Fatal Wounds and Hand-Tied Flies

There was once a boy with a fatal wound who decided to go fishing instead of die. His is an incredible story. Frankly I'm surprised it didn't garner more national attention.

Young Nathan P. Halloran, an avid catch-and-release fly fisherman, (do you say "fisherboy"?) was walking to school one morning when he was suddenly mashed practically in two by a runaway road grader. I happened to be nearby, sleeping off a drunk beneath a main street overpass, and bore sole witness.

Nathan gazed down with some dismay at his now translucent abdomen. "Well, this is a most disappointing turn of events." He mumbled to himself. Nathan was an intelligent young lad with a precise and distinct way of speaking. He read at a tenth grade level, a full three grades higher than his age would ordinarily dictate.

Nathan's plan was to become an underwater photographer and filmmaker when he grew up. Since the age of seven he'd been doing pre-production and research for what was to be his first film, a documentary titled: Trout - Silent Glory Beneath the Eddies of America.

I didn't figure he had much of a chance of doing that now. Even a correspondence course in underwater photography is going to take a month or two to complete. By my calculations Nathan had about seventeen seconds to live - give or take six seconds. But then he did something astonishing. Nathan scowled resolutely and lurched himself up onto his elbows.
"No," His voice was calm. "I'm not going to die. I'm going fly fishing." And with that he began dragging himself towards a distant river.

At that point my mind's voices just absolutely started shrieking. For the first time in my life I was stunned into immobility. I stood breathless and trembling on the concrete slope, trying to decide if I should help carry him to a riverbank or not. Would assistance cheapen his accomplishment? But wait, listen to myself, that boy is almost in halves; he's little more than a torso tugging at a pelvis. How on earth is he even going to... but yet, look at that determination. I've never seen so much determination. Perhaps he actually can--

Nineteen seconds later Nathan was dead. "Hey, I was close, only two seconds off." Part of me whispered. The rest of me started craving booze and amnesia like never before.

Somber paramedics did their job. I stood and watched them from the shadow of that overpass. I mumbled Dwight Yoakam songs to myself as tears traced trails through my man-mascara and down my stubbled jaw. And somewhere a thousand trout beached themselves in sorrow.