He and my mother came to be situated on this pristine, spring fed gem a decade prior, relocating just a dozen or so miles from his early childhood home, citing early retirement and a need to get closer to aging family. Twenty-eight acres of glass-like reflection became his life-blood during that time. We fished for hours, day after day, with Dad taking painstaking measures to turn the out of balance mess into a trophy bass lake. After all, he liked to catch bass - big ones. Never did eat them, just caught 'em. He constantly invited friends to come fish with him, enjoying both the company and the fishing.

This day was not a particularly good fishing day - overcast, windy, with a March chill in the air. Dad's 57th birthday had been the day before, and so I made the hour's drive down to spend the day at the lake. The bass buggy waited patiently at the dock, trolling motor charged, gently tapping the passage of time against the wooden structure to the rhythm of the waves. I stood a few moments more, gazing at the wind-created ripples on the lake.

"We'd better go," I said, and we headed out the front door together.

I pulled the zipper up on my jacket; it was windier out on the water. Dad sat perched in the other seat while I maneuvered the boat over to one of our favorite holes, just off the point with the dead white oak tree.

"That one there's a widow maker," he had said for years, though the stubborn tree continued to outlast every wind storm that came through. I laughed one day at the thought of a contest between the two stubborn, weathered souls, each vowing not to be the first one to fall.

I looked at the tree now, remembering all the big bass caught and released under its shadow. Long, hot summer days and cool fall evenings just before the time change, when you could still fish until seven or even eight o'clock at night. Some of my most vivid memories center around fishing with my father on this lake.

My dad taught me to fish. It seemed it was always a contest - the first fish, the biggest fish, the most fish in any given day - even if the challenge was never formally made. And, always, there was the coaching.

"SET the hook, don't just reel faster! Keep your rod tip UP or you'll lose him again."

Then the ultimate time when I literally jerked the hat right off his balding head with a fly while learning to master the false cast from a boat! Yes, there were laughs, and a few choice words, but mostly there was fun. And even when they weren't biting, we had our colorful conversations and world-problem-solving debates to keep our minds off the fish we weren't catching.

Now, in the cool of the early not-yet-spring morning, I let euphoric recall show its hand as the memories floated past me in the clear, dark water. Lost in my reverie, I was not sure how long I had been sitting there.

I looked at Dad. "You ready?" I asked rhetorically.

I then reached not for my rod, but for the urn still perched on the other seat. We sat together in silence for how long I do not know, the lapping of the waves on the side of the boat marked the minutes left between us. It was time. Removing his ashes, I gave them a hug, said my personal good-byes and carefully balanced them on the side of the boat. I upended the bag, and watched through joyful tears as the creamy sand swirled and disappeared into the dark pool.

"I want you to feed me to the fish when this is over," he'd instructed one day as we sat at the breakfast bar overlooking the lake. He knew his battle with cancer would not last forever, and he wanted to assign this very important task to me, his fishing buddy and only child.

So I sat in the middle of the lake, empty urn in hand. "There you go, Dad," I whispered. "They can get you now."

And it was at that moment the cold March wind stopped blowing. The sun peeked through the clouds and a warm, faint breeze wafted by for just an instant. I smiled knowingly.