Where the Ice Gave Way

Trust, consequence, and love beneath the surface

Growing up in the Midwest, the world often felt suspended in frost for half the year. When the fields froze and the sky turned the color of pewter, there were few places to go. People found their own ways to fill the long winters: snowmobiling across open fields, sledding down the nearest hill, pretending to ski at Mt. Kato, or fleeing to the Caribbean for a week of borrowed sunlight.

For those of us who had neither a snowmobile nor a plane ticket to Cancun, there was one other pastime waiting out on the frozen lakes.

Ice fishing.

It was exactly what it sounded like: hauling a sled across a sheet of ice, setting up a small shack in the wind, and drilling a perfect circle into the surface of a frozen world. Once inside, you took a seat, pulled the tarp over your head to block the sun, and let the little propane heater fight back the cold. It offered only two temperatures, hot or blistering hot, but that tiny glow felt like salvation compared to the wind that howled across the lake.

If you have never been ice fishing, the most surprising thing is not the cold or the silence, but the clarity. Through the drilled hole, the water glimmers like glass. You can see all the way to the lakebed, each fish gliding by so clearly that you could count the scales if you had the patience.

Those winter days with my father were small departures from the rhythm of farm life. At home, there was always something to mend, repair, or haul. To this day, I am convinced he used to “accidentally” break things just to make sure we never ran out of work. But on the lake, there was nothing to fix. No chores. No deadlines. Only the soft hum of the wind and the quiet company of each other.

We rarely spoke for long stretches of time. Sometimes we talked about the books I was reading, or he would tell me stories from his own childhood. Other times, we said nothing at all, content to listen to the groan of the ice beneath us.

My father was a patient man, slow to act and deliberate in all things. Fishing suited him perfectly. He would sit still for hours, line in the water, eyes calm and watchful, waiting for the faintest pull from a walleye or perch. I, on the other hand, was restless. My boots scuffed the ice, my hands fidgeted, and my voice filled the silence he seemed to treasure.

I wanted to be like him, though I often failed at it. I wanted his composure, his quiet strength, the way he seemed at peace with stillness. Yet something inside me always pushed back. I craved movement, independence, and the need to test every boundary he drew around me.

I trusted him, of course. I listened to his lessons, most of the time. But trust does not erase the impulse to defy. Sometimes defiance feels like its own kind of freedom.

One afternoon, we were fishing on one of the largest lakes in the state, known for its perch. The day had been long and uneventful, our buckets nearly empty. As the sun began to sink behind the trees, we packed up our gear and started the trek back toward the truck.

I was in a foul mood, disappointed and tired. My father walked ahead, pulling the sled loaded with our shack and gear. I lagged behind, muttering complaints he chose not to answer. Earlier that day, he had pointed out a patch of thin ice near the boat ramp and warned me to steer wide of it on our way back.

But the direct route was shorter.

He was already curving left, taking the long way around. I looked toward the ramp, then at him, and then back again. The ice looked fine to me. I wanted to prove him wrong, or maybe just prove that I could decide for myself. So I walked straight toward the bank.

At first, the surface held firm beneath my boots. My confidence swelled. I even turned back to grin at him. His face changed instantly, his eyes wide with something I had never seen there before.

Then came the sound, a sharp crack that tore through the air.

The ice gave way, and the world disappeared beneath me. The water swallowed me whole.

Cold is too small a word for what that felt like. It was total shock, like being erased in an instant. My body forgot how to breathe or move. The water was black and endless. For all my years of swimming in that same lake during summer, I had no control now. I was sinking fast, the light above me shrinking.

And then, a hand.

My father’s hand.

He had reached me almost before I knew I was falling. His grip caught the straps of my overalls, and in one fierce motion, he pulled me free of the water. I remember the sound of his boots slamming against the ice as he ran for the truck, the air freezing on my soaked clothes, my teeth chattering so hard I could not form words.

He said nothing. He did not scold or raise his voice. He peeled off my wet layers, handed me dry clothes from behind the seat, and held me close until I stopped shaking.

He never said, “I told you so.” He did not need to. His silence carried more weight than any lecture could.

That day taught me what trust truly is. It is not blind obedience or the absence of curiosity. It is knowing that when the world gives way beneath your feet, there will be someone who reaches for you without hesitation.

I think about that moment often, especially now that I am older and can see my father’s patience for what it was - a quiet form of love. It took years for me to understand that trust and discipline are not opposites but companions. The boundaries he drew were never meant to contain me, only to protect me until I was ready to stand on my own. The lesson of that day has followed me into adulthood: that true guidance is rarely loud, that love can exist in silence, and that sometimes the strongest hands are the ones that catch you without saying a word.