He said to me that he was going to tell me a true story. This was after ten or fifteen minutes of fishing matter. He was casting and retrieving. “Are the blues running or are you going for stripers?” I asked trying to get a conversation going. “It’s early in the season to expect stripers on the inside. I haven’t seen any blue fish action yet today,” he answered. I told him what I learned from a commercial fisherman the day before. There were so many striped bass off shore in the ocean that the commercial guys were beginning to refer to them as “nuisance of the sea.” I wanted this guy to see me as someone who knew about fishing. Not just a casual bucket looker who happened to wander out onto the jetty. He was tired from the look of it. I could see he was winding down and on the tail end of his patience for the monotony of casting and retrieving without the reward of hooking a fish. |
It was hot. No screen from the sun. It was
physically demanding for a man of his years
– I figured he was at least sixty-five.
We pretty much said all we had to say about
fishing, but clearly something else was
brewing in his mind. Even though we were
both standing on the end of a very long
boulder fishing jetty far from the beach and
other people, he glanced over his shoulder
checking for privacy before he began. There
were two other fishermen casually casting
out lures into the fast moving waters of the
Shinnecock Inlet, a well known and
productive surfishing spot on Long Island’s
South Shore. When the tide changes the
physically demanding for a man of his years
– I figured he was at least sixty-five.
We pretty much said all we had to say about
fishing, but clearly something else was
brewing in his mind. Even though we were
both standing on the end of a very long
boulder fishing jetty far from the beach and
other people, he glanced over his shoulder
checking for privacy before he began. There
were two other fishermen casually casting
out lures into the fast moving waters of the
Shinnecock Inlet, a well known and
productive surfishing spot on Long Island’s
South Shore. When the tide changes the
| ONE FISH By Michael Domino Copyright 2007 Michael Domino |
vast chilly waters from the Atlantic Ocean rush into the shallow Peconic Bay making the
inlet waters turbulent and dangerous to navigate; especially for small craft. This is where
we stood. The Atlantic in front of us, the bay behind, and the gushing inlet along our side
“My father-in-law,” he said “loved to fish and clam and crab these waters. He was a bay-
man at heart. My wife and I raised our two boys on the water here on the South Shore, but I
was a salesman and took a job in Massachusetts. My boys know these waters like the
backs of their hands. In the old days, they could catch crabs with a chicken leg or swim out
into the bay, dive down and come up with a half dozen cherry stone clams,” he told me
proudly.
I was aware that there was abundant eatable sea life back in the early seventies. Claming
was fresh in my mind because I still had the black muck under my finger and toe nails from
a stacked secret hole, I came upon earlier in the week, with a bounty of clams just like the
legendary clam digging bonanza of yesteryear. I also knew what he was saying about
chicken-bait because in my youth I learned to catch crabs in the same mode. Only using a
different body part – the neck. Take a piece of string, secure it to the meat or bone and
dangle it in the water. Wait ten to fifteen minutes for the crabs to latch on. Then with a
careful retrieve the critters appear munching unaware of the slow draw to steam-pot
death. He told me his boys now live in Vermont, both of them. The guy seemed disappointed
that his kids had left Long Island’s rich waters for the mountains of New England.
inlet waters turbulent and dangerous to navigate; especially for small craft. This is where
we stood. The Atlantic in front of us, the bay behind, and the gushing inlet along our side
“My father-in-law,” he said “loved to fish and clam and crab these waters. He was a bay-
man at heart. My wife and I raised our two boys on the water here on the South Shore, but I
was a salesman and took a job in Massachusetts. My boys know these waters like the
backs of their hands. In the old days, they could catch crabs with a chicken leg or swim out
into the bay, dive down and come up with a half dozen cherry stone clams,” he told me
proudly.
I was aware that there was abundant eatable sea life back in the early seventies. Claming
was fresh in my mind because I still had the black muck under my finger and toe nails from
a stacked secret hole, I came upon earlier in the week, with a bounty of clams just like the
legendary clam digging bonanza of yesteryear. I also knew what he was saying about
chicken-bait because in my youth I learned to catch crabs in the same mode. Only using a
different body part – the neck. Take a piece of string, secure it to the meat or bone and
dangle it in the water. Wait ten to fifteen minutes for the crabs to latch on. Then with a
careful retrieve the critters appear munching unaware of the slow draw to steam-pot
death. He told me his boys now live in Vermont, both of them. The guy seemed disappointed
that his kids had left Long Island’s rich waters for the mountains of New England.
| Short Stories Page 1 2 3 |