Block Island

He wades into the gentle surf to his waist holding the rod above the water as waves pass. The sand is firm beneath his bare feet and the water refreshing. If he weren’t fishing he’d probably be swimming. When he’s gone far enough, the water just above his waist, he plants his feet as a baseball pitcher might, winds up and casts toward deeper water; bait, hook, sinker and line arcing over the water, landing twenty yards away with a splash barely noticeable unless you pay attention, which he does. Satisfied he walks back to shore holding the rod above the waves letting more line play out as he goes. He walks up the beach a few feet where he’s driven a short length of plastic pipe into the sand, a makeshift rod holder. He gives the reel a few turns to engage the bailer and take the slack out of the line and places the butt end of the rod into the holder. He takes a few more steps up the beach where he can see both the rod tip and any action on the water. Arms crossed, Ted waits.

Ted’s grandparents, Eugene and Georgina, “Dodo” and “Georgia”, bought a place on Block Island in the early 60’s soon after Eugene retired from a job in New York working for a boss he didn’t like. They cobbled together weeks on the island where he would fish, read, and otherwise get away from it all. Dodo liked fishing the rocky beaches at Black Rock that didn’t attract the summer crowds. Georgia did not mind avoiding the hubbub of town, the buzz of the mopeds and the throngs of day trippers so she’d join him, bringing a book and a beach chair. The two of them would fish idly, or simply sit and talk, gazing at the waves on the quiet side of the island. When the children and grandchildren came there was less time for fishing and more time spent on the sandier beaches building castles, but that was fine.

Eugene died unexpectedly a few years later but Georgia kept the place on the island and family returned every summer. Georgia and the grandchildren collected sea glass searching hardest for the rarer colors, blue and red. Everyone played bridge on rainy days and years before it was legal Ted and Karen learned how to drive with Aunt Anne. Piling into the Volkswagen with Anne in the passenger seat, Ted and Karen traded time behind the wheel, navigating the twists and turns of the island’s few paved roads.

At least once during every visit Ted and his father, Dick, headed to Twin Maples to ask how the Stripers are hitting: “Oh, Gawd, they’re everywhere. Just throw in a line.” They’d buy the bait, usually a plastic container of squid, and later in the afternoon Ted and Dick, headed off to fish. They’d cast a line and watch the water, noting the passing boats. “That’s a Pearson.” Dick would say. “That’s a Hinckley. Prettiest boat out there; and fast.” Every boat received Dick’s scrutiny. Sometimes Ted fished alone and other times he’d go to whatever beach others were going to, help them set up their chairs and umbrellas and then ease off to a far end of the beach, away from the swimmers and body surfers, closer to the rocks. Excepting one year when he was in China, Ted has returned to Block Island every summer. Since Dick passed Ted’s made the trip to buy bait by himself. But there is always a trip to Twin Maples and always time spent fishing.

For Ted fishing is more about the ritual and less about the need to land the big one. Fishing is casting something, bait or even a rusty lure, into the ocean and waiting, watching. Reeling in, casting again.

The rod tip dips barely an inch but the motion catches Ted’s attention. Then it dips again. He removes the rod from its holder and places one finger on the line just ahead of the reel, better to read what’s happening. Twenty yards down the beach, his wife Alice raises her eyes from her book. She follows Ted’s gaze to the water and then looks back at him, watching his right hand which has not moved from the butt end of the rod to the reel. A few others also notice the fisherman and they too look out to the water and then back to him.

Tap. Tap, tap. That is not bait bumping on the sand. Ted gives the reel half a dozen quick turns and pulls the rod tip up quickly setting the hook. The line goes taught and the rod bends toward whatever has taken the bait.

With practiced effort he reels the fish in slowly, pulling the rod from horizontal to vertical and then quickly reeling line as he bring the tip back toward the fish. Pull and reel. Pull and reel. Now others who were reading put their books, their magazines, their newspapers in their lap. There is definitely something on the line but just what they cannot yet see. A few kids amble toward Ted.

“You got a fish Mister?”

“We’ll see” he says. “Looks like it.” But Ted remembers that you haven’t caught a fish til its on the shore.

Soon enough there is a splash in the water. Ted keeps tension on the line, reeling as he walks to where the waves run up the beach, the fish now thrashing in the shallows.

“Hey Mister, it’s a Striper!”

“Sure is, nice fish” He says “but not sure he’s a keeper.”

Holding the rod in one hand Ted opens the palm of his other hand to spread his thumb and pinkie finger - his nine-inch ruler. He moves his hand down the fish from head to tail. “One, two, three, four” he counts. “Looks like 36 inches” he tells the boys as they surround him and the catch.

“Oh, Bummer!” says one boy.

Ted tucks the rod freeing two hands. He holds the fish firmly without squeezing and removes the hook. Then he walks the fish a few feet into slightly deeper water. With a twist of its tail the fish is out of Ted’s hands. For a moment he can see its shape against the rippled sand but then it is gone. He rinses his hands in the surf and walks back up the beach. A few of the boys have wandered off but one lingers.

“You gonna catch another?” he asks.

“I’ve got to try don’t I?” And with that he reaches into a small container, grabs a piece of squid, sets it on the hook and wades back out to into the water. But not before glancing at Alice who gives him a quick smile before turning back to her book.