207. ONCE WHILST FISHING
There used to be an old piece
of the bay around where I
lived - Sewaren waterfront.
Nothing much to speak of,
especially in 1966. Now it's
all done up, as locals would
say - lanterns, benches, a
boat-launch ramp, parking.
Old geezers sit around there
all day, like a 'seniors club',
talking about fish and sports,
or most anything except
women. They're all mostly
done with that. Before he
really died, my father slowly
died, there. He'd say, 'If you
ever need to find me, I'm
probably sitting at Sewaren,
look for me there.' It was
hyperbole; he wasn't really
there that much at all, but he
had that sort of enthusiastic
way with words. The thing
with my father was he liked
to think he was all about the
sea. Navy guy, stories to tell,
South Pacific, WWII. For the
rest of his land-locked days in
Avenel, all he ever did was
pine for the ocean, the shore,
the coast : inlets, bays,
anything with salt. It had to
be salt water. My father
detested lakes and
mountains and hills with
clear-running streams.
He'd take me with him,
as a kid, quite nearly
every good Saturday,
decent weather-wise,
and rent a little rowboat -
at some guy's marina or
dock, some old gent who
he knew, a Popeye kind of
guy. We'd clamp my
father's 6hp Evinrude
onto the back of it, (which
little outboard motor we'd
have to haul around), and
with that, with some spare
gasoline too, and a bag of
food and all the fishing
supplies anyone could
ever want (?), set out for
a day's adventure. We'd
always begin with the
scap-nets, or whatever they
were called; that's what I
remember, and get to the
bridge at Point Pleasant
Bay or Inlet, or whatever
it or or was. Crabs, in the
mid-morning anyway, would
cling to the sides of the
below-water areas of the
bridge and its abutments;
I guess for the seaweed
and moss and all that.
We'd use the nets and
just 'scap' up the crabs
from the bridge sidings.
No struggle, no skill. It
was just an utterly and
simple kill. My father
would have a few large
burlap bags, and there
were, honestly, more than
a few mornings we'd get
back home with some 80
crabs - really good days.
Other times maybe 30 or
35 was a take. That would
be done first, so we'd have
one or two burlap sacks in
the rowboat with us, loaded
with crabs, wriggling about
(to die) and foaming up, as
they do, as they slowly
continued to try to respire.
Like bubble breath. As a
little kid, seeing this, I
didn't know much, and it
was v-e-r-y weird indeed.
Unsettling. Not cool. If you
listened close, too, as I did,
you could hear their clicks
and the sound of their
hard claws and things
groping and hitting. I
was treacherously sad,
always, but, as my father
always was, he remained
insensitive. It mattered little
to him what we were doing.
Then we'd set out for the
open seas, boat lanes and
all, to fish the rolling waves,
or find some inlet or cove
he knew about, and fish
and/or swim there. He would
surf-fish, usually while I
swam or just monkeyed
around. It was all pretty
miraculous - we'd find
little groups of picnickers
or bathers on these weird
places I didn't even know
existed. And they all stayed
apart from each other; no
camaraderie, no groups of
people bunching together.
I think that's what made it
so weird; everyone apart,
each tiny little group,
keeping to themselves
and with lots of beach space
between them. Little family
clutches of Poles or Germans.
It was like a foreign movie -
sand and umbrellas, little
kids yelling and splashing
around while these dour
and large adults waded
in and maybe began
splashing themselves
with water; the ladies in
almost dress-like bathing
suits, ballooning out, and
the men in pillowcase bathing
suits OR tight fitting, almost
nothing but precise, bathing
suits. Euro stuff. I guess.
Remember, this was 1958,
1959 and everything was
quite exotic in this way.
My father and I never
much 'talked' on these
sorts of forays, rather,
beach to beach and bridge
to bridge, it was all just
fishing commands, and
the usual instructions and
boat stuff back and forth.
Once or twice, we were
way too far out, and the
Coast Guard would come
to the boat and drag my
father in, saying he was
in danger, too distant
from sure, the seas were
too rough for the small
craft, or that a sea-lane
was being broached,
used by other, large,
boats, and thus posing
danger all around. My
father just laughed
and set out for some
other place. After a
long time of this,
over two Summers and
Springs, I got really
bored and began
completely hating the
entire endeavor, each
time. The other thing
was, for all that work
and effort, we very
seldom caught fish. I
heard endless tales of the
'blues' (bluefish) running,
the fluke or the flounder
running, but outside of
maybe three or four times,
we never really caught
anything. One time, we
ran into a run of blowfish -
catching at least 30 of them,
in a fast rush, my father was
just throwing them down
onto the floor of the boat -
they'd flip and flap around,
and then go still. But,
as they expired, true
to their name, 'Blowfish',
they (literally true) blew
themselves up, balloon-like
into this stupid spiny ball
of fish. And of course that
meant the tiny rowboat
space, now taken up not
with skinny little (dead)
fish, was instead an
unwalkable pile of
ridiculous, dead or dying,
blow-balls of fish. I think
that's where I first became
a comedian - it was
ridiculous, tragic, disgusting,
retarded and gross, all together.
Just like a good comedy skit.
A rowboat full of dead
blowfish, and two
mad-faced idiots
coming ashore.
-
To make it worse, once
we got home the real horror
began. My father had this way :
certain of the neighbors knew
that on Andy's good fishing or
crabbing days, there'd be a
pile of crabs, lawn chairs, etc.,
at the top of the driveway, and
everyone was invited. A crab or
a fish-fest, for sure. There was
a stove in the basement. He'd boil
up these two huge vats of water,
and in the crabs would go. Some of
them, still clinging to live, or maybe
all of them, scalded to death.
Piles of crabs, on the driveway,
ready-cooked, and people just
ripping at them, drinking beer,
cracking open claws and tearing
away the backs, to get the white
crab meat. It was brutal. Truly.
Torn and ribbed crab-limbs
everywhere about. When
finished, the gross clean-up
and garbage cans, and then
nightfall. Adults schmoozing,
sitting around, fat and full, with
their fourth or fifth beer, getting
louder and more happy. The same,
of course, with the fish - my father
would gut and clean the fish, and
then do whatever you do to cook
fish, barbecue, oven, whatever.
Bones and fish spines, thank-you,
into the garbage. By this time.
always, I was sick, very tired, and
disgusted too. And by the way,
disgusted too. And by the way,
the bluefish and flounder and
stuff, they were really good fish,
if you liked eating fish. But the
blowfish, ALL those blowfish,
go to find out, they're really
not 'eating' fish at all. Just
horrid, a garbage fish -
and into the garbage
they went.
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