. I'll put you on another one.”

Ezra could be a demanding teacher, but he was also practical. Razzing me wasn't going to put more frogs in the boat. There were half a dozen in a burlap bag behind me. In spite of countless forays hunting and fishing together in the marsh, frogging was new to me.

I opened my eyes and replanted my feet in anticipation of our moving. He eased his paddle over the side of the boat and pushed us forward out of the thick algae and grass.

“Let's go over there. Should be some frogs in those lily pads, Doc.”

A click followed by the soft electric purr of the trolling motor, and Ezra maneuvered us into open water. The din of insect sounds subsided as our movement created a little artificial breeze. By then I had stopped thinking about the mosquitoes. I stood over the front of the boat holding a 10-foot pole tipped with a spring-action gig, concentrating on keeping my balance and looking for the reflection of frog eyes in my headlight.

The nighttime marsh was alternately black and silver. Overhead, little patches of spring sky shone, and occasionally the moon could be seen peeping through heavy clouds. It might rain. My headlight …