A coming of age story.
It was a crisp, clear Autumn afternoon on Long Island. Fallen leaves played tag in the cool breeze. Sunlight filtered through the trees as a few stubborn hold-outs clung defiantly to otherwise bare branches. Dad and I were taking his boat, The Second Try, out for the last ride of the season.
We pulled out of the slip and headed out to the bay. On the water, the seasons change very quickly. It was strange to think that just a few of weeks before we had been swimming and fishing from the boat. The grassy islands that dot the south shore had changed almost overnight from verdant to sepia. It was 1970 and I would be turning seventeen in a few weeks.
Uncle Hermie's
We cruised slowly up the canal into Seaford, passing many waterfront bungalows that had been boarded up since Labor Day. There were no weekend sailors to be found, only a few serious, overalls-clad fisherman and clammers in open skiffs. We pulled into a slip at "Uncle Hermie's" which was a combination bait shop and bar. The place seemed ancient even then. Generations of fisherman who plied their trade on the water, went there to fortify themselves with spirits and hot soup.
Outside, the place was a rundown shack with a dock that could barely hold its own weight. Inside it was dark and dingy and smelled of cigarettes, beer, and time. The walls were covered with faded photographs and fishing gear. Old timers in shoddy baseball caps lined the unvarnished wooden bar. Dad sat down and I followed. He ordered the lunch special and the bartender brought baskets of fried fish, chips, and coleslaw - probably the same lunch special that had been served there for decades . He returned a moment later with two glasses of beer. Dad picked up both, handed one to me and said "Salute!" We clinked glasses and took a drink. Being a typical teenager, I had drunk beer before, but not like this. Not as an adult. This small gesture meant a lot to me - a rite of passage. We finished our lunch without conversation and boarded The Second Try.
A Season Ends
Dad idled the boat through the canal and into the nearly opaque dark green water of the bay. The setting sun's soft glow lit our way back to the marina. A bracing wind pinched my face as we unloaded equipment that would spend the winter ashore. We left the boat keys at the office and walked to the car. This was the end of the season and of other things as well.
A few years ago, my new mechanic hauled my boat, Foamy, to his marina for winter storage. He gave me directions in the spring when it was time to launch. The marina was in the same general area where my father had kept his boat so many years ago. I pulled into the lot and noticed a tool shed near a decrepit wooden ramp. I looked around for other visual cues. Where dry-docked old wooden boats once rested over a parking lot paved with broken clam shells, several new houses were now standing. Though greatly reduced in size, this was the same marina where Dad had kept The Second Try forty years earlier.
As I cruise that area in my own boat, past the multi-million dollar homes which dominate spots where countless summer bungalows once stood, I strain to reconcile my vision with my memory. An old collapsed bulkhead on an overgrown island registers in my mind. Yes, there was an old shack there. This is where we anchored for flounder. This is where my heart is.
We pulled out of the slip and headed out to the bay. On the water, the seasons change very quickly. It was strange to think that just a few of weeks before we had been swimming and fishing from the boat. The grassy islands that dot the south shore had changed almost overnight from verdant to sepia. It was 1970 and I would be turning seventeen in a few weeks.
Uncle Hermie's
We cruised slowly up the canal into Seaford, passing many waterfront bungalows that had been boarded up since Labor Day. There were no weekend sailors to be found, only a few serious, overalls-clad fisherman and clammers in open skiffs. We pulled into a slip at "Uncle Hermie's" which was a combination bait shop and bar. The place seemed ancient even then. Generations of fisherman who plied their trade on the water, went there to fortify themselves with spirits and hot soup.
Outside, the place was a rundown shack with a dock that could barely hold its own weight. Inside it was dark and dingy and smelled of cigarettes, beer, and time. The walls were covered with faded photographs and fishing gear. Old timers in shoddy baseball caps lined the unvarnished wooden bar. Dad sat down and I followed. He ordered the lunch special and the bartender brought baskets of fried fish, chips, and coleslaw - probably the same lunch special that had been served there for decades . He returned a moment later with two glasses of beer. Dad picked up both, handed one to me and said "Salute!" We clinked glasses and took a drink. Being a typical teenager, I had drunk beer before, but not like this. Not as an adult. This small gesture meant a lot to me - a rite of passage. We finished our lunch without conversation and boarded The Second Try.
A Season Ends
Dad idled the boat through the canal and into the nearly opaque dark green water of the bay. The setting sun's soft glow lit our way back to the marina. A bracing wind pinched my face as we unloaded equipment that would spend the winter ashore. We left the boat keys at the office and walked to the car. This was the end of the season and of other things as well.
A few years ago, my new mechanic hauled my boat, Foamy, to his marina for winter storage. He gave me directions in the spring when it was time to launch. The marina was in the same general area where my father had kept his boat so many years ago. I pulled into the lot and noticed a tool shed near a decrepit wooden ramp. I looked around for other visual cues. Where dry-docked old wooden boats once rested over a parking lot paved with broken clam shells, several new houses were now standing. Though greatly reduced in size, this was the same marina where Dad had kept The Second Try forty years earlier.
As I cruise that area in my own boat, past the multi-million dollar homes which dominate spots where countless summer bungalows once stood, I strain to reconcile my vision with my memory. An old collapsed bulkhead on an overgrown island registers in my mind. Yes, there was an old shack there. This is where we anchored for flounder. This is where my heart is.