A Beautiful Place to Die

To my wife, Shirley Prada Craig, a Vineyard woman, a daughter of the sea

The alarm went off at three-thirty. Outside it was as black as a tax collector's heart. Smart me had stopped at the market the night before for doughnuts, so I was on the road as soon as I filled my thermos with coffee. I rattled through Edgartown without seeing another soul and went on south toward Katama. The air was sharp and dry, and the wind was light from the southwest. Maybe it would blow the bluefish in at last. They were two weeks late, or at least two weeks later than the year before. The heater in the Landcruiser didn't work too well, so I was a bit chilly for the first few miles.

Near the end of the pavement, I passed the condos and the new houses on the right (six big figures last year, six bigger figures this year). Who would want one? Lots of people, of course. This was Martha's Vineyard, after all, that green gem of an island circled by gold, set in a sapphire sea. Some enterprising entrepreneurs in the drug-running business had, a couple of years back, bought mid sold some of those houses in a money-laundering scheme. They had, alas for them, been caught at it. More oil-islanders run afoul of Vineyard law.

I slowed and shifted into four-wheel drive, then pulled onto the beach and headed east. Winter storms had worn
the sands away but spring tides had returned them, so I could drive outside the dunes. With the waves slapping the beach on my right, I followed the truck tracks, watching the sky brighten over Chappaquiddick and taking note of the lights on Nantucket off to the south and east. Someday I'd have to go over there and have a look at that other island. But I'd been saying that for thirty years, ever since my father first took me to Wasque when I was five, and I hadn't done it yet. I was really thinking about bluefish anyway, not Nantucket.

A year ago I'd lucked out. On May fifteenth I'd fetched Wasque Point just as the blues had arrived for the season. All alone, I'd taken two dozen before sticking the rod in the spike and taking a coffee break. By the time George Martin and his fishing pal Jim Norris had arrived, I had forty-three fish and the school was gone. What could be more rewarding?

“You're just in time for the funeral,” I'd said.

George and Jim had eyed my overflowing fishbox, then had fished all the way up East Beach and back while I stayed and admired the sunrise. When they got back, I was still on Wasque, drinking coffee.

“If you guys need a fish, help yourselves,” I said.

“God is a giant bluefish, you know,” said George, looking at my fish again. “You'll catch hell for this when you get to heaven. You have any more coffee in that jug?”

“You'd think a guy with as much money as you have would have his own coffee,” I said as I poured.

“We had some,” said Jim, “but it didn't last that whole trip up the beach and back.”

“If you want to make your coffee last,” I explained, “you have to spend some of your time catching fish. You see, when you're catching fish you don't have time to drink so
much coffee. On the other hand, when you just ride around and drink coffee, you don't catch any fish, and by and by you not only don't have any fish but you don't have any coffee either. You understand what I'm saying?”

“I don't think I can stand this any more,” said George. “Don't you have to go to work, Jim?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Jim grinned. “Just in time, too. See you later, J.W.”

George snagged a fish from my box. “I will take one of these. I promised Susie I'd bring her one for supper.”

They drove off, and after a bit I followed. Back in Edgartown I got a good price for the fish because they were the first of the season.

That summer there had been a lot of blues around. So far this year, there weren't any. Maybe I'd be lucky again and meet them when they came in. But if so, I wasn't going to have Wasque to myself this time. There were fresh tire (racks ahead of me.

Wasque Point is on the southeast corner of Chappaquid-dick, the sometime island that is generally hooked to the Vineyard by a spit of sand running west along South Beach. When the sea breaks through the sandspit, Chappy in an island and the broken beach becomes Norton's Point; the rest of the time, Chappy is a peninsula. Wasque is one of the world's great bluefishing spots, thanks to the rip at its point which tosses bait up and about and attracts the voracious blues. Usually they arrived in May, but here it was early June and they were still on vacation. Had they no sense of duty?

My headlights pulled me along as the sky brightened, and sure enough there was a four-by-four parked in my favorite spot. It was two hours before the end of the west tide. Perfect timing. If the wily blues were coming, they
should be coming now. I swung in beside the four-by-four and doused my lights. Dark against the brightening water, a lone fisherman, shapeless in waders and hooded sweatshirt, was making his casts.

I looked at the four-by-four. It was unfamiliar. I knew most of the regulars and their vehicles. I looked at the sand near the four-by-four and saw no sign of fish lying there. I looked back at the fisherman and watched him reel in, set, and make his cast. The plug went away into the darkness. I looked out to sea but saw no splash of white indicating where the lure had landed. I got out, opened the back, and got out my Gra-lites. The air was nippy. I climbed into the waders, got my rod off the roof rack, and snapped a three-ounce Roberts onto the leader.

In the brightening air things were taking clearer shape. I looked again at the sand near the strange four-by-four but still saw no fish. Good. I looked at the fisherman. He was casting short and to the right. Just to make sure, I watched two more casts. Both went short and to the right. A starboard swinger, a familiar type among surfcasting tyros. I walked down on his left as he reeled in. The safe side. Supposedly. As I set to make my cast, a weight glanced off my head, snatched my cap, and flew down the beach into the surf. I felt the whip of fishline on my face and knew exactly what had happened; the fisherman, trying to straighten out his starboard cast, had overcompensated and made a radical cast to the left. My timing, impeccable as always, resulted in my head being in precisely the right spot to be whacked by the plug.

“Hey!” I said.

“Jees!” said the fisherman.

“No damage,” I said, disengaging myself from the line. “Now reel in. And when you get that hat back on the
beach, ease off and let me get it unhooked. That's a valuable hat. It's got my shellfish license pinned to it.”

The fisherman reeled, and the hat slid out of the surf mid up onto the beach. It Stopped at my feet. “It's the best thing I've landed so far,” she said.

She said? Yes. She was a she. A fisherperson.

I unhooked my cap. It was almost new, one of those with an adjustable plastic strap on the back that says Caterpillar on the front. It was soaked and sandy. I shook it out, rinsed it in the surf, wrung it out, and put it on.

“I'm sorry,” said the fisherperson, “but I came down here early just so I could practice without bothering anybody. Why did you have to stand so close? You could have any other place on the beach. Couldn't you see that I don't know what I'm doing?”

She was right. It was my own fault. “You're right,” I said, “it's my own fault. It's just that you're standing right where I caught the first bluefish of the season last year.”

“Well, there don't seem to be any here this morning.”

She was hard to make out inside her sweatshirt and waders, but I had hopes of actually seeing her eventually because the light was getting brighter. Beyond her, coming from Katama, headlights were bouncing toward us. Another early riser.

“Don't give up on the fish yet,” I said. “Look, do you really want to fish? If you do, you need a little help. It's okay to throw your plug every which way when you're alone, but once the blues come in, you won't be alone very often. The regulars will be lined up here shoulder to shoulder sometimes, and they'll not take kindly to having their lines crossed and getting plugs in their ears.”

“Go ahead.” She gritted her teeth. “Say something nasty about women trying to fish.”

“Don't get testy,” I said. “Everybody starts off the same way. There are a couple of tricks to this game just like any other one. I think you can get a kink or two out of your cast, if you want to. If you just want to be mad, go ahead. We're going to have company in about five minutes and then you'll be outnumbered and I won't have to be scared of you any more.”

She glanced west toward the oncoming lights. When she turned back, I could see her face in the rising eastern light. Her mouth looked fairly set.

“Look,” I said, “I'm not making a pass. I only go for gorgeous women, and right now you look like five pounds of shit poured into a ten-pound bag. Do you want a lesson or not?”

“Well, Jesus Christ!” she choked out. And then she began to laugh. A real belly laugh. After a bit she took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Why not? All of my conquests do my bidding. Show me how to cast. I'm sick of never knowing where this damned plug is going.”

“It's hard in the dark,” I said. “You should practice in the daylight so you can see where you're throwing. You want to see the splash where your plug hits the water, so you can make corrections. It's light enough now, if you know where to look.” She had an ounce-and-a-half popper on her leader. Too light to throw well against the southwest wind. “You got a tacklebox?”

“In the Jeep. The guy at the tackle shop told me what to buy.”

I got one of Spoff's guided missiles out of her box and put it on in place of the popper. “This is a good plug. It casts well and it catches fish, too.”

I gave a demonstration. “Don't throw hard at first;
concentrate on throwing straight. See that light out there? That's a light buoy. Throw at that whenever you fish this spot and you'll be casting pretty straight out.” I made a short cast. My Roberts splashed white and I reeled it in. “Now to begin with, make your casts right over your shoulder, not sidearm. That'll keep your plug from flying oil in different directions. Bring your rod straight back and then swing it straight over. Release your line at, say thirty degrees above the horizon. Throw easy at first, because you're only trying for direction, not distance. Have you thrown your bail?”

“I'm not so dumb that I don't know enough to throw my bail!”

“How should I know how dumb you are? Besides, the ocean floor out there is covered with plugs snapped off of rods because the bail wasn't thrown. Several of them are mine. Okay, make sure your line isn't wrapped around the lip of your rod. That's it. Make your cast.”

Her plug flew up in the air and landed about thirty feet from shore. She reeled in.

“Good,” I said. “You're right on line, but you released a touch too soon. Try again.”

She did, and the plug landed a bit farther out. She reeled in.

“Good. One more thing. Is the drag on your reel set right?”

“I don't know.”

We traded rods and I showed her how to adjust the drag. “You want the line to run before it breaks, but not run too easily. There, that's about it.” I got my rod back and watched her make two more casts. She threw straight. Not far, but straight. I turned away.

“Is that the end of the lesson?”

“That's it. I'm not a schoolteacher. The rest is practice. I came down here to fish.”

I made my cast and dimly saw the splash of white out near the waves of the rip. No giant bluefish took it. No nice seven-pounder took it. Nothing took it. Beside me, the fisherperson made her casts. Short and straight. Nothing took her plug either.

On my fifth cast, George Martin's Wagoneer pulled up. He got out and leaned back against his door and watched me not catch a fish on two more tries. I walked up to see him. The fisherperson kept casting.

“You don't hook 'em up here,” said George, “you catch 'em down there.” He pointed to the fisherperson with his coffee cup. “How long has Zee been here?”

I followed his gaze. “She was here when I got here. Zee who?”

“Zee Madieras. She's a nurse up at the hospital. I didn't know she fished.”

“She just started,” I said. I leaned down and looked into the Wagoneer. George's daughter was there. “Well, well. Susie, what are you doing here? When I was your age, it was considered normal to sleep till noon.”