MUG: FILLED WITH FAKE PROMISES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS

FISHERMAN IN THE VINEYARD

Brent Golden

The trip to the shore, like many before has left only anticipation for peace and quiet. The ferry boat and bicycle rental services are your ticket to a private spot on this island, Martha’s Vineyard. Whether the morning sunrise or evening dusk, the sun seems indistinguishable from the two times. The salt air brings summer closer to the senses as the saw grass grows larger in view. I was standing atop dunes of sand colored like organic sugar, speckled with pebbles much like rogue coffee grounds in the sugar bowl. A hand-me-down tackle box – rusted around the edges and disorganized with years of collected lures and other fishing items – tends to sway as I walk toward the small pathway through the dunes, outlined only by small pieces of driftwood acting as planks. I always reach out to touch the saw grass as I set up a makeshift camp by the rocks. The serrated edge of the grass dances across my fingertip, reminding me its tendency to cut into my skin. I pull my hand back to re-arrange my belongings, which have been falling loosely as I walk uphill over the soft sand. The waves dance along the shore with rhythmic sounds soothing to the soul. The sun is already shining bright, but the clouds provide me with a little relief once in a while – a welcome interloper on this exposed coastline. Going downhill, now the real beauty of the beach settles in. This beach is not like every beach; it is secluded and untouched. I stand to witness that which many explorers before me have seen, nature in its most comfortable form – feels almost timeless as I descend into a world that could have easily been left the same way from two hundred years ago. Making my way closer to the ocean, the memory of my grandfather slowly sips into my young mind. I still remember clearly how we used to go fishing on the island every summer weekend. It feels just like yesterday, as if I can still hear his voice echoing from a distance. He is the one who taught me not only how to fish, but also how to enjoy the experience of fishing. His old habit of using squid as bait, then getting extremely optimistic about having a good catch, but finally facing disappointment of going home empty-handed still resonates with me as the smell of the ocean is getting stronger and stronger. Braving the breakers is the next step, climbing down a steep soft hill and across blazing sands, then the slick, pointy rocks must be properly navigated. With gear in arm the process is anything but quick, and the perfect spot is here some

where – a rock flat enough to sleep on, large enough to host your getaway, all while getting as close to the water as possible so not to tangle the line. It does not take long to find a place where I will begin to setup my spot of solitude, far over the point of land into the ocean’s surf with nothing under my feet but these man-placed rocks. The ocean mist sprays each time a wave hits a rock; trapped pockets of air spew forth much like a man who drank from a soda can that someone had put their cigarette out in. With my eyes set out to the water like Captain Ahab looking for the great white whale over the endless ocean, I open my travel bag which holds my disassembled fishing pole. Piece by piece I take it out in a set of three that snaps together perfectly and strongly. My last piece to fit onto the rod, the PENN reel, a brand that makes a great name amongst fishermen, the star player on my team of instruments. The line from the reel is carefully fed through the five rings along the pole, measured slightly as not to make it too long to avoid needing to cut the line and starting the process over again. The red metal tackle box is noisy as I open it and the hinges are rustier than the Titanic sitting on the ocean floor. “It is what the box holds that is important,” I would say to myself. The weights, which also are known as sinkers to fishermen, are the first thing to attach higher up on the line. I always feed the line through the loop of the weight until it is nearly to the top of the poles. Next, it is important to tie the hook off at the end as securely as possible, as it will be challenged soon by many hungry sea critters for the delicious yet nauseating squid meat I have chosen to use as bait. After skewering the bait onto the hook, I say to myself halfheartedly and out loud: “The fish are going to love it.” Now I am prepared to cast. Standing up straight, I bring the fishing pole over my dominant shoulder and always watch carefully in order not to accidentally hook something that may not fare so well in the sea. I wait a moment in this pose to look for the perfect spot in my mind, ideally, a spot cleared from any rocks that may interfere with me reeling in my catch. I bring my pole down overhead with the force of a medieval executioner and release the line as the familiar sound of the reel, rapidly letting the line out, is a success to my ears. The sinker and bait hit the water nearly simultaneously with a small splash that seems to be but a nonexistent ripple in the vastness of the ocean. Now the fun really begins. For hours, I play a game of cat and mouse with Poseidon. I slowly reel in the brass colored PENN reel. A nibble was felt, I thought, although it often feels that way with the current pulling on the line. I cast my line for the last time, hungry, relaxed, eager to pack up the disheveled tackle box, watching the tide rise as it is almost time to get back to the ferry boat before dark. No fish had bitten. It is an unfortunate side of fishing, but the adventure isn’t really about the fish, unless you are trying to survive. In fact, in some ways, I am a little relieved I did not need to maim an innocent fish just to carry it three

FISHERMAN IN THE VINEYARD hours home to be eaten. No, today I came for the outdoors, the peace, and the quietness which I have ultimately experienced. With everything packed away in the same order in which it came out, I begin to make my way back to the bike in order to return it to the rightful owner. The ferry is making its last call back to the mainland as I look back at the now shrinking island in the distance. “Next time, maybe I will bring lunch and a friend...” I think to myself “but probably not.”

POETRY