It was almost dawn, he walked down the grassy slope toward the dock. A fishing pole in one hand, a Thermos of hot coffee in the other. There are a few clouds in the sky, shining a brilliant shade of orange as the sun made its way over the horizon. It was only on rare occasions that Phil could spend the early morning hours fishing.

The old wood planks creaked as he stepped on. He placed the pole and Thermos down in the boat. Making a quick visual check that the oars and anchor were in place. Dropping to a knee as he untied the bow line from the cleat. He turned his head to get another view over the lake, the reflection of the sun starting to become visible. A small wave crashed on the shore, pulling the boat and the end of the rope line from his hand. He got on his stomach so that he could reach down to the water line to rescue it. When he saw his reflection in the water, he was barely able to make out the figure above him. In that instant he knew he was not going fishing today.