A Big Fish Story

As most fish stories go, it's always about the big one that got away. Well, meet the poor sucker that bit my hook and became our dinner.

Okay, I admit, this isn't the actual fish I caught, but this one looks to be the same size and approximate weight. Mind you I go fishing once every four blue moons, but it's always a treat when I go and an even greater one when I catch something. It's for these moments that I'm always looking for a reason to go fishing, but able and willing partners are always scarce.

Last Sunday, I had one. As a favor to my brother and my two boys, I took my 14-year old nephew for the week.The nephew's home is in central New Jersey far from any form of sea-faring activity, so the plan when we got him here was to acquaint him with the what makes summers on Long Island so special -- the sea shore. We have some of the finest beaches in the world and the fishing isn't too shabby, either.

So there we were last Sunday afternoon racing south on the Robert Moses Causeway to catch the 2PM cruise of the Captree Princess.

I thought for sure we would just make the boat given that traffic on the Robert Moses can be a nightmare on a summer Sunday afternoon. But we got there with enough time to get aboard the boat and have our lunch before we shoved off. $120 and 20 minutes later we were underway.

The boys all seemed pretty excited as the boat backed away from its mooring. The little one was talking about all the fish he would catch once we reached our first spot. I have to admit, I was looking forward to hooking a few keepers myself, but that just didn't happen. In fact, the first spot we hit was so windy and the current so strong that no sooner did the captain blow the horn to drop lines, did he blow it again to pick them up. We were off to a new spot.

This is pretty much how the whole cruise went. Throw in several moments of frustration at having to untangle lines and getting fingers poked by hooks, and somehow the prospect of hooking a fish (or anything for the matter) didn't seem like so much fun. But we were there to fish so fish we did.

At about 5pm, the captain sailed the "princess" to spot a few miles east of the lighthouse on Fire Island. The water wasn't as choppy, the winds calming down, and for once, the drift of the boat took our lines away from her hull and not underneath. Not much longer after our last stop, the little one tells one of the mates about a huge fluke that escaped his hook just as he was reeling it in. Everyone got a big kick out of his story because no one saw his fish and because of the mate who closed the gap between his hands after describing its size to him.

Well, either the kid is psychic or he was telling the truth because not long after he told his story, did the big one bite my line. I had dropped my line like all the other times, baiting it with a piece of squid and a killie and letting the 8oz weight drop to the bottom of the bay. Once the weight and the hook hit bottom, you lock the reel and jiggle the rod the make the weight and hook dance on the sea floor. YANK!!! I felt that unmistakable tug on my rod and let out that excited "holy shit!!!!" With the little one yelling in my ear "Dad! You got one!!!!", I reeled in whatever was at the end of my line. I hoping beyond reason that it wasn't a searobin because they're known to put up a good fight. Then I saw the familiar site of the flat fish and nearly pissed my pants.

The mates came right away with the net and got him into a small bucket of water. They knew right away that he was a keeper, so all that was left to find out was whether I had won the boat pool for catching the biggest fish. A few moments later, the lead mate was handing me $66 in cash and a bag for of fresh fluke fillet.

In the end, there really was no point in relating this story. I didn't shed a tear and praise god for putting me in such wonderful place with my kids in a wonderful country. In the end, all I did was catch and eat a 3.5 pound fish; and fuel the little one's gift for imaginative story telling. I have no doubt that in years to come, the fish I caught will be the one he caught, and I'm okay with that. After all, how dull would life be if we didn't tell stories?

A Few Words for the Decider

The other day I read this story in my local paper, LI Newsday. There have been over 3,600 deaths in this gigantic cluster-fuck of a war, none more or less important than the 18-year old "son" who recently lost his life. 

Read the story here: http://www.newsday.com/news/local/newyork/nynysold115288932jul11,0,4407147.story?coll=ny-nynews-print 

The thing that troubles me most is that this will not be the last story of this type that I'll read. What worries me more, if the direst predictions are to be believed, is that this war -- or one like it -- may still be going on when my oldest son (now 13) is eligible to serve. As he admires the new paintball gun he purchased with his birthday money, I decided to post a poem I wrote a few years ago about the war. 

You Need Them More 

Dear Mr. President, 

Take my two boys. 

Lord only knows, 

You need them more. 

Look at my boys, 

Now eleven and nine. 

Fine, young fodder 

For the streets of Fallujah. 

I know they're just boys, 

Too weak to bear arms, now. 

But they can march in step, 

And bear the battle standard. 

They can run for generals; 

Collect dog tags; 

Or neatly stack MREs, 

Until by luck or fate 

They live to see that year 

When they can fight, 

And die, all too bravely 

Like the others you've taken. 

Dear Mr. President, 

Take my two boys 

And make them believe 

In the virtue of your Faith. 

Look at those boys 

So young and obsessed; 

Engaged in Mortal Kombat 

Over who plays X-Box next. 

They're just boys, I know. 

But what is that fact 

To the greater cause 

Of our Christian Democracy? 

They could refill canteens; 

Or comfort the wounded; 

Maybe clean a weapon or two, 

Until they grow acne 

Or the pubic hair needed 

To give spirited battle, 

And die, all too bravely 

Like the others you've taken. 

Dear Mr. President, 

Take my two boys. 

The first and last 

That we produce. 

Look at my boys, 

Smiling and oblivious 

To my exhortations 

On behalf of their tomorrow. 

They're just little boys. 

Why wait until they're seventeen? 

It's not like UNC or USC 

Will be recruiting them anyway. 

They could salvage Kevlar; 

Scavenge for bullets and boots; 

Or scribe sympathetic letters 

Of formulaic condolence 

To parents just like theirs 

Who sent you their sons, 

All because you, Mr. President, 

You need them more.

A Simple Game

Tonight I did something I've been meaning to do for a long, long time. I taught my youngest son how to play the game of chess.  He started our boys' game night by asking me to play cards with him. That's when I replied, "why don't we play chess?" "Okay, dad," And off he ran to my bedroom dresser to fetch the chess set that went unused for the last year and half. Mind you, I'm no chess master. Far from it. But I've always loved the game because while it was really simple to play, playing well requires you to be delightfully complex. Teaching him was simple because the the movements of the pieces are well-defined and rule-driven. Oh, but the strategies and moves one can employ are are endless. To be sure, this is a thinking person's game, which requires a great deal of concentration and foresight. One would think that an 11-year old is incapable of such levels of concentration, but that just wasn't the case here. As I was purposely blundering through our first game, I could see his eyes light up as he pondered the board. At one point, he started talking to himself "If I move here, Dad will take his bishop and move here...dang it!!!!" Long story short, he caught on quickly, and saw that I had exposed my King and check-mated me with a pawn and his Queen. (Note to all you chess masters -- please don't ask me how he did it. Remember, I was purposely blundering my moves.) We played a second game where I wasn't as forgiving. He tipped his King after I left him with nothing but a handful of pawns on the board. But I told him he shouldn't be discouraged from the game by that loss, reminding him that games are supposed to be fun regardless whether you win or lose. Finally, with the wife in the room watching this wonderful scene unfold, I jokingly told him that chess was a game that had to be invented by a woman. The wife snickered -- that is, until she heard my rationale. The queen is the only identifiably, female piece on the board, yet it is arguably the most powerful. It can move (and attack) across any number of available spaces and in all directions, and decimate your opponent. I was quite proud of my comment, until she exposed it for the self-serving drivel it was. Her response? "Yeah, but in the hands of a stupid man, she's always easily lost!!!" Check Mate!!!!!! Personal note -- many thanks to my pal, DCup , who promised to RSS my blog if I started writing it again. Well, here you have it. Hopefully it won't be another two months before I make another entry. Until then...peace!