Narrator: Moana T. | South Island, New Zealand
My uncle and I were fishing from a little aluminium boat. Nothing remote or adventurous. We could see other boats on the lake.
There was a knock against the hull. Then another, farther forward. My uncle lifted the anchor rope to see if it was rubbing underneath us. It hung straight down.
I knocked twice on the side with my knuckles. Something knocked twice underneath my seat.
We both laughed. I did it again, a more complicated rhythm. The answer came back exactly. You could feel it through your shoes.
My uncle said, “Enough now,” and reached for the motor. A hand-sized patch in the bottom of the boat bulged upwards. It held for a moment, then went flat with a metallic pop.
He started the motor on the first pull. I’ve never been so grateful for a machine working properly.
He refuses to discuss it. I’m the opposite. I’d like someone to tell me what could make a sound that deliberate. I don’t go out on that lake anymore, but I spend a surprising amount of time looking at it.
