Low tide is at 7:14 a.m. Artie is on the flats at 6. He fishes a little, but mostly he watches. Twenty minutes after the tide change, he notices the same tailing activity.
“Now, don’t spook ‘em” Sandy Beach whispers in his ear. “Pay attention to the wind direction. You’ll have an easier time reaching them if you are casting with the wind.” Sandy has been talking to him more and more. “Instead of going directly at them, take a position down-current and move a step farther our and closer with each cast.”
Artie inches towards the fish a step at a time. It takes him about five minutes to move fifty feet. His fly finally reaches the area of the tailing. Midway into his retrieve he sees the flash and swirl. He feels the tug!
He has a fish on the end of his line. He is so excited that he lets out a whoop, and Arthur Gordon hasn’t whooped in so many years that his whoop is closer to a croak. There is no mistaking the exuberance.
This time the knot holds true on the fly. “Let him run,” says Sandy. “Put some pressure on your reel with your hand. Don’t try to tighten the drag now. Let him tire out and then lead him into shallow water.”
Artie does as he is told. The fish runs out fifty feet of line, arcing his rod in a steady throb. When the fish slows, Artie reels in so that there is never any slack line. The fish’s runs become short and less frequent, allowing Artie to gain ground. Now he can see the fish. It’s a striper with the dignity of a judge, the power of a race car, and the sheer mass of a dancer’s thigh. The fish finally rolls to the side, and Artie is able to guide it within reach. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his rod and reel (and Beach, for once, isn’t there with advice), and lets it fall awkwardly in the water. He kneels in the shallow water to examine his fish.
Artie holds the fish as tenderly as he would a newborn infant. He unhooks his fly from the corner of the fish’s mouth, and gently moves the fish back and forth so that water will move through its gills. The fish is much too small to be legal. Artie guesses twenty-four inches, still a nice fish. When he feel the tail twitch, he knows it is time for the fish to return to the wild. He releases it and the fish hesitates for only heartbeat before darting back to deep water.
When he picks up his rod and returns to his feet, he is startled by the sound of a single person clapping behind him and calling “Bravo!”
There’s no facepaint or headset or headress, but the long hair and flat features are unmistakable. It’s Joe Liquordup. Jeez, he looks about Liam’s age. Joe is shirtless, with his long pants rolled up to his knees, his shoulder-length hair hanging free.
“I didn’t realize I was putting on a show.”
“Best show in town. Is it that easy to catch a fish?”
“Easy? I’ve been doing this for more than a month. That’s my first fish.”
“What kind was it?”
“A striped bass.”
“Why didn’t you keep it?”
“Too small. They have to be thirty inches to be legal.”
“Are they good eating?”
“The best.”
“I’da kept it. And if they caught me I’d tell them that I’m a Native American, and I don’t recognize the white man’s fishing regulations.” There’s no headress or war paint, but Artie knows who he is talking to.
There is a pause, Joe waits to see if Artie rises to the bait. “I can read your mind,” says Joe.
“And I can read yours,” says Artie.
“My job is testing the limits and pushing the buttons.”
“And mine is catching fish.”
“You were talking to, or more shouting at, someone as you fought the fish.”
“That would be Sandy Beach, my fishing guru.”
“Was he on your phone or something?
“No just on my mind.”
Joe looks out towards the islands. “I came out here this morning just trying to get a moment of peace and quiet. I almost turned off my cell phone! Then I hear this madman shouting at the ocean. As I came closer, I saw an epic battle, man versus fish. But what impressed me the most was that you were completely absorbed in what you were doing. You didn’t notice me; you were completely unaware of anything but that fish on the end of your line.
“I recognize you from Indian Mound, so you know who I am and what I’m all about. What you don’t know is that at any given moment there are a zillion things colliding in my head. There are advisors whispering in my ears, and microphones in my face, and angry people who want to sic their dogs on me. I’ve taken on this role willingly, but there are just times when I want it to be silent, me against the fish. Nothing else. That’s what I saw on your face a few minutes ago. A little of that will go a long way for me.”
“But you have no idea of who I am or what’s on my mind. You don’t have a monopoly on conflicting emotions.” says Artie.
“You want to tell me your story?” offers Joe.
Artie shakes his head with a smile, “It’s at least a three-beer story. But the mudflats are neutral turf. I’ll tell you what I know about fly fishing for stripers.”
“That would be mighty white of you. My name’s Joe.”
The men shake hands. “I’m glad you saw this,” says Artie. “because this is my first striper and I might need you to testify.”
“May I see your fishing pole?” Artie nods and hands Joe the fly rod. He starts whipping it about precariously.
“Whoa, look out! There’s a very sharp hook attached to that. It wouldn’t feel very good lodged in your forehead.”
“Show me how!” Joe continues moving the rod back and forth, trying to sense the rhythm.
Artie takes the rod and starts moving it back and forth. “Don’t bend the wrist, and don’t muscle it. Don’t think about the rod. Tell me your life story:
I was born Henry Milliard. I didn’t even know I was part Wampanoag Indian until about ten years ago when someone told my mother that fancy prep schools were offering free tuition to Native Americans. Instantly, having Indian blood went from being a curse to being a very big advantage. Even though my folks were poor, I went to all the best schools thanks to the trendiness of “diversification.” I went all the way through Milton Academy, Harvard, and now Harvard Business School and never paid a cent.
“You went to Milton? Go Mustangs!”
Dare to be true! I took the name Joe Liquordup at Harvard to play on the guilt that most white Americans feel towards Native Americans. Some people feel that is biting the hand that has fed me, and I couldn’t agree more, but knowing what I know, and having the skills that I have, and not using them to right some of the wrongs done to Native Americans over the centuries would be even more unconscionable.
It’s irrelevant whether or not I am 100% Wampanoag or 1%. The point is that this group of people has be treated unfairly for many years. Anyone who does anything to improve their lot in life is doing good work. If some privileged white kid from Wellesley dedicates his life to helping the underprivileged, everyone regards him as a Saint. I just bring a little … theater to the situation. The press loves it, and that moves our cause along faster.
I don’t get bothered by the hypocrisy of having a graduate degree from Harvard and painting my face and wearing a headdress to look like a noble savage. I can’t afford to let myself think like that. I’m doing a job. I’m doing it well. In fact no one can do it quite as well as I.
Joe is now moving the rod back and forth with considerable grace.
“That’s it,” encourages Artie, suddenly the mentor. “Let the rod throw the line. Don’t feel as if you have to muscle it out.” “Cool,” says Joe. Suddenly, he puts the rod in his left hand and thrusts his right into his pocket, brings out a gently vibrating cell phone. He says “yuh” four times, then folds the phone. “Looks like the lesson is over. That was fun.” He hands the rod back to Artie.
“If you want to do it a little more, we’ve got a series of nice tides and a full moon coming up. I plan to spend about four hours a day out here. If you see me out here, come on by.”
“Great. By the way, when you see me on Indian Mound I will be wearing my game face. No “Go Mustangs!”
“Understood,” says Artie.
“I want to hear the three-beer story,” says Joe. He hesitates, “If you can do anything to encourage your neighbors to be patient, you’ll be doing them a favor.”
A Scary Plan
After the fifth entreaty, Artie agrees to go up to Cuzzin’s Bait & Tackle to hear the restaurant plan. It bubbles and splatters from his mouth the way clams do when lowered into the grease.
“We gotta reverse everything. Bull oriented this place to the road, but we gotta make the focus the ocean. Follow me.
“First of all, the parking lot. It’s going to be crushed shells. No paving, no dust. And I’m going to get one of those grease cars that runs on used vegetable oil. You like that. Get it all painted up, and everywhere I go, there I’ll be, y’know?”
Cuzzin, a fresh beer in each hand, leads Artie across the parking lot. He has hacked an opening through the sumac and tall grasses that block off the view of the salt marsh. He has a picnic table set up. He takes a seat and opens the beers.
“See how peaceful it is here?” And it was true. The road noise was greatly diminished, making Artie aware of the noise of distant gulls. The expanse of green marsh was soothing to the eye. He was facing due west, into a restful sunset. Had Cuzzin choreographed this? He lapses into
Squantese:
“So da plan is to get people out here as soon as possible. People entah through da front door and come immediately to the ordah countah. They’ll only be room for fo-wa, maybe five, customahs, but dat’s ok, because if a line spills out onto the street, people will know that we’re populah.
“We take dere drink ordah, and get ‘em out here as soon as possible. Maybe give some oystah crackahs to nibble on. Thirty seconds before da food comes out, we’ll announce da food, using people’s first names and sayin’ what dey ordahed. None of this ‘Numbah 65,’ but ‘Ah-tee, ya fried clams are gettin’ cold! Hurry up.’ You know, give it a little variety, a little theatah. I’ll do a lotta the microphone work myself. You ever heard my rich baritone over a microphone? I give good mic!
“Serve everything on papah. Keep it simple, self-bussing, hardly any staff, ‘cept in the kitchen. We’ll serve the freshest seafood, perfectly cooked, and no bullshit.”
Cuzzin shuts up and let the sunset work for him. “It’s scary,” says Artie, “but I think you’ve got the germ of a good plan.”
Liam’s cell phone rings. He’s in a rehearsal room. He looks, but doesn’t recognize the number.
Hello? Who? Meiko! Hey, what’s up? Are you in LA? I hear you got locked out of my Father’s house. So you’re not mad? Cool I didn’t realize you had your own place.
What’s up with me? Well-l-l, there was this little incident at work. Some guys insulted my masculinity so I had to beat them up. No, not really, but let’s just say my donut making career has ended. So I’ve been putting in time helping my Dad on the cottage.
Hey, watch your mouth! That ‘nasty little cottage’ is going to be mine, all mine, someday.
So I’m good for that for a couple of weeks. Then school starts the last week of August. Did you hear about the Indians taking over Indian Mound? You might see it on the nightly news. It’s all over the place here. Long story. Very long story.
Hm-m-m. It’s possible. I’d have to run it by my Dad. As they say in Italian-”muh-funz-alo,” so I’d have to ask him to stake me to airfare. He might have some free miles to spare. He might be weird about me going out to see you. Let me pick the right time. I’ll get back to you.