He Fished Every Morning of Summer. And Was Home by 7 A.M.

So I began dressing, even making coffee, in a shed beside our house. This allowed me to roll from bed and out the door in silence, wearing little more than my underwear. I’d programmed the coffee maker outside to begin brewing precisely nine minutes before my bedside alarm rang. The timing, perfected over weeks, ensured a piping-hot beverage but spared my wife the familiar — but singularly sleep-depriving — gurgle and aroma of fresh brewed coffee. My clothes, fishing gear, even creamer and a stirring spoon, were laid out just-so the night before.

By the time I hit the water each morning, I was caffeinated and ecstatic. More often than not, a soft orange glow had crept onto the horizon, fading seamlessly into the starry blue of the…

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