I sit in a quiet class, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair that I've been in for what feels like an eternity. I quit paying attention hours ago, my mind can’t help but daydream about all the things I’d rather be doing. Trying not to let myself fall asleep, I pull out my maize and blue duct tape wallet with its faded colors and ragged edges.

     I start shuffling through it to remind myself of all the expired coupons that I still hold, then I see it. The dull orange card with its shiny laminated exterior, my fishing license. I can’t help but take the card out and examine it, despite already knowing what it reads. A flood of young memories come rushing through my brain, memories of standing at the flat water of my grandma’s lake, listening to birds’ echoing screams from across the water. The smell of the morning dew rises up all around me, occasionally broken up by the subtle, but still putrid fragrance of rotting fish on the shore. I hold onto my rod and reel intently, eagerly waiting for that trophy bass to emerge from the shiny depths below. Oh how I wish I could be swaying with the breeze, casting with the wind, but instead I sit here, staring at the small card in my hand, waiting for the next time I’ll get to use it.

     The sound rattles my ears, the sound that has eluded me for 7 hours, followed by the rustling of students and backpacks. Almost immediately, the classroom is filled with the roar of voices as students are funneled one by one through the narrow doorway. Every drop in the sea of students is eager to join the river that flows through the hallway and out the doors. I swiftly make my way to the blindingly yellow bus, its doors open as if to warmly invite everyone inside.

     I don’t have to wait long before the doors slam shut as the big human shipping container growls then begins to roll onto the road. On the way home, the wind blowing angrily in my face, throwing my hair in all directions, I see the pond with its crystalline water and murky brown shore. My heart races in excitement as I know that in just a few short minutes I'll be standing on the bank, reel in hand, ready to land a big one. There’s a chance I could stand in the hot sun, baking like a potato chip for hours without catching anything, but the joy of catching one is worth the risk of failure.

     I arrive home, immediately heading for the garage to gather my fishing gear. I choose my rod carefully, after a long discussion with myself I decide that I will go with the open reel route. Once everything is ready, I step inside, noticing my attire as I spot the mirror from across the room. “I can’t fish in this!” I think to myself as I quickly run upstairs, grab my very best dry fit shirt and slip into it in a moment’s notice. Satisfied with the outfit, I open the garage door as it hits me that I forgot to put on my bucket hat. It sits in its usual place, atop my tackle shelf, I feel as though I’m ready to take on any fish when I wear the hat.

     My ride drops me off in front of the large, green, body of water that I’ve been dreaming about all day. The sun is a soft warm feeling on my skin, a stark contrast to the cool whips of the wind. I take a deep breath as I take in the smell of the water, an indescribable scent that brings me immediat joy. I walk around, scouting out my options before stopping to set up in between the cattails and the concrete pipe which brings in cool water from the stream that flows through. I smile wide, then cast.

     It won’t be long before I’m sitting in class again, uninterested in the current subject, flipping through my wallet to pass the time. The usual things will be there, expired coupons, old gift cards, loose change, but there’s one thing that always stops me in my tracks. The sight of that shiny orange card, the card which means time in the great outdoors, just me, the water and the fish below.