 |
Just 2 Guys Fishing - Script
EXT. SMALL FISHING BOAT - MORNING
The air is cool and still. A thin mist hangs low over the placid surface of a calm lake. The sound of a LURE SPLASHING into the water is the only thing that breaks the silence.
HARVEY (80s, a weathered face and hands, wearing a worn-out flannel shirt) sits on a small plastic cooler, eyes narrowed in concentration as he stares at the tip of his fishing rod.
Across from him, WALTER (80s, a softer, more philosophical demeanor, with a wide-brimmed hat) is lazily casting his line, humming an old tune to himself.
HARVEY
(Without looking at him)
You’re humming. You do that when you’re not taking this seriously.
WALTER
It’s a nice morning, Harv. What’s there to be serious about? The fish aren’t going anywhere.
HARVEY
That’s what you think. They’re thinking. They’re figuring us out. Every vibration, every shadow. You have to outsmart them.
WALTER
Or… maybe they just don’t want to be caught. It’s a simple kind of stubbornness, I reckon. Not a chess match.
Walter casts his line again, the motion smooth and easy. He lets his rod rest against the side of the boat, hands in his lap.
WALTER
Remember that summer, '68? We spent a week up here with nothing but a tent and a sack of potatoes. I think we caught one fish the whole time. You almost cried.
HARVEY
(Scoffs)
I was angry. There's a difference. It was a matter of principle. That lake owed us a decent catch. And you just sat there, reading a book.
WALTER
It was Walden. And the fish didn’t owe us anything. The lake was enough. The stars at night. The cold air. That’s what I remember.
Harvey grunts, a familiar sound. He pulls his line in slowly, then re-casts with a forceful flick of the wrist.
HARVEY
I remember going home hungry.
WALTER
Did we? I seem to remember a very satisfying meal of boiled potatoes and burnt marshmallows. It was perfect. We were young and we were here.
They fall into a comfortable silence. The only sounds are the gentle lapping of the water against the hull of the boat and the occasional call of a loon. Walter closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the sun’s growing warmth.
Then, Harvey’s rod bends. Hard.
HARVEY
(A low, fierce whisper)
Got one. A big one.
He stands up, his knuckles white as he grips the rod. It's a true struggle. Walter immediately puts down his own rod and scrambles to get the net ready. He’s all focus now.
WALTER
Easy, easy, don’t let it snap the line!
HARVEY
I know what I’m doing!
Harvey expertly reels in, a slow, methodical fight against the thrashing at the other end. He pulls and gives slack, a dance he's performed a thousand times. The fish fights hard, but Harvey is determined.
After what feels like an eternity, a shimmering, silver fish breaks the surface of the water, a beautiful LAKETROUT. It's bigger than anything they've caught in years.
Walter scoops it up with the net, and the two of them hoist it into the boat. Harvey's chest is heaving, a triumphant smile on his face.
HARVEY
(Breathing heavily)
Told you. They're thinking. And I outsmarted him.
Walter just shakes his head, a wide grin spreading across his face. He looks from the fish to his friend, a quiet pride in his eyes.
WALTER
No, Harv. You just got lucky. And I’m glad you did.
Harvey looks at the fish, then back at Walter. The smile doesn’t fade.
HARVEY
Let's get a picture. For the wallet.
Walter pulls out his phone, and the two old friends, their faces wrinkled and full of stories, huddle together in the morning sun, one holding the prize catch, the other holding a memory. |
|
|
