[It’s January. The high-pressure dome has descended to dominate the continental U.S. Here in Vermont it’s brilliantly frigid. If the power goes out, it becomes instantly life-threatening. And me? I’m reveling in summer, living by the ocean, putting my life together and trying to catch a fish. SB SM]
This next section will benefit from the soundtrack below. Start it, then keep reading:
The Battle of Indian Mound closes out the last two weeks of July and wraps into August. It’s day after day of a warm, wet smolder, punctuated by ill-tempered, afternoon thunderstorms that roll in like candlepins from the Berkshires. The fish can’t seem to figure out what is going on. Artie tries a variety of new places between Dorchester and Hingham, but can’t find fish.
Joe Liquordup is interviewed daily, then every other day, and now once in a while. Shea presents the public with a clear, calm daily updates that reeks of empathy for the Native American plight while maintaining the unwavering position of the Indian Mound residents that they hold clear title to their lands, and that the activists are guilty of trespassing.
The nightly meetings produce less-and-less information but still bulge with ample amounts of bile. Artie doesn’t attend, but is kept up-to- date in backyard conversations with Shea. He tells Shea that when the news crew finally disappear, the Wampanoags will be close behind.
“Do yourself a favor,” she says, “Don’t come to one of the nightly meetings with that piece of information. Patience is not a virtue with this crowd. They only respond to swear words and violence.”
The High Tide
Generally speaking the high tide belongs to the bait fisherman and the low tide to the wader. As with any good rule, this is one made to be broken. Eel grass and weed beds make great hiding places for baitfish, shrimp, sand eels, and all other kinds of food. As the tide turns to outgoing, and the water begins to drain, stripers will often lie in wait so that it can drain right into their guts. The fish will hang in the deeper water and make sniper attacks as their prey moves to seaward, sometimes coming to with- in inches of the shoreline.
Remember that you have to expect a fish on every cast. You must believe. And you must fish each cast to the very end, as stripers are most likely to strike when they think the prey is escaping.
— from Think Like A Fish by Sandy Beach
Artie encounters Joe several times on the mudflats, and continues to pass along his newly acquired fishing knowledge. They enjoy each other’s company.
“Did you play football?”
“You mean, was I a ‘Maraudin’ Mustang?’ You betcha. I was the slowest and smallest guard in Milton Academy history. The coach nicknamed me ‘Moose’ in the program, because he didn’t want the opponents to know I weighed only 155 pounds. “
“Yeah? The school newspaper called me the ‘Wampanoag Wingback.’”
“Were you any good?”
“Not really. I started in my senior year, but I only caught three or four passes, good for about twelve yards, but I dared to be true, whatever that means.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do these days.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Pay attention to your retrieve.” says Artie. “You’re picking it up too early. Fish each cast all the way in. Remember, on the last twenty feet or so, lead it off to the side so that if a fish is following, he won’t be spooked by seeing you.” Artie thought he was sounding very Sandy Beach-like.
“Am I ever going to catch a fish, Artie?”
“Joe, you’ve got to believe that every single cast is going to bring a fish, because if you don’t believe, how will the fish?”
“You are so full of shit, Sandy, I mean Artie..”
Artie and Joe arrange to meet at 5 am, near Nut Island where a small salt water pond is connected to the Bay by each incoming tide. “Look!” Artie takes Joe by the elbow and motions to the pond where ten or twelve birds are working the surface. “This is perfect. The bass have been trapped in the pond, and now the incoming tide is bringing in a fresh supply of baitfish. The bass are working them to the surface, and the birds are getting them there. Let’s go in to the water over here, then work our way up slowly to the birds.”
“What should we use as a fly?”
“Anything that looks like a small fish will work. Today’s your day to catch a fish.”
The student has become the teacher. Joe and Artie enter the water. Artie is in waders, but Joe is “wet wading” in shorts and sneakers. Joe casts with more confidence now. After each retrieve, he moves one step closer to the working birds. Artie moves with him, standing just to the left, accompanying him with a steady murmur of tips and encouragement.
The rod bends. Man and fish are joined. Joe whoops. The chase is on. The chaos is on.
The fish runs Joe’s line down to the last few feet of backing. Luckily they are in a relatively open space of water and do not have to worry about the line being wrapped around rocks or pilings. Joe gains. The fish runs. Joe whoops. Artie coaches. After a fight of nearly twenty minutes, Joe is able to work the fish to Artie, who clasps it by the lower jaw.
“This is a big fish,” says Artie.
“How big do you think?”
“Let me see the fly rod. I’ve marked thirty inches from the butt.” Joe hands him the rod. “This is at least thirty-three or four inches. You’ve got yourself a keeper, that is, if you want to keep it.” Artie removes the hook and starts moving the fish back and forth gently.
“What are you doing?” asks Joe.
“Running some water through his gills so he can get some oxygen.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“So he won’t die.” Joe shakes his head. “Don’t bother, because I’m keeping him.” Walking back to Indian Mound, the fish is heavy enough and awkward enough that the men have to switch off on carrying it.
“I feel like I’ve done a full day’s work,” says Joe.
“In terms of meaningful accomplishment, you have.” They are now close enough to the Mound that people on the sea wall can see they have a big fish. Joe stops and takes the fish from Artie. He holds it up high and waves triumphantly with his other hand.
“Time has come today,” says Joe.
“Time for what?”
“Time to end this silliness about the occupation of Indian Mound. Do you think you can get your people together for a meeting at noon? If we can reach a meeting of the minds, then we can hold a press conference at two and start celebrating by four or five. I can set it all in motion now.”
“I’ll talk to Shea. I’m sure she can meet by noon.”
“Ok, we’re on. One more thing, Artie. Do you know anyone who can do a clambake, the real old fashioned kind where you bury things in the sand and all that?” Artie knows just the guy.
At noon Artie, Shea, and a half dozen Indian Mounders meet with Joe and his warriors by the waterfront. Joe is back in his Harvard Business School mode:
Here’s the deal. We will vacate these premises tomorrow and renounce any claim on this land. In return we have only one demand and that is that Indian Mound return to its original Wampanoag name, Pissiwagasset. It means “You dig for clams over there, and I’ll dig for them here.” Of course what you call the community amongst yourselves is your business. You can call it “Shithole- by -the-Sea” if you want to, but on state maps and records it will be Pissiwagassett.
That’s all. If we can shake on it, we’ll have a brief news conference at two. The local TV stations have already been alerted. We’ll have a bury-the-hatchet (ha-ha) celebration this evening, and you’ll never have to see our swarthy red asses again. My guess is when you think back on this, you’ll forget the hard feelings, and it will become a funny and interesting episode in the community’s history.
It takes the coalition of Indian Mound, whoops, Pissiwagassett residents less than a minute to reach consensus. Cuzzin is already at work down on the beach, digging a pit.
Cuzzin’s Clam Bake
Dig a pit, two feet wide, eight feet long and two feet deep. Build a big motherfucking fire in it, preferably using driftwood. As the fire is burning down, line the fire pit with beach rocks. The best kind are round smooth ones, but beggars can’t be choosers. Use what you got.
As the fire dies to coals, rake them to the side. Cover the rocks with a thick layer of wet rockweed seaweed. Rockweed is best because it contains tiny sacs of salt water that burst during the cooking, releasing more moisture for the steam. You will need a lot, a pick-up load or two 55 gallon drums. Layer your food in reverse order of eating. Put lobsters at the bottom, followed by shellfish, Joe’s 21 pound striped bass (stuffed with onions, mint, garlic, and whatever else you want), corn, potatoes, onions, eggs, and spicy sausage. My personal favorite is linguica.
Add a little more seaweed, cover with a heavy canvas tarp, then sand. Let it cook for two hours. When you get ready to remove the tarp, make sure that all the other meal logistics have been taken care of-paper plates, melted butter, utensils, trash bags, ice, keg tapped- because you don’t want to be interrupted once the eating begins.
Artie awakes with Shea nestled onto his right shoulder. He remembers the sequence of events. There was the clambake. Indian Mound was officially renamed Pissawagasset. Cuzzin officially announced that he was going into the restaurant business. Kegs were tapped, beer was drunk.
More beer was drunk.
A bonfire was started. Someone said that all that was missing was music. Cuzzin got the bright idea to take four guys and his truck to the cottage to get Artie’s piano. Within minutes Artie was performing from the bed of Cuzzin’s truck, leading the residents of Indian Mound and a now congenial band of Wampanoags in singing the three chord chestnuts from the 50s and 60s.
More beer was drunk.
Artie remembers playing “Diana,” “Maybe,” “Great Balls of Fire,” “Good Golly Miss Molly,” “Tutti Frutti,” “Long Tall Sally,” “Teenager in Love.” He remembers singing “March, March On Mustangs,” the Milton Academy fight song with Joe. He can remember his entire play list, but he can’t quite remem- ber how Shea came to be in his bed.
Did they make love? Artie has vague recollections of fondling and kissing. Ah, now he remembers:
Shea had too much to drink, or so she said.
After about a ten minute rendition of his signature “Whole Lotta Shakin’” a gaggle of about ten semi-plastered Injuns and Pissawagassians (as they dub themselves) led, of course, by then the ubiquitous, rabble-rousing Cuzzin, managed to wrestle the piano back into the cottage. Then the noisy contingent pinballed their way back to the keg, and somehow Shea was left with Artie. She was still glowing from the sudden end of hostilities and asked Artie if he had any wine. She was effusive in her praise for his musicianship and how he had been the only person to bridge the gap between the locals and the Wampanoags.
She had another glass of wine and sat next to Artie, much too close, on the couch. At the end of a second glass she announced “I’ve had too much to drink. I’ve got to go to bed.”
Artie says he’ll walk her home, but she says “I’ll never make it that far. I can only make it as far as your bed.” She isn’t slurring her words.
Artie takes her into the bedroom, and gets her comfortably situated. She is wearing shorts and a cotton jersey, so he doesn’t bother undressing her, just plops her down, covers her, sits on the bed and tucks her in. When she seems to be happily drifting off, he gets up to leave. “Where are you going?” she says, suddenly alert.
“To sleep on the couch.”
“Oh no you don’t.” She reaches out and pulls his arm. “You’re sleeping with me. You don’t have to do anything more than hold me, but you’re staying with me.”
