Think Like a Fish-The World is Flat
by Sandy Beach
One thing about Flats-they are never really flat. Outside flats are exposed to the open ocean. Their bottoms tend to be light and sandy, and scrubbed by the waves. Inside flats, which are protected by a land mass usually dark and muddy, and teeming with life. Whatever their composition, inside or outside, flats are great places to fish.
Flats are combinations of depressions, holes, ridges, and edges where they drop off to deep water. These are the favorite habitats of mussels and clams, and will often offer eel grass, weed beds, rocks or other “structure” that offer great protection to fish. As opposed to most of the ocean floor, you can see a flat by visiting it at low tide when it’s bare of cover. This is the kind of intelligence that will pay off when you come back looking for game.
Large or small, all flats eventually drop off into deeper water. These edges may be a river channel “inside” or just deeper water “outside.” In either case, this is where you will find the action-at the edge. The stripers will be at the edges when the tides change. They want to be the first over the flats with the rising tide to gobble up the clams, worms, and crabs that have adjusted to terrestrial life. On the changing incoming tide, they will hang around to feed on the baitfish that have been trapped by the shore.
Combine the edges of the flat and the changing of the tide and the result will be action.
Sandy Beach, from The Boston Globe
Meiko
“How the frig did you do this?” Cuzzin is looking at an aluminum screen door. Artie is holding a rechargeable drill.
“I followed directions.”
“Did you follow the directions that were in English?” Cuzzin is trying to salvage a door that Artie has just finished installing. “Jesus, Artie. As best I can tell you’ve got this thing installed upside down, inside out, and backwards.”
“I tell ya, I’m good.” says Artie. “To what do you attribute such exceptional incompetence?”
“Low native intelligence. You’re related to me, aren’t you?” Vroom. Vroom.
“Plus, Liam helped me.”
“That explains it. Runs in the family. How much did you pay for this thing?”
“$88 at The Depot. I could have bought it installed for $150, but now I’ve got $62 burning a hole in my pocket.”
“And you’ve got a totally dysfunctional door. How many hours do you have into it?”
“About six, not counting the time I spent trying to figure out the instructions?”
“It’s going to be another six to fix it. I hope you direct movies better than you install doors. And fry fish better, too.”
“Whoa! I’ve told you. I haven’t signed on to the restaurant idea yet.”
“But you also haven’t run the other way. That’s how most people react to my ideas.”
“Something in my gut starts heaving when I think that fate has brought me back to Quincy to do what I did for a summer job when I was 15.”
“I thought you were sick of that phony Hollywood bullshit. Could be worse. Oh, I forgot, it is worse! Every broad in America hates you, right?”
“All but one. Meiko should be arriving at Logan just about now. Liam’s picking her up. You want to join us for dinner?”
“What are you having?”
“I’m grilling some lobsters.”
Arthur Gordon’s Grilled Lobsters
Get lobsters that are at least 1 1⁄2 pounds. You must use hard shell lobsters, Maine coast lobsters. In general, by mid-July all you can get are shedders. Don’t bother.
Light the grill. Use real hardwood charcoal (not briquets) and don’t use any starter fluid.
Plunge the lobsters head first into boiling water. Don’t become emotionally attached to the lobsters first, or killing them becomes more difficult. Boil vigorously for ten minutes (approximately half their normal cooking time).
Remove the lobsters. Crack the claws and split the tail. Place on grill, shell side down. Brush occasionally with lemon butter. Hand it in. Please note: this is an inferior way to eat lobsters, as the best way is boiled or steamed. It is, however, festive, and a good change of pace.
Grease in their Veins
Liam at Logan, baggage area: I couldn’t feel more ridiculous. I’m standing here waiting for my Father’s bimbo, who just happens to be blond and Asian, as were his last two girlfriends. And I like how he always refers to them as “Oriental.” Why doesn’t he just call them “generic Asians?”
Can’t he see what a fool he’s making of himself? Why can’t he just buy a sports car for his mid-life crisis. At least I could borrow the sports car.
This family is so fucked up, and has been ever since Mom split. It’s really hard for me to believe that the quality of her life is better in lesbo la-la land. Maybe Uncle Cuzzin will come over tonight so that all the Looney Tunes can be in the same place at the same time.
I like “Ragman” as a band name. It confronts the gender issue in an oblique way. With “man” in the name, there’s no question where we stand on political correctness, especially if there are chicks in the band. “Ragchick,” hm-m-m, that’s not bad either.
But “Ragman” has the further benefit of double entendre, as in “What the fuck is your problem? Are you on the rag, man?” Then, there, the Biblical allusion to the story of the guy who gives new rags for old, and in so doing, takes on the suffering of others.
I will have to look that story up on the web. I seem to remember it having something to do with Easter.
Uh-oh, here she comes. Not hard to pick out of a crowd. Indian Mound has never seen anything like this.
Meiko is three years older than Liam. She is wearing a peach colored blouse, scooped low enough to show enough cleavage to turn heads in Boston even if it (they) would scarcely draw a glance in L.A. She has the requisite tight designer jeans, $750 sunglasses, and beige platform shoes.
“Those will be perfect for the mudflats,” says Liam, pointing to her feet.
“Liam?” She gives him a once over, a smile, and a hug. “You look nothing like your father. You’re adorable!”
They chat at the baggage claim. She wants to know about his tattoos, and promises to show him the one on her butt. She asks him about his music and about the club scene in Boston. She’s not stuck-up at all. Liam collects her two huge, green suitcases, and struggles to manage them to the parking lot. Meiko is stunned when he throws them into the bed of Cuzzin’s beat-up truck.
“Is this yours?” she asks.
“It’s my Uncle Cuzzin’s, but he’s loaned it to us, ‘cuz we’re making so many trips to the landfill.
“Arthur Gordon is driving a beat-up pick-up truck?” says Meiko incredulously.
Liam fires it up and gives it a few throaty roars.
“I can’t see your father driving this!”
“There will be a few things you might find different about my Dad. He’s really into this handyman phase. He thinks he can fix anything, but usually he just makes it worse, and Uncle Cuzzin has to bail him out.”
“While he’s fixing things,” says Meiko. “I plan to lie around on the beach, drink some pina coladas, and maybe hit some clubs in the evening. Are you up for that?”
“Could be,” says Liam. “I’m not sure you’re going to be able to pry my Father off of Indian Mound.”
The Shortcut to China
Meiko’s thoughts upon arriving at Indian Mound and being given a tour of the cottage:
“You’ve got to be shitting me. I can’t believe people live like this. No heat, no air conditioning, mosquitoes, spiders, and cobwebs everywhere. The so-called beach has more seaweed, rocks, and crab shells than sand. The bathroom is disgusting. I think I’ll get dirty even taking a shower there. This place is so ordinary! Artie talks about it like it’s sacred ground, but it’s just a shack.
Ah well, he seems to be enjoying himself, and it’s really worked as a getaway from the media. Plus, Liam’s cool, and I can put up with anything for four days … I think.
The grilled lobsters are a hit, although Cuzzin looks mortally offended when Meiko asks Artie to take the meat out of the shell for her.
“You can’t do that!” he rasps. “You’ll offend our ancestors. Here, let me show you how to do a lobster. Start with the mallet and smash the claws.”
Cuzzin brings the mallet down with such force that the shell shatters and drops of lobster juice fly everywhere. Meiko gasps. The other men laugh, but Artie tries to ease himself between Mieko and Cuzzin.
“Relax, Cuzzin. Meiko’s not used to this. Maybe she can watch me do hers this time, and she’ll be ready to do her own next time.”
“Get outta here!” Cuzzin protests. “Remember at the restaurant we said ‘no lazy man’s lobster.’ That should go in spades for here. Really,” he turns back to Meiko, “It’s simple. After you smack the claw. You take one of these picks … ”
“Leave it alone, Cuzzin!” There is an edge to Artie’s voice to show the other man that he had infringed upon his protective territory. Cuzzin doesn’t need a second hint. He turns his eyes to the heavens:
“Oh Seamus, Bruce, Mother, and all the former Indian Mounders looking down on us. Forgive my cousin, Arthur, because he is so blinded by pure, unadulterated lust that he is letting his manly hormones interfere with his seafood etiquette. I’m sure he will have his priorities straight by tomorrow.” Cuzzin relieves the tension with his booming laugh.
“Well-done,” whispers Liam.
Meiko sits pleasantly through the lobster dinner. It’s crude, but delicious, she admits. The conversation is dominated by Cuzzin, who regales everyone with the nuances of his imagined restaurant, despite Artie’s constant reminders that he has not signed on to the venture. Trying not to stare into her cleavage too obviously, he relates the stories of Howard Johnson and Dunkin’ Donuts. She’s not impressed, even when he says the Gordon boys have “grease in their veins.”
After the dinner clean-up is complete, Meiko nestles up to Artie and says “Would you like to go out to a club in town tonight?”
Artie is dumbstruck. The concepts of “club” and “in town” have never occurred to him at Indian Mound, although back in L.A. her request would have been entirely reasonable. When he finally collects himself, he is in full command of his graciousness. “I can’t do the club thing here, Meiko. First of all, I’ve gotten into an early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine. But secondly, the types of people who hang out at clubs are the types who might recognize me. But what am I thinking? You’re three hours ahead of us. There’s no way you’re going to be ready for bed when I am. You and Liam go out and have a good time. Liam, here’s my credit card, and get the keys to the Lincoln from your Uncle.”
She protests, but he insists.
The next morning Artie is on a step ladder, painting some trim in the back of the house. Shea is close by, watering her compost pile with a water wand. It’s 11 am on a brilliant summery day that’s bathed in sunshine. Artie has been working since 7 am.
“I’ve given some thought to what you told me about compost,” says Artie to Shea. She looks up. “If compost is such magical stuff, why don’t you shit in your own compost pile.”
“Do you really want to see my bare behind hanging over this pile? But that’s a better idea than dumping our waste in the Bay. Do you know that human beings are about the only animals that shit in their own drinking water?”
“No shit!” says Artie. “You know what I can’t figure out. In the Fifties they built a pumping station out at the tip of Hough’s Neck, supposedly to clean up the Bay, which was getting increasingly polluted. Instead, things just got worse and worse until the last few years when they closed down the pumping station and now the water is getting cleaner. Wassup wi’dat?”
“I know all about it, because my PR firm has had the Harbor Commission for a client for almost forty years. Originally, the western suburbs dumped their shit in rivers like the Charles and the Neponset, but they became polluted, so it was decided to pipeline the stuff directly to the ocean. Places like the pumping station on Nut Island were supposedly sanitizing the shit, but in reality they were just putting a little band-aid on the situation where more and more suburban shit was being pumped into the Bay.”
“So, why are things cleaning up now?” Artie continues with his painting, Shea with her watering. Before she can answer, Liam stumbles out the backdoor. He is unshaven, with hair askew, and seems to be barely awake.
“I gotta go, I’m gonna be late for work.”
“Did you guys have a good time?” asks Artie.
“Yeah we did, but we didn’t get in until really late.” “How late?” “After four. I gotta run. The donuts call.”
“Need a lift?
“No, I’ll catch a bus. See ya.”
Artie looks at Shea. “I remember when I could do that. So, back to the shit.” Shea continues:
“I’m actually a semi-expert on this. Do you want the full report or the executive summary?”
Just then, Meiko staggers out from the house. She, too, is bedraggled and askew, barely awake. And barely clothed in a bikini. She drags a chaise lounge into the sunlight, removes her bikini top and flops down with a moan.
“Your son is a very bad boy. He made me stay out until past my bedtime.”
“Did you have a good time?” Meiko answers with an uplifted thumb.
“What time did you get in?” She answers with four fingers, then five.
“Where did you go?” No response. Artie, still on his step ladder, looks over to Shea, who has stopped her watering to take in the sight of the sleeping, bedraggled goddess in the chaise.
“Shea,” he gestures with his brush to the chaise, “this is my friend, Meiko. Meiko, this is my neighbor, Shea.” Shea smiles and gives a silent wave. Meiko is motionless.
Artie looks back to Shea. “Might as well give me the full report.”
The first Boston sewer system was completed in 1884. Up until that time every community fended for itself. Now, however, the waste from eighteen cities and towns was consolidated in holding tanks on Moon Island, then released on the outgoing tide. The wastewater wasn’t treated, just dispensed into the harbor.
Even though this was a state-of-the-art facility, the water quality steadily went down hill and by the 30s it was no longer safe to eat the shellfish taken from the harbor. Then, in 1940, three regional discharge plants were constructed. They were still simply releasing raw sewage.
The first actual treatment plant is the one you can see right across the bay, at Nut Island on Hough’s Neck. It was completed in 1952. By this time, however, the treatment facilities were fighting a losing battle against the sheer volume increases coming from the expanding metropolitan area. By the 1970s the Harbor was a polluted mess.
Things just got worse in the 1980s when it was found that the wastewater in the Harbor was below federal standards. A court order mandated the construction of a new treatment plant which was built at Deer Island. Now all the effluent is pumped to the plant there, where it is fermented in these giant eggs that look as if they are right out of a James Bond movie. The treated wastewater is then transported nine and a half miles through what’s called the Outfall Tunnel where it’s discharged into the waters of Massachusetts Bay.
The positive impact on water quality has been dramatic. Among other things, species of game fish such as striped bass have returned to the Harbor and created a small, but growing sportfishing business.
“You sound like a talking press release” says Artie.
“That was my job.”
“You use the past tense,” he observes.
“I’m taking a break from work at the moment, give myself a chance to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.” “Me, too,” says Artie. “I call this my ‘Northwest Passage’ period, because I’m exploring different coves and waterways, looking for the shortcut to China.”
“Which they never found,” adds Shea.
Meiko is among the living by 2 pm. The day goes downhill from there. The skies cloud up in the afternoon and by 4 pm a steady mist is falling. Meiko spends most of the afternoon on her cell phone, telling her friends what a dump Artie’s cottage is. They go to dinner at Anna’s, but Meiko is less than impressed. After dinner she bemoans the lack of a television or other electronic entertainments. She makes more noise about wanting to go out to clubs in town. Artie resists and flatly declares that he won’t go. She sulks so much that he finally call Liam at Dunkin’ Donuts to see if he will take her out when he gets off work at 11:30 pm. He agrees.
The next morning Meiko sleeps in again while Artie cleans out the crawl space under the house. It’s a dirty, stinky, long- avoided job, especially on such a muggy, humid day. Why he saved such a filthy job for such a hot day is a question that he asks himself repeatedly. When Meiko arises, it is late afternoon. Artie looks like a swamp rat.
“Want to make love?” he asks mischievously. She sees no humor in the suggestion.
Artie suggests a walk on the beach. The tide, however, is dead low, so their walk is on the mud.
“This is GROSS. It’s squishing between my toes! Ow-w-w! I just stepped on a sharp shell. I’m putting my sandals on. Oh crap, now my sandals are sticking to the mud. There are little things bumping into my toes!”
“Those are shrimp. Just like the shrimp you eat, only tiny. Relax, Meiko. Give it a chance!”
“OMIGOD! Artie, what is that?”
“It’s horseshoe crab.” Artie grabs the crab by its bony tail and lifts it in the air so that the legs are flailing. He’s hoping for a squeal and a laugh. Instead he gets a bloodcurdling scream. Meiko turns and runs, stopping ever few feet to scream in pain or to curse Artie. He makes no attempt to stop her. After a minute, she had made it back to the sand and is running toward the seawall. Artie wonders if she will be there when he gets back. He gently places the horseshoe crab back in the mud. He is surrounded by the gentle lapping of little waves in a shallow bay.
There She Was … gone
Oddly, Artie feels at peace with the world. Meiko’s flight has liberated him.
In the distance, towards the Boston Skyline, Artie sees a solitary figure, moving purposefully, silhouetted against the pale blue of the Bay. It takes a few moments, but he finally registers that the person is fishing. He moves for a closer vantage.
He takes a seat on a dory that has been stranded by the high tide. He is no expert on fishing, but he has enough experience to recognize that the fisherman is fly fishing, standing knee deep in the water just beyond the low tide mark. The graceful pantomime is backed by a big, fat, orange orb of a setting sun.
Artie is as confused as he is peaceful. He is entranced and mesmerized.
For the better part of the next hour he watches the ballet of fisherman presenting feathered lure. The performance is suddenly interrupted by the arch of the rod and a splash. Man and Nature have connected, and Nature is trying to escape. A small battle ensues, won by the fisherman, who lands and releases a modestly large fish.
The sun sets over the multi-colored gas tanks in Dorchester. As the light ebbs, he watches as the fisherman reels in for a last time and starts walking back towards Artie, the shore, and civilization. As the man comes within earshot, Artie says “I feel a little like a voyeur, but I’ve been enjoying watching you for the last half hour or so.”
The voice that answers is a woman’s, “I don’t mind being watched.” She is now upon him.
“Umm, can I ask you a few questions?” A million questions are suddenly on Artie’s mind.
The woman is now abreast. She is wearing a ballcap, sun- glasses, a fishing vest with a million purposeful pockets, shorts and sandals. She takes off her glasses. Artie can’t entirely see her in the twilight, but he can tell she gives him a welcoming smile. She has friendly eyes and freckles. “You can ask as many questions as you want between here and my truck.” She gestures to the sea wall.
They walk fifty yards in silence. Suddenly, the questions come bubbling out of Artie as if he has been holding them in all his life:
“What exactly are you doing? Are there fish out there you can really catch on a fly rod? I know there are,because I saw you catch one. What kind did you catch? Is it hard to do? Where can I get equipment? How can I learn how to do this?”
The woman laughs. It’s a laugh like splashing water. Artie falls in love.
“Hold on, Buckaroo. I can only handle six or seven questions at a time. First of, what’s your name?”
“I’m sorry. I’m Arthur Gordon. Artie. I have a little cottage over on Indian Mound.”
“Ah, I didn’t know any cottages were left. Are you a member of the famous Gordon clan?”
“You know us?”
“I know about Cuzzin of bait shop fame. I knew your Mother a little bit, a lovely lady, and I know about your Uncle Bull.”
“What do you know about my Uncle Bull?” They have now reached the lady’s vehicle, a small, neat pick-up truck. She breaks down her rod into two sections and places it in a rod holder mounted on the rear window.
“That without him Howard Johnson never would have gotten beyond selling ice cream cones on Wollaston Beach and Bill Rosenberg would be operating Dunkin’ Donuts as a pushcart business up on the Southern Artery.” She slips the suspenders off her shoulder, unties her boots, and nimbly steps out of her waders. She is wearing a faded green t-shirt and grey gym shorts. Artie, as a hard-wired male, can’t help but taking note of shapely, tanned legs. She tosses the waders in the back of the truck and reaches in for a pair of sandals.
“Do you know about me?” he asks.
“Not much. Haven’t you been away for a long time?”
“Seems that way. Sometimes it seems like I’ve never been gone. What’s your name?”
“Cassie.” She reaches out and shakes his hand. Her grip is warm and comfortable. As much as can be communicated in a handshake is shared. “I can’t stay to answer your questions, but you can get everything you need to get started at Cuzzin’s.” She opens the door, gets behind the wheel, and turns the ignition.
“It sounds as if you’ve been regaled with Cuzzin’s version of the Gordon family role in fast-food history. Just one quick question. What kind of fish was that that you just caught?”
“A stripah. About twenty inches long. They have to be thirty to be keepers.”
“A striped bass. No kidding. I thought they were extinct or something.”
She smiled, but only with her mouth, no teeth. A smile that said “gotta go,” and, suddenly, there she was … gone.
At the cottage, Meiko is in a froth of packing. She is doing it rather loudly, with lots of slammed doors and loud mutters. Shea is sitting on her back deck when Artie comes back. She can hear every word of what follows.
I’m outta here Artie. You bring me across country to sleep in a shack with spiders, mosquitoes, and godknowswhatelse.? You call this a cottage. It’s not a cottage, it’s a dump. You call that a beach? Beaches don’t ooze between your toes. You seem to think I should be thanking you for showing me such a good time by letting me watch you paint. Then, for an excursion, you take me to the freakin’ landfill! O, thank you, Bwana.
I’m going to the airport and catching the first plane back to L.A., and if you want to salvage this relationship, you’ll be right behind me. Otherwise you can stay here and swill beer with your slob of a cousin and the two of you can smack each others’ lobsters. I’m going back to the real world where beaches have sand on them, and you can play volleyball without risking your life.
I know the heat’s been on you since your last movie, but at least in L.A. you are somebody. Even if people hated you, you were somebody. Here, you’re just a little old man living in a dump of a house and driving a dump of a car. You better shape up, Artie!
Artie doesn’t try to stop her. He doesn’t argue or defend himself. He just calls her a cab. For the next hour he watches the breeze blow the leaves in the oak tree and listens to the layers of songbirds, trying to understand his feelings. He’s not angry, not lonely, not frustrated. Then it hits him. For the first time since he was twelve years old, Artie is free, completely free. A call from Elaine reels him back to reality.
“Hey, anything going on?” he asks.
“Not a lot,” she says. “Mercifully. The press seems to have moved on to the next train wreck. How’s your cabin? Do you want me to come out and visit you?”
“The cabin is good, at least by my standards. The roof doesn’t leak, the plumbing works, and there are no more critters living in the house, unless you count ants and spiders. It’s not the Beverly Hills Hilton, however.”
“Maybe I won’t come visit.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Meiko was just out for a weekend, and let’s just say it didn’t work out.”
“How badly didn’t it work out?”
“Badly enough that we need to do ‘the drill.’”
“Ah,” says Elaine, one syllable being all that’s required when an agent and client have worked and grown together for more than twenty years. One syllable being all that’s required when the agent and client have been through each other’s childbirths, divorces, Elaine’s breast cancer, and now Artie’s career crisis. One syllable, when the agent realizes that 80% of her income comes from one client and the other 20% from other clients who she has because she has the 80% client.
“The full drill, or the partial drill?” she asks. Since the dissolution of his marriage Artie has been through a series of relationships, all of which have been short-lived and all of which ended badly. Especially since Artie has developed this thing for blond Asians, half his age, the drills have been occurring regularly.
“I think we can get away with a ‘partial’. She seemed upset when she left, but not apoplectic. Plus, Meiko’s a nice girl.”
“Even nice girls can get greedy when they think they have nothing to lose. You sure you don’t want to go with the ‘full?’” The major difference between the “full” and the “partial” is in the “full” Artie’s phone numbers, email addresses, and post office boxes are changed. A restraining order is issued and 24/7 security is hired to watch Artie’s home. In the “partial,” the locks are changed on the house, the credit cards cancelled, and the woman, accompanied by a security guard, is allowed back into Artie’s home only to get her possessions.
“No, I’m confident we can get away with a partial. Nothing else to report?”
“Just one thing,” says Elaine, “The studio has announced July 1 as the release date for My Mother, My Lover… on video and DVD.”
“Well, ring-a-ding-ding! Mark your calendars, just in time for the holiday pyrotechnics. I can’t be bothered with such minutia. I’ve got a fish to catch.”
“You’re going to go fishing?”
“Have I said something funny,” Artie is suddenly defensive.
“You’ve said something hilarious. I cannot envision Arthur Gordon with a fishing pole.”
“I’m going to catch a big, fucking striped bass, and I’m going to freeze it and Fedex it to you.”
“Clean it first, will you? I don’t do well with fish guts.”