I write novels in a peculiar way; I just begin writing and seeing where it goes. Here is an vignette from a work that is not yet complete. I append it here, because some Long Islanders my get a memory kick out of it.
From: The Twelfth Magic Summer <-- For alla youse younguns, we are talking 1952.
We had gone fishing in Cold Spring Harbor on a schoolday. He had said to me, “Slug, which would you rather do... go fishing with me, or go to school today?”
My God, there are kids, old folks, and in-betweens that would never have the temerity to even dream of having the opportunity to answer such a question. Dad had just purchased a Sears-Roebuck Sea King 4 1/2 horsepower outboard motor, and he wanted to try it out. As it turned out, I got nailed by my fourth-grade teacher (an ugly old harridan, and a ***** to boot) for truancy. It has always been worth it. Perhaps even more than if Dad and I had gotten away with it clean. No big thing, but Dad had to write a letter.
We went to Cold Spring Harbor, rented a boat, put the outboard on, and zoomed out into the great beyond. Of course, I got to steer, while Dad set up the spreaders and sinkers on our poles. I was ten feet tall. Also, I had never caught a fish in my life up to that point.
We anchored near a buoy and dropped the lines overboard. In less than a second, I had a bite. The fish came into the boat a second later, and I can still see it today, fins spread, tail flicking. It was an inedible something called a bergall. We threw it overboard after I had played with it for a few minutes. I felt like I had spent the morning in a secret fort, or like I had been inducted into a secret society. I had caught a fish!
Dad put heavier sinkers on the lines so they’d go to the bottom faster.
Bam! A bite. I reeled in the line, and there were two flounders on the spreader. This went on for quite a while -- we fished and fished; using progressively smaller pieces of worm (Dad had only bought a dozen, since they cost a nickel apiece) until we had no more. Then we used Dad’s pocketknife to scrape dried worms off the rowboat thwarts. After they were gone, we went to shore and dug some more worms, climbed back into the boat and caught some more flounders. Suddenly, there were six inches and more of fish in the bottom of the boat, and we had to stand on them.
Finally, Dad said, “OK, Slug, we’ve got to knock off now.”
When I asked why, since they were still biting, and we had a couple of pieces of worm left, he pointed at the waterline on the rowboat, which was right up near the oarlock.
“If we put any more in the boat, we’ll sink.”
{Super careful ride back with panicky bailing every now and then}
What a day. And he cleaned and filleted them all. Beats the hell out of school.
If folks would like some other vignettes, I will post them. They all still have notes for expansion, etc. (as in there is a bailing-in-panic story for on the way in -- this was before life preservers came with rented rowboats.)
Just lemme know.