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This will probably get buried because I'm not great at writing stories, and this is so god-damn long. Sorry for that 🙂

Love strikes back

The Attic of a Haunted House

The Attic of a Haunted House, part II

I wrote this story under the category of "memories of youth" because this story is my experience of my personal experiences in my youth.

I love myself next to you!

There is snow in the Sahara, as seen in images captured through the years. This legendary desert saw only a few snowstorms during the last decades. And once with me there.

Snowflakes in the Sahara Desert

My dad was an ardent fisherman, and when I was a child – and I am the only child – for him, it didn't matter whether we shared his passion with mum; we just had to love fishing as h

Memories of Our Lake

It’s the very beginning of the 80s and I just got home from University for winter break. I broke up with my SO over a year ago, had the worst sex in my life with the first girl I had a hint of feelings for, and was not looking for a relationship.

I had never experienced love before and was uncertain if it even existed. My focus was on achieving academic success, having worked tirelessly to attend a prestigious university and now striving to be accepted into a good graduate school. As a result, I believed that relationships were too time-consuming and did not anticipate falling in love. Who's got time for relationships, right?

So, my buddy and I were chilling during winter break, and he suggested we hit up one of those fancy movie theaters where you can dine while you watch the movie. After a bit of back and forth, I reluctantly agreed to see The Empire Strikes Back. At the time, I was still determining if I'd enjoy it.

Anyway, we get to the theater and holy shit, in the huge bar/lounge area, there's this super cute/handsome waitress. Like, way out of my league. I'm pretty awkward in social situations and have never really considered myself attractive, but apparently, my friends say I have "ugly duckling syndrome" going on. I was ugly in high school, but I guess I'm less shitty now.

As we walk past her, I make sure not to look up at her and quickly look away when she looks up. But when I think it's safe, I turn around to steal one last glance at her, and we make eye contact because we both did a double take at the same time. Whoops! (Later I find out she was checking out my ass. How charming.)

So, I make my way into the theater and we settle in for the previews. My pal is all up in my business, asking about my last quarter, but I'm too busy gushing about how smoking hot that girl is to give him a straight answer. I mean, there are only four people in the whole theater, so why not?

Suddenly, a waitress comes into the theater and takes the order of the other people. As she stands up, I realize it's the same girl was drooling over earlier. Oh shit. I wasn't even planning to order anything.

She comes over and squats down by my legs. Get a grip, man. "Hey, my name is...um, I didn't catch your name. What would you like?" I scramble to figure out what I want and eventually settle on some peanut M&amp;M's. She brings them over and I desperately want to see her again, so I push the button and order a Kit Kat bar. And then I push it again and ask for two cups of water. All in all, I ended up spending $4 on overpriced candy. Not great, considering I still need to buy Christmas presents.

And now nature's calling, so I must take a leak. I get up and head out of the theater, and all of a sudden, I hear this voice behind me: "Can I help you?" Holy shit, she scared me!

I'm so caught off guard that all I can manage to say is, "Oh god. Sorry. You scared me." Smooth, right?

She laughs and asks how the movie is. I try to act cool and say, "It's good, it's good. Yeah..." but then there's an awkward silence. So, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: "You're wearing TWO sets of glasses!" Whaaaatt?

She looks confused for a second, but then she realizes what I'm talking about. "Oh yeah, this is so I can watch the Comin' At Ya movie in 3D. I love those movies."

"Me too! I really like 3D," I reply. We chat about 3D movies and a few other things for a while, but then the urge to pee becomes overwhelming.

"Alright, well it was nice meeting you!" I say, trying to escape as quickly as possible.

In the restroom, I resolve to pen my number on the bill or napkin. Whatever! She won't ring, though. How mortifying! But it's worth a try, isn't it? Precisely. You miss every opportunity you don't seize, or something like that. Now, I've lingered too long in the lavatory, praying I don't bump into her.

Rounding the bend back to my cinema hall, she's there, opening the door to distribute the checks. "Hello!" I greet with a wave.

"Uh, hi!" she stammers, perhaps anxiously?

Drawing nearer, I inquire, "Which one is mine? I'll grab it now."

"No, don't fret, I got it," she responds.

"Don't be absurd. I'll just carry it in.”

I spot my bill, with another sheet of paper atop it, bearing some writing. A cautious grin forms on my face as I collect the receipts and read the message. Hey, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but you're adorable, and you seem worth getting acquainted with. Perhaps call me at some point? 555-12345.

She's blushing, and I'm grinning from ear to ear. I confess, "No need to worry. I had the same thought." I jot my phone number on her copy, make an awkward remark about tipping being strange now, and leave a 30% tip — my mind isn't quite functioning. Then I dash back into the theater to update my friend.

We exchange texts for a while and agree on a café for our inaugural rendezvous. I'm not old enough for drinks, as I'm 20. Later, I discover that she's 24 and works at the theater in addition to her regular office job to earn some supplementary income.

The beginning of our first date was dreadful. We just sat there sipping tea, as neither of us actually liked coffee. Every now and then, interview-like questions were sprinkled amidst our sips, while the rest of the time was filled with uncomfortable silence.

"I'm terrible at this whole sitting and chatting thing. I'm clueless. I don't do this. I don't know how. Can we go for a walk?" She agrees, "Yeah, sure."

After walking three blocks, I realize that I need a break. Darn.

"Hey, I need to pause in that shadowy area. And I need you to face the other way and not ask any questions. Alright? I promise I won't harm or rob you. Just focus on that tree."

We repeat this process several times and walk back to my car, then wander around for miles, walking for five hours straight. It's freezing, but we don't mind. Eventually, after five hours, we do care and head back to the café for an hour to warm up. We converse about everything and even discover that we've watched the same TV shows. She's genuinely witty and intelligent. By now, it's 1 am, and the coffee shop is closing.

I escort her to the car, and we share a farewell hug. It's a bit awkward, but it doesn't feel right to kiss just yet.

On our subsequent dates, we stroll around my neighborhood for hours — six hours on the next date, then three. We simply talk and learn about each other. In the weeks that follow, his hot-and-cold demeanor drives me up the wall, frustrating me like never before. My friend questions whether I'm in love, but I dismiss the idea, claiming it's absurd since I've just met her. I wonder if I'm deceiving both him and myself but decide not to dwell on it.

We go on four more dates, eventually agreeing to stay in touch despite the 2,000-mile distance. Surprisingly, we do. We end up calling for six hours at a stretch, with time seeming to fly by. A few months later, she asks me to be her boyfriend.

We've been together for a few years. It may not be a long time for some, but I've never been in a committed relationship for more than six months before.

I was sitting on a swing in the yard when Joe, my neighbor, ran up and shouted, “Take off, dude, we gotta run!”

It was true. When those butchers from the Higher Lands are coming to bust your ass, you better run. When attacked immediately in the neighborhood, you better not look back. I didn’t feel like taking the fight with any of them, so I quickly backed down where my eyes led me.&nbsp;&nbsp;

I hardly remember myself on the way out of trouble, but I do remember how insulting and bossy they treated me in school, meaty bastards. I actually knew where I was sweeping to – an abandoned house on Flip Street, 39, a “haunted house,” as we called it. None of us had the guts to go there alone – ever, which seemed my only escape as I approached it meticulously focused on what was happening behind my sweating ass. The house was right in front. There was no entrance door – in total gloom, I stumbled upon the threshold, falling down the pissed rotting wood. Crawling in complete darkness, I bumped into something – I&nbsp; remember there was a punching bag in there hanging very low. I managed to punch it with my forehead.&nbsp;

Then, when I sporadically tried to grope the stairs, a growing set of muffled steps echoed in my ears. I froze for a moment before returning myself to the scene – somehow, I numbed my desire to cry, and finally, I got on the stairs.

I then pulled out the screw on the hole cover, which only we had known, and climbed into the attic.

When in there, I looked down the stairs, trying to infiltrate a sound in that tremendously gloomy silence but heard nothing. I shut the cover tight, found a brick pile, and put a brick on, then another one, and another.

This happened to be my shelter, which I never ever in the most terrific nightmare expected it to be. But everything changes, and now I'm shaking, thinking about my dire situation.

It was gross, and it was a real mess. I wanted to put things together, fumbled around – got buried myself in an old coat that I could lie comfortably on. I was still all ears, but I wanted to eliminate that burden. I wanted to be deaf rather than shivering. Or dead. The slightest rustle in the dark wouldn't escape my ear. Suddenly, I heard a burst of laughter, not from the outside but somewhere under my feet. I listened attentively, and no doubt it was a distinct girlish chuckle.&nbsp;

I pressed the ear to the floor and heard a muted voice, and she was telling jokes or something. She obviously wasn't a quirky gal amusing herself in a wrecked house in the middle of the night. I desperately wanted to see what was going on under me. In fact, I wanted to know how that girl looked.&nbsp;

I found a doornail and poked a hole between the two timber planks, allowing me to see what was happening there. In a thin, fading afterglow of candlelight, I saw nothing but construction debris. Compulsively, I begin screwing another hole, a wider one this time, just a few feet to the left. Obsessed with the girl, I completely forgot about the chase – those jerks might have lost me.&nbsp;

When my eyes got used to the gloom, I spotted a shade of a female silhouette. Actually, there were two. Yet, I had nothing to tickle my ego with. Thanks to the well-rotted wood, I made a hole almost fist-size, ensuring nobody heard me. This time I could recognize two gals sitting on the floor, one opposite the other. The waves of fading candlelight spread around, flowing over reflecting objects, so I could barely see them. But I was sure the one sitting closer was a natural beauty. She had fairy hair falling down her shoulders in a chaotic laxity. She was wearing a white tee and shorts. Finally, the light fell on her chest, and my eagle’s sight indicated she wasn't wearing a bra. Her tee firmly embraced her curves, and her humps with jutting-out nipples were staring right at me.

I wished I could have seen more of her body back then! She was mumbling something about her mom if I got it right. The second girl, who I couldn’t see, was silent, but her shade occasionally nodded.

I bet they had no idea someone was hiding in the attic and watching them. I preferred nothing would reveal my presence.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Then, the invisible girl showed up with the crown of her head haloed in gold – she sat in the chair right under. I thought I knew that blonde.

She leaned back and took out a cigarette. I thought to myself that I knew her. Was she Trisha? Yep, it was her. One of the most popular girls at school, she was tall – she used to play libero in the school volleyball team. Though, I'd never talked to her because she wouldn't even look at me. I once saw Trisha beating the shit out of some other chick, and she was an accurate puncher. But her worst weapon was her tongue. She could make fun of anyone mocking less attractive girls, calling names, whatever. But what the heck were they doing there at night?&nbsp;

They both were right below me, but the room was huge, and I couldn't hear them properly. Nor did I want to reveal my presence, though.&nbsp;

Trisha kept listening, stretching her long legs wrapped in tight black leggings so I could enjoy their beauty well enough. She was wearing an oversized, half-unbuttoned white man's shirt with the sleeves rolled up casually. The light was chaotically falling on her, so I could catch a moment to observe her. I could not see her angelic face perfectly reconstructed in my pubertal mind, but I saw her black or brown bra hiding her tiny breasts.&nbsp;

The other gal, who was wearing pink colored hair, was still sitting on the floor. She had boobs and was touching them occasionally, and I thought she liked her touch. Once, she even squeezed the right boobie so hard I couldn't resist staring at her and fantasizing about you know what. I stared at her perineum and hoped she wasn’t wearing any panties.

However, some perpetual articulation didn't bother her examining her significant god-given assets. Those manipulations were extremely arousing. There was a fresh bruise on the inner thigh, which she pinched a few times – perhaps, wanting to show how it hurt. Then she pulled down the edge of her shorts to inspect another bruise below the waistline. It was hell getting hotter out there. I felt like sitting in the movies for adults. But gee, she got me horny. I exhaled loudly. I don't know whether pinky gal heard it, but she looked up at the ceiling. Not this would have frightened me, but rather my cemented balls that disturbed me much. I quieted down while she continued her examination. She took off her shorts, and only now, when she remained in her pastel panties, I realized she was drunk. She then sat on her knees, all shivering a little. An absolutely splendid view that I got!

The gals were having fun, and I wish I weren’t too scared to join them instead of observing from above! Pinky had a great ass and great boobs, but her facial features were average, or maybe it was just a bad light. But I could care less about her face. I couldn't see her pussy though but imagined her silky pubic hair tickling my stomach.

She was saying something about a guy named Greg, or his name was Harry – I couldn’t get exactly the name of a guy who dumped her twice or something like that. Trisha was lying in a chair, saying nothing. She was touching her hair regularly like she was nervous, but I hoped she would be more precise with inspecting her body. She definitely had much to offer, but perhaps she wasn't drunk enough to expose herself.&nbsp;

I was waiting for Pinky to examine her pubis – back then, I had never seen a nude female body in real life. I was so stuck to their vaginas that I thought of nothing else. I wish I had more light in there! Pinky was short, but her tanned body was so attractive in its perfect shape that I wanted to touch her all my life.&nbsp;

However, I saw Trisha's back leaning over, reaching for something behind her. Now I could see her crotch in tights. I loved what I saw. The image of this young flesh was a revelation of mine. “That's what they do when nobody sees them,” flashed through my brain.&nbsp;

I felt like shit confronting my natural volition to have them both here and now, and I felt handicapped, desperately wanting to help myself with a hand, but I suppressed that feeling.&nbsp;

Trisha, meanwhile, took out a large oval mirror and put it on the floor. She then turned it a little and got closer to her. I was anticipating some ecstatic moves from her, but what was next would have never come to my mind.&nbsp;

Trisha took off her leggings, sat on the floor in her black panties, and spread her legs a little, looking at her crotch. She embraced the mirror with her legs – I thought this peephole would swallow me entirely.&nbsp;

Something magical in this hole made me so horny, although, to my regret, Trisha didn't take off her tee, even though it wasn't cold inside. Maybe because I was wrapped in a coat?

Most likely commenting on Trisha's magnificent looks, Pinky touched her arm and kissed the ear lobe. Trisha chuckled. Pinky stood on her knees and giggled, too, then she landed her firm buttocks between Trisha's legs in front of the old scratched mirror, leaning her back against Trisha’s chest.

Trisha now started melting with pleasure, I assumed.

Both gals seemingly enjoyed each other. At least, what I thought back then, and what I’m thinking now, is that it wasn’t their first time together. Although I couldn’t see their reflections in the mirror, it bothered me the least as I could see the sexiest gals I had ever seen in my entire life.

Pinky sluggishly bent down the mirror, revealing her neat creamy panties and sexy lumbar. Her tits shook up, and only then Trisha couldn’t resist any longer – she hugged Pinky from the back and kissed her on her neck. Busty sweety shivered a little, leaned back at Trisha’s chest – they were kissing.&nbsp;

I sneezed. As if on cue, they both turned their heads up. Realizing I was exposed, I laid on my back and closed my eyes. I didn’t doubt that Trisha would smash my face, and I decided it was easier to die lying on the rotten floor. Closing my eyes, I convinced myself that I was sleeping. Could a guy sneeze in&nbsp; sleep? That's it – I was dreaming and couldn’t make any sound. Moving closer to the hole, I saw Trisha and Pinky kept cuddling as if nothing had happened.&nbsp;

Pinky spread her legs a little wider, and I saw the groin, with Trisha’s palm patting the belly of her mate. I had already liked her pink hair and would have enjoyed anything about her, especially her boobies. I could hardly wait for her to take off the shirt. I wish they could figure out how to light 100 more candles as a minimum.&nbsp;

Soon I realized that my erection had never ended since Trisha had gotten rid of her leggings, having just elevated from contemplating them both.

Even if they showed up here together, I wouldn’t be pretending that I haven’t seen anything – it just wouldn't work. Ha-ha.

And then, getting to the point, I heard indistinct, “What are you looking at, you little pervert?”

I recoiled into the dark – I thought she accompanied those words with a menacing cry. I didn't know what I'd got to do – should I stay or should I go? Frankly, no power on Earth could force me to do the latter.

But when I got closer to the peephole, girlfriends looked at each other, twittering something nice; I supposed they had nothing to do with me here upstairs.&nbsp;

Again, I stared at Pinky's crotch, covered with a large Trisha's palm. She turned a little, and the edge of her panties shifted, and I saw her beautiful round ass right up. She stood on her knees while Pinky was lying on her back – their firstly sluggish passion had somehow rekindled. Or was it me who turned them on?&nbsp;

The thin lacy fabric of Trisha's panties has affected my sight as Pinky's boobs did. I wish they both were completely naked!&nbsp;

Pinky put her arms on Trisha's back, yet both were chuckling, kissing, and kissing and chuckling. I'm sure they knew I was spying on them, and one of the pieces of evidence was their louder winning, and the sounds they made were a little flashy, mainly those sophisticated groans.&nbsp;

“No way they would ever stop,” I thought, trying to catch each moment of that real-time performance – enjoy a free ride, pal! All I wanted was my fear and their clothes to vanish.

I looked at them now with increasingly expected anticipation of a more intimate approach of two young girls playing with one another. I decided to keep it to myself no matter what awaited me. What I had already seen was never enough for a 17-year-old, but now I'm sure it's too much for a guy in his 50s. Trisha squeezed Pinky's tits through the cloth, licked her lips, and whispered something tender.

I couldn't take my eyes off them both, trying to remember each delicate move, so astounding it was in its grace. Involuntarily, I laid my eyes on Trisha's ass and couldn't move, begging for her mercy. Meanwhile, Pinky grabbed that ass with her tiny hands and put her fingers under the pants, trying to pull them down. Trisha lazily shook that ass, not letting the imminent happen too quickly. She was still in the man's shirt, though, but it in no way hindered my job.

But her panties moved down even faster than I had thought, and now Trisha's pussy was in my sight. She abruptly lifted Pinky's tee and carefully started kissing her nipples. Unfortunately, the light was dim, and I couldn't have taken the whole picture, but I was happy even with that piece.

Pinky ran her fingers under Trisha's shirt. She pulled it over, and her breasts were before my eyes. That was the first time I saw her small tits so close, even from an uncomfortable angle. I remember thinking she wouldn't have played for the school team if she had been busty.&nbsp;

“Yet she's beautiful,” I thought and turned away. For a moment, I felt embarrassed, as if I saw my sister posing. I tried to get myself together for a few minutes, but clearly, I didn't want to stop even though I felt pissed off. Since I'd caught Trisha's glimpse, I no longer felt secure.

But it was a true story, as close as it could have been. And I did want to get much more intimate. I think I almost physically sensed that tactile language, and seeing Trisha caressing the girl all over her body was a growing torture. And watching the calibrated moves of her hips was unbearable, too.

However, Trisha’s gentleness was mesmerizing – how she looked at Pinky was touching, and it pleased me more than intimacy. Yes, I liked them both, but I knew I was being superfluous, and by embedding this awareness, I demolished my essence. Soon I realized that Trisha was trying to drag herself from the stage while I was dragging myself from despair.

I pulled myself away to reflect back on what had happened that night. I was lying on the floor, hearing their dull moans only.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

When I finally decided to throw a glance and go into the night, I saw Pinky lying all naked when suddenly Trisha turned her head to the ceiling and shouted, “Not a word, you little pervert!”

&nbsp;
I often think about human relationships. As someone who has experienced many useless relationships in his youth and has tasted true love once, let me write a few lines about this.&nbsp;&nbsp;
First, when we say to someone, I love you, it means: "I love myself next to you." That's why we feel light and happy when we are in a love relationship because we are next to someone. which gives us a good feeling and makes us love ourselves. . When we love ourselves, life becomes more beautiful in our eyes and it is as if a burden has been lifted from our shoulders. Of course, I've found that this is true not only of romantic relationships, but of many other things as well. For example, when we say "I enjoy Paris" it means "I enjoy myself in Paris" or when we say "I enjoy walking" it means "I enjoy myself while walking"&nbsp;
This point is more pronounced in love relationships. Suppose I am in a relationship with a woman. She tells me, "You are my love," "You are my life," "You are my soul." By saying these words, she creates an identity for us, and we enjoy that identity. The lover gives identity to the lover. We like to have identity. This is the reason why people are looking for money, prestige, social status, emotional relationships and forming a family. Because these become part of our identity anyway. Of course, I am not rich and I do not have a social status to be able to judge how much their influence is on our identity. . But I have been in love. My wife and I were really in love with each other and after her death, I was hit hard.&nbsp;
As I said, the lover gives identity to the beloved and that is why we feel identityless when we are betrayed.&nbsp;
Suppose a person has been in a relationship many times and has been betrayed and failed many times. After some time, he will have an identity crisis. And this identity crisis scares him, and every time he wants to enter into a new relationship, he feels that a sign has been installed above that relationship, which has written the expiration date of that relationship.&nbsp;
Or, for example, I have thought a lot about why some men or women cheat despite having a good and beautiful partner. One reason is diversity. When we start a new relationship, there is a lot of excitement at first. We are curious, we love excitement, we love to discover. We love to experience new things. New relationships and new bodies are attractive to us, but when we think we've discovered them, it's like we're done and we have to move on to the next project.&nbsp;&nbsp; Suppose a man gets married and after a while he feels that he knows all about his wife , and there is nothing new to discover, and this may make him bored and start looking for a new relationship, and that relationship then After a short period of time, it makes him bored and then another new relationship. And of course, I have understood that those who are addicted to diversity are not at peace and are more prone to identity crisis.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
We must discover this bug in ourselves to end this vicious circle somewhere.&nbsp;
We must understand that every day there is something new in our wives/husbands that we can discover. Just as after years of living with our parents or siblings or friends we suddenly find out that there is something in them that we have not discovered before. Our soul is infinite.&nbsp;
We should try to make love our essence. Love does not need a perfect beloved. We can claim that we have learned to love when we don't have the feeling that if I were with another woman instead of this woman, I would feel happier. These are all illusions. It is a trick of the mind.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
When we have entered into a relationship with a woman or started a family, we should never think that it was possible&nbsp; that we would have found a better case. We must believe that she is the best wife we ever could have.

If you want to test yourself whether you are ready for a stable relationship or not! Think about whether you are looking for someone with specific characteristics? Or are you ready to give love to anyone whom is ready to get it? Regardless of how old is she? How tall is she? What color is her hair? What is the color of her eyes? Or what is the size of her breasts?lol&nbsp;&nbsp;
If you are looking for a beloved with special characteristics to make love, maybe you should reconsider a little.&nbsp;&nbsp;
Believe that you are honestly and sincerely ready to love and then give yourself up fate!

It was back in the late 70s when my parents were on a diplomatic mission to North Africa, and we got stuck in the Sahara Desert right when temperatures went below zero. Traveling the country, we were on the way from the Atlas Mountains to the southern provinces of Algeria when the storm caught us. Cold is not uncommon in the desert, the air is mostly dry and cool, with frequent temperature lows of 7F, but nothing like that happened until 1979—the exact time of my arrival.&nbsp;

Such snowfalls in the Sahara have occurred more frequently during the last decade since 1979. However, such a severe storm was the first in the Sahara Desert in the 20th century.&nbsp;

As far as I remember, no forecast predicted snow, as it was all of a sudden for all. I still need to find out if any data was helping to identify climate extremes in the region so that climatologists could rely on it. Back then, you wouldn’t hear of climate change as there was nothing like that, at least not a drastic environmental shift to confirm it.&nbsp;

I was happy to spend my vacation in Africa. My parents and their mission so far away from home fulfilled my life. It was great to be with them in the comfort of their rented authentic house where I felt safe, like home, even though visible security matters didn't inspire confidence in me. I was a kid who had never heard the word no, though.

In a rapidly changing world, the most precious moments are those shared with your parents. Mine are both gone now—mother passed away from cancer just two years ago.

As I've been getting older, I've come to appreciate these seemingly small but meaningful moments shared with family, recalling those timepieces with parents teaching me life lessons in their own rules in a knowledgeable and never obscure manner despite my age. We played table games and tennis and always laughed, and my little sisters sought to develop their superior creative skills—both are PhDs now.

I had always been too reserved and didn't strive to develop great communication skills, but I did it within the family. Nothing close to social media made these moments more precious, contrasting the isolation of contemporary society.

But let me get back to the Sahara. We didn't have smartphones back then; otherwise, my memories would be more precise. Altogether, we were engaged in a more or less scary story worth remembering and retelling. But long story short here. We got into the epicenter on our way from the mountains—for almost an hour, we saw nothing on the road, which wasn't much а superior freeway back then.&nbsp;

It was terrific looking at the snow falling, creating a thin white cover on red sand. The desert is vast, more than 3 million square miles, and I was sure it was storming everywhere. Zero precipitation makes it possible to come across with a bottle of water, and we had plenty.&nbsp;

It was shocking to see snow falling even though it was melting away so fast. With such a high-pressure zone around the spot, I could hardly breathe and was all sweating, or maybe it was too hot in our car.

Since then, my childish Western perception of Africa as a continent with breathtaking landscapes drowning in sunlight has changed dramatically.

My dad was an ardent fisherman, and when I was a child – and I am the only child – for him, it didn't matter whether we shared his passion with mum; we just had to love fishing as he did. I always felt deprived as we never went to Disneyland, mostly camping and fishing.&nbsp;

Back then, I didn't understand how much I would miss that time and how I would desperately try to recollect each moment.

Almost every month since I turned five, he took us to Lake Hope, where we rode in our pretty old 75’ Cherokee Chief. First, we strolled the banks looking for fish no matter the weather. Dad didn't care much if we got in mud and were all wet or other things that mom worried too much about.&nbsp;

Dad's dream was buying a small house by the lake so we could settle down, favoring his hobby 24/7. But having a kid who loves fishing as much as he did never was true for him – my fishing enthusiasm was never gross. Despite all the super gear for fishing on lakes and rivers all four seasons, even on ice, my excitement wasn't hard to disguise.&nbsp;

For my dad, the entire process wasn't a breadwinning thing or team-building bullshit but a meditation with a stick and water around his hunched shoulders. It was always the time to gather his thoughts and foresee our family's future and himself as a lead. At least, this is what he said.

When dad is gone, remembering his favorite pastime with me joining it, while the shades of time haven't covered it all with dust, is way more gratifying and honorable for me.

I remember how he got prepared for each trip with such meticulous dignity that solidified his respect in our eyes, with the assertiveness of a guy who does everything right. This was dad's stance that I loved most of the time.

My favorite memory was the early fall of 1987 when he decided to visit Lake Hope for the first time. It was almost 20 miles away, so we had to take off around 3 a.m. I remember mom prepared sandwiches with ham and peanut butter, and we also had salad and apples – dad loved them much.

We took our dog with us, black schnauzer Toby, he loved to fish, and we loved him very much. We'd always give him our first catch, no matter how big it was. If a fish was too small, Toby would throw it back in the water and bark, staring at us. First, we couldn't get what she was doing until dad noticed Toby was sticking his nose out of the water, like a real Greenpeace activist.&nbsp;

Then, dad would pull his favorite chewer straight up to him, and Toby would never trade it for fish. That is what dad always did – everybody knew his nice guy disposition.

I hated that every family vacation revolved around Lake Hope – we even called it “our lake.” This is how stupid I was.&nbsp;

Now I assume we weren't rich and wouldn't have it any other way, something less ordinary than just fishing with my dad. My dad and my mom.

They never had to worry about those phone calls from school when kids skipped classes or anything of the kind because there were none. I was a good student and never caused them trouble. They trusted me and my judgments, maybe because I was sensitive and wise beyond my years. I used to read a lot, mostly biographies and history books. That is what I inherited from dad.&nbsp;

On the lake, there is nothing more than tons of water, with your entire essence reflected in it. Dad was never a chatterbox, but he hardly ever dropped a word during these trips, even to mom. He had a myriad of baits, like spinnerbaits, crankbaits, and long and short spinning rods. He knew everything about the lake, all fishing spots and their depths.&nbsp;

He knew the spots along the shoreline with rare reeds with less vegetation – some good spots to catch a largemouth bass. Lots of oxygen offers an excellent surface for predators.

Dad would use plenty of spoons, one after another, just around vegetation. Some types of spoons were among his favorite lures, but as for myself, until now, every second time I'm casting a spinning rod, I'm getting snagged. Dad had a map to keep his eyes open for logs and rock piles, a smartass.

When fishing, we were best mates despite not talking much. We only talked a little, though. I always was closer to mom, her sensibility predetermined my way of life. But as I've gotten older, I've got a clearer vision of my past. With mom, we talked a lot about life, she kept saying, “charity begins at home.” Looking with hindsight, I would say it only starts there.&nbsp;&nbsp;

What do you guys know about silence? Silence of Lake Hope? It begins when you step out of that 75’ Cherokee getting into the wild – you can hear woodpeckers, see Eastern Phoebes, and even see hummingbirds, just be patient. A carpet of moss and lichens on both sides of your hiking path was a gentle touch of wildlife.&nbsp;

I vividly remember this feeling of tranquility and pacification during these trips.&nbsp;

By the way, we'd also cook fried bass over the fire for dinner, but it certainly wasn't my favorite. I remember it wasn't the flavor that I didn't like, but rather a marsh smell. However, the taste depends on the recipe you choose. Sometimes, preparing bass on the pan, dad put a little more dried garlic as needed to mask the smell.

It was late at night when I heard a series of water splashes and saw dad fighting a huge fish. I hurried to the car, took a torch, and returned to him as he asked me to.

Dad was piking with a live bait and managed to catch a pike of about 7lb. I watched him fight that ruthless lake king, and my adrenaline went insane. While I was holding the light on the fish, dad unhooked it.

That was the only time I saw such a huge pike that it had taken so long to pull it out! I was amazed by its tenacity but overwhelmed by my dad's endurance.

He never hooked a pike of the same size again, or maybe I just didn’t know it – I didn't know it and probably never would.

It was huge, more than enough size to hang it on the wall, but dad never did.