I adjust my sunglasses and steer out of our slip. “We thought it was a nice day for it. Isn’t that right, Nick?” Nick agrees, I think, as we drift past other boats and other boaters, and everyone waves. Happy families. Lucky friends. Assholes who shit-talk my boat behind my back. Friendly strangers I’ll never see again. They wave as we pass, and I nod or wave back. Once we clear the marina, I hit the gas and relax.

If my old man could see me now.

When we arrive at my most reliable cove, I distribute gear and fix my line and prepare to cast—but the boys are holding their rods like a couple of children playing with sticks, so I say to Jonah, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to tie a lure.”

He shrugs. “Had to make room in my brain for all of that valuable college crap, Dad.”

“Give it to me.” I hold out my hand, resigned and reluctant, and dig through my tackle box for another bucktail. “We should be able to catch some bluefish. Snapper aren’t biting yet.”

Jonah’s doing something on his phone. Nick is shaking a rock from his shoe.

“You know, when I was a kid, I went fishing with my father every Sunday.”

“Here we go again,” Jonah moans.

“Oh, you’ve heard this before, have you?” I ask and toss him a Coke. His generation finds it cute to tease their fathers. I’d have gotten the belt for smarting off like that to mine.

“A million versions,” he says. “We’re not that weird, Dad. I don’t know too many people our age who are big into fishing.” He snickers.

I say, a bit too eagerly, “Nick fishes.”

Jonah laughs. “No he doesn’t.”

We both look to Nick, who shrugs. “I mean, I’ve fished.”

I force a grin. “Well, you sure did fool me. That pike story was convincing.”

“Oh, I caught it. I did. That was when I was in Canada on this wilderness camp thing.”

“Wilderness camp, huh?” I laugh.

Jonah glares at me.

“What?” I ask, still smiling. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of nerdy. You seem a little old for camp in that photo, Nick.”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“It’s okay,” Nick says. “It’s this, like, outdoor program for grieving teens. My school did a fundraiser and sent me there when I was sixteen. I’ve gone back a couple of times to volunteer. Pass it on, you know? That photo was from last year’s trip: my year of the fish.” He laughs and gives up on his lure. “I hate to be a moron, but I think I may need some help with this, Dr. Hart.”