Fish Tales

When I retired from teaching, the Ponquogue Bridge became a fixture in my daily exercise. It was also my muse.

During my walks, I stopped my brain chatter, opened my senses and observed.

I saw road work and thought of plastic surgery. Piping plovers, an endangered species, connected me to another endangered species: letter writers. Surfers in stages of undress suggested a piece on public nakedness.

So began my memoir, “Bridge Walker.”

Over the years, I have exercised less and less. Now, I am trying to get back into the habit of walking the bridge, which ends with a stroll down to the ocean.

One morning this summer, a 7-Eleven coffee cup, a headless killifish and fresh blood stains on the cement meant someone ignored the “No Fishing” sign.

Fishing never appealed to me. However, the three times I have gone fishing were memorable.

Back in the late 1950s, my parents rented a summer cottage named “Tree Top” on Tiana Bay. Our neighbors took my sister Suzan and me to a lagoon a short distance from our bungalow to fish for snappers.

We scanned the water for a school of baby blues rippling through the water, but what also caught our eyes were the local boys who swam in the lagoon.

Many afternoons, my sister and I ventured out with bamboo poles over our shoulders, with the pretense of fishing. When, actually, we were more interested in bigger fish. Our parents never questioned why we returned with wet heads and no fish.

Sometimes I walk the Ponquogue Bridge in the late afternoon when fishing on Shinnecock Bay is winding down and larger boats come though the inlet. I stand at the top of the bridge and strain to read the names of the vessels as they rush through the channel, leaving silver wakes unfurled like showgirls’ feathers. Some of them are so clever: Fishful Thinking, Not for Sail, Star on Board.

My father owned a boat for less than a week.

He won it from a friend in a card game at the Westhampton Country Club. A golfer with no boating experience, he decided that we should have a family fishing contest.

We were divided into two teams, the Flounders and the Flukes. While one team fished on the newly acquired boat, the other team clammed. There were points for the number of fish caught, the biggest fish and the amount of clams.

The winning team got to relax, while the losers prepared the bay’s bounty and cleaned up afterward. So the competition was fierce.

I think both teams made surreptitious trips to the former Tully’s Seafood Market.

With Dad as the captain, it was no surprise that we ended up on the edge of a sandbar. Fortunately, the strapping sons-in-law were able to move the boat. At the end of the day, my mother, who did not participate, made my father return the boat.

There never was another family fishing contest.

One early morning recently, I saw a group of six children, I guessed between 8 and 10 years old, holding fishing poles. A grownup had a pull cart with six nets, buckets, bait and tackle box. I was impressed with the operation. It was a far cry from the time my husband and I took two grandchildren fishing as a birthday present.

We rented a boat at Silly Lilly Fishing Station in East Moriches. It has a Caribbean vibe, and the food truck there is catered by Stone Creek Inn.

As soon as we left the dock, I knew my city-boy husband had no idea what he was doing. We were either in the channel or in 3 inches of water. I held my breath while big boats cruised by, leaving us in their wakes.

Whenever we felt a pull on our lines, it was either seaweed or a false alarm. The only thing that was caught was a fishhook in my husband’s arm.

We sat in horror as blood spooled down his arm. He said, “I’ll just pull it out.”

The kids and I screamed, “Nooo!”

The workers at the dock told us to seek medical attention. We looked longingly at the food truck as we left.

After the hook was removed at Urgent Care, my husband claimed he was told to rest. The kids still wanted to fish.

I reluctantly took them to the fishing pier, part of the old Ponquogue Bridge. It was a dog day afternoon in August, and we were the only ones crazy enough to be fishing. The grandchildren were perfectly happy and sure they would catch something.

Finally, after a series of “just one more try,” we left and went to the ocean at their request. After all, it was their birthday present, and I was at their command.

The current was very strong. I stood at the water’s edge and then ran along the beach as they rode the drift. When they reached the last lifeguard stand, I signaled them to come in; then they started over again. Finally, I lured them in with promises of hot dogs and ice cream at the concession.

When we got home, I told my husband that I needed a rest, poured a glass of wine and closed our bedroom door.

We eat fresh fish often, but I leave the catching to someone else.