The man headed down a gravel walkway that led to the boats of the marina, all lined up on a series of docks, left to right, in a mostly neat, orderly row.
The serious fishing boats and trawlers were tied up on the far left—at the most expansive dock.
Then the pleasure boats, sailboats, and big inboards nearby.
But one last narrow dock—showing actual holes in some of the worn planks—sat all the way to the right, as if shunned, with its line of small boats, modest outboards, small daysailers, and largely forgotten dinghies.
But that dock with its affordable slips was serviceable enough for anyone who just wanted to keep his own unassuming boat tied up, ready for a little fishing . . .
Suited him just fine.
He carried his plastic tackle box, latched tight but, as always, a jumble of disorganized filament and hooks and bobbers inside.
But no problem there. All of that mess was familiar to him since he did this every single day.
Well, nearly every day.
When a really nasty storm threatened the Twin Forks of Long Island, with both the Atlantic and Gardiners Bay—even the normally placid Peconic Bay—suddenly threatening, he had to take note of that.
His sixteen-foot Bayliner boat had a little engine that usually could handle the normal wakes and chop with its decades-old thirty- horsepower Evinrude. But a serious storm? He knew better . . .
But even if it was really cold? With those so-icy ocean breezes that January and February could send skimming over the water? That never deterred him.
Now he stopped walking.
It occurred to him that he seemed to start this ritual earlier and earlier each day. Now—it was the cusp of dawn. The sun just inching above the horizon in the water, magically turning everything the light hit a deep golden yellow and orange.
Absolutely beautiful.
And most days he didn’t really care if he caught any damn fish. No. Simply felt so good to be out there, in the sea, his line in the water, the air so fresh and salty at the same time. The sky putting on its ever- changing show.
For him, there was nothing better.
But first, there was another part of this daily ritual; he turned toward the “master’s” shack, where he needed exactly two things before heading down to his boat, tied up at the very end of the last, and certainly the shabbiest, dock.
* * *
The man pulled open the office’s screen door, held by a tight spring, giving resistance and then letting out a solid squeak more effective than any bell chiming over the doorway.
To see: Joe Cioffi, a stub of a cigar in his mouth, shuffling through a stack of paper. Bills, probably. An old-school thermos—probably as ancient as Joe—was open, a thin, steamy cloud still escaping.
Joe turned to him with a quick look up.
“Already? Tell you what, Jack, seems like you start your damn day earlier and earlier.” Joe grinned at him as he continued. “Someday you’ll be getting here before me, place still dark.”
And the man smiled as he put his tackle box down, rested his rod against a well.
“Early bird—isn’t that what they say?”
“Ha. Then you sure got that covered,” Joe said.
And the man, older than Joe, didn’t have to wait to be taken care of. He went to a squat refrigerator that sat in one corner. Grabbed a large paper container, as if for an oversized meal from a Chinese take-out, and—fridge lid up—began scooping out gloppy chunks of fish.
The bait. Most of it squid. But also a bit of fish parts that no one eats, at least in this country. The man knew he’d easily go through it all, as he usually did. Some fish were good at nibbling the damn bait right off the hook without getting snagged.
Occasionally though, if he ran low, he’d save some junk fish he just caught, like a nasty sea robin, to cut up. The fish—if biting—were not too choosy when the good stuff ran out.
And when done . . .
He walked close to Joe, who was still sifting through what looked like a pile of bills and receipts, and stood at a long table with a chart of the nearby waters, studying it.
To ask the same question he asked every single morning before heading out.
“So, where were they catching last night?”
Joe nodded at the question as if it were a weighty matter indeed. Then: “Right. Weird. Not where all the big boats’ radar and sonar said they would, you know? Lot of disappointed night boats came home . . . pretty lean.”
That, the man knew, was the fate of all those who fish, whether for pleasure or for existence. It was luck, fate, and wherever the hell currents below took the schools of fish.
Important to remember . . . it was fishing, not necessarily catching . . .
“But turns out a few boats did head way out into Gardiners Bay. Deeper water there, you know? Practically the Atlantic. Got lucky, just nudging around out there. So some of ’em came back with a good haul of blues, striped bass, porgies. Just a few boats.”
“Hm. That’s pretty far out.”
“Yeah. I know. Especially for a boat your size. But—if you’re really in the mood to actually catch something today . . .”
And the man laughed at that, his right hand clapping Joe Cioffi’s back. “I always am.”
“Right, then, so I’d head right about . . . here—give it a try.”
Cioffi sent a finger to a spot on the chart.
Not a spot the man normally went to. Certainly, well away from the normal fishing lanes. But if that’s where the fish were . . .
“Okay. Will give it a shot.”
“Might get an updated report later,” Joe said. “Once the day boats head out? See if things have moved any. But worth a try to start out.”
“Then that’s what I will do. Oh—got to fill the spare gas tank. I’ll note down how much.”
Again, Joe laughed. “After all these years, if I didn’t trust you by now, then whenever the hell would I?”
“Right,” the man said, grinning.
He turned to pick up his tackle box, retrieve his rod. But there was one last thing from Cioffi . . .
“Oh, meant to tell you, Jack. The boats that came back? Said some chop kicking up. Something coming our way. Maybe more than you usually deal with? Just—word to the wise.”
The man knew his small boat, plenty agile for normal seas, could be in trouble if a normal sea . . . turned into something else. The thirty-horsepower outboard, and in a boat that small? Could get dicey. And there had been moments . . . where he was glad to see the marina and land.
“Gotcha. Will keep my eyes open. Can get the weather updates on my phone.”
“You get freakin’ service out there? What a world . . . Just, er, be careful?”
A last smile. Joe took a swig from his coffee thermos. Then nodded as the man started out of the small shack. But he had one more thing to say. “You know, Jack, been thinking . . . You’re a lot like that guy?”
“What guy?”
“In that movie? Spencer Tracy. Fishing in his small boat. The Old Man and the Sea. And damn knows . . . you’re old.”
The man laughed dutifully, adding, “That I am . . .”
He walked out of the shack, and—yes—felt a breeze, not steady, but with the occasional significant gusts.
He’d have to watch it out there . . .
* * *
Then, as he walked down the rickety dock—some planks actually popping up where rusty nails had fallen away—down the section of the marina with just small nothing boats, he saw someone a few docks away.
Will Sharp—a guy who always seemed to be here—gave a big wave.
And the man waved back.
Will was quite the local character, a worker here—of sorts. Probably not paid by Cioffi to do anything. But always around, eager to help out the big boats when they brought in their catch or troubleshoot a reluctant engine refusing to kick over for anyone struggling to get their big pleasure boat started after a long hiatus.
As he walked past, the man saw that a lot of the boats here looked abandoned. Covered tight with tarps that had begun to fray at the edges, pockmarked with holes, now no longer succeeding to keep rain, snow, whatever . . . out.
People liked their boats well enough for a while, he knew. But then, for most, real life intervened. The prized possession, the boat, forgotten.
Near the end of the pier, he came to his own boat. No name on its old hull, just the NYS ID in block letters on either side of the forward hull. NY 4985 GV.
His own canvas cover, he saw, was tight, secure.
So, he put down the tackle box and his rod and began unbuckling the tarp. First one side, then throwing it back, he stepped in, continuing all around the hull. He spotted a trickle of water on the bottom of the hull. Maybe some minuscule leak?
Nothing to be worried about.
He almost didn’t notice that Will had scurried over, stood there watching.
“Mr. Jack, heading out?”
“Yup, Will. Gonna see if they’re biting today.”
This exchange, pretty much exactly the same every day.
But today—maybe a bit different?
Once the tarp was removed, folded roughly, and tucked under the rear plank seat, he looked up to see Will shield his eyes from the just-up sun.
But just a few degrees up from the horizon, a few dark clouds were hanging there, as if waiting, ready to cut off the sunlight before too long.
“Where you heading today, Mr. Jack?”
Mr. Jack. Will afforded everyone the familiarity of being on a first-name basis but also added the respect of “mister.”
“Joe told me night boats had good luck, out past Gardiners Island?”
Will nodded, taking in the information as if it were something important.
“Dunno, Mr. J. Kicking up a bit already out there? You might run into something?”
The man knew that Will—probably someone who had haunted the marina as long as it had been here—had seen lots of weather out here.
Those days that start quiet and turn nasty . . . even dangerous.
The Atlantic could be full of surprises. Quick surprises.
“Could be. Gets too much, I’ll head straight back in. Maybe have an early beer with you?”
Will smiled at that.
“You do that, Mr. J. But be careful.”
Then Will looked on as the man retrieved his rod and tackle box, then took the big container of squid and fish chunks, wedging the bait in a space on the side of the boat so it wouldn’t spill.
“Anything, you, er, need—anything I—”
“No, thanks, Will. Think I’m good.”
The man smiled. Even this—a little chat with this fixture at the marina—a part of the daily routine.
And the man—by now, after all these years here—liked his routine.
It felt secure. Safe.
He sat down on the wood plank seat at the boat’s stern.
Key in, he gave the Evinrude’s ignition a quick turn. Sometimes the battery would be low, even dead. Then it would require a strenuous pull-start, the same as the boats he grew up with back in Mill Basin in Brooklyn so long ago.
But now—after a hesitant chug—it turned over as he twisted the throttle a bit. A puff of smoke escaped, but still in neutral.
He quickly undid the bow and then the stern ropes that tied the boat to the dock.
“Catch you later, Will.”
And Will just smiled, nodded as the man, sitting back beside the engine, turned the throttle more, the throaty sound deepening, and started steering his boat out to open water . . .
Away from the pier. Out of the marina, then more power, past the wake restrictions as he got away, steering nearly due east, he figured.
To deep water—and hopefully the hungry fish ahead.
He looked up to see that the sun had already vanished, gone into hiding behind the ever-thickening clouds.
Thinking: Well, that was fast . . .