“One
Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish…Who, Fish?!”
Part
II of II
06/24/12
To my very, dearest, and most precious friends, and
every patient, and loyal readers,
I must—once again—ask for your most kind tolerance,
and patience, as, yesterday, in trying to compose what I hoped would be a
humorous, diary entry, it is abundantly typical of me that I would somehow veer
completely ‘off topic’, and thus, lose the thread of both intended thought and
meaning.
It is now my fondest hope that you will excuse my
turning an innocent entry into something of a ‘rant’, and by making of this
entry two parts, add rant, and original thought together. Sigh.
I admit, my dearest, faithful friends, that I have
no one but myself to blame, as present illness, unending pain, worry, migraine,
and ‘mind fog’ in some dreadful combination caused me to fully ‘jump the trolley’ of my thoughts off the
tracks of my intention. And for
that—and, for so very much more, I sincerely apologize, and again ask for your
most kind indulgence, and forgiveness.
So…in a concerted effort to regain what I had hoped
would be an entry that was funny, interesting to read, and free of my usual
bombast, I will—with your permission—simply start over from the beginning.
As
always, I remain ever grateful for your having befriended me, and for keeping
me close to you; and please know that I love you dearly, ‘Zahc’.
My late father was an avid, outdoor sportsman for
much of his life, until age, and illness forced him to stop; during the ‘Great
Depression’, both he and a brother would go out into the woods, shooting wild
turkeys, birds, and squirrels, and rabbits, all of which were dutifully brought
home to his mother to find a necessary place in the family cooking pot.
While on assignment to Alaska (before he married my
mom), he would fish for salmon in rushing, ice-cold streams, or—with friends—go
out into the frigid, uncharted, and dangerous wilds to hunt for bear. There were no restrictions as to either in
those, long-ago days.
But fishing, I think, remained his favorite
pastime. And would continue until his
age, and health prohibited it.
In one of my previous posts, I mentioned our
‘death-by-driving’ summer pilgrimage from Texas, where we lived, to Tarpon
Springs, Florida where my mother’s people lived.
These awful trips were not my first encounter with
the town of Tarpon Springs, as when dad was in Korea, mom and I lived with one
of my ‘bat-shit-crazy’ Aunts, while I attended—there first and second grade.
Its funny how many stories pour-forth from other
stories, and I will only say—regarding school--that there were teachers, there,
who had been in saddle sufficiently long as to have taught both my mother and
sisters. And, in passing, it always
makes me laugh, now, that my first grade teacher, Helen Winslow (how come we
never forget their names?) from a certain angle looked EXACTLY like George
Washington, but with a dress on.
And, sometimes, when my father WAS home, we tried in
vain to do ‘dad-and-lad’ stuff, hopefully to make of me less a nerd and to spend
time doing stuff my dad liked, in hopes of trying to find something, anything
that might make of it a ‘bonding moment’.
Regrettably, this proved to be a daunting task, for
my father and I could practically not be more unalike; he loved fishing, I hated
fishing, and would get bored easily; neither had I any interest in hunting,
camping, sports. I guess I was either
more like my mother, or else I was the prodigy of aliens, as even my mom loved
football !
So, on one eventful occasion, while I was in first
grade, dad decided that nothing would do but that we journey to the ‘Sponge
Docks’ in Tarpon Springs ( the diving for, and the collection of sponges, being
the major export of that small town), which was then divided into three social
groups:1) Afro-Americans; 2) Caucasians, many of whom could trace their
lineage’s back to and before the Civil War, and, 3) Greeks who had for some
hundred years immigrated to America, and settled in Tarpon Springs.
And so, Tarpon Springs had its own considerable part
of town, unsurprisingly called, “Greek Town”, which consisted of restaurants,
gift shops, fishing boats, numerous curiosities, ‘sponge boats’, and the
infamous ‘Sponge Exchange, in which, the hauls of sponges brought back were
assayed, weighted, dickered-over, and sold to be distributed nationwide.
Centered around the harbor were scores of wooden,
fishing boats, of particular Greek design, in which the prow was always much
higher than in regular boats. One could
see them clustered and tied-off to the dock on a main street of Greek Town,
called, “Dodecanese Boulevard”, Greek, for ‘Twelve Islands’, whose translation
means absolutely nothing to me to this day.
However, in 1953, Hollywood thought the life of a
‘Sponger’ to be of such epic interest, that they made a movie of it, called, I
believe, “Beneath The Twelve Mile Reef”, a tepid, little potboiler starring
Robert Wagner, Terry Moore, and Gilbert Roland.
I am listing the link to it below for at least three
reasons: 1) To show you the town I roamed as a child, and, actually liked; 2)
It was the site of one of my father’s and my more goofy ‘bonding attempts’, and
3) so that if ever you cannot sleep, this, B- cinematographic excursion into
dull’s-ville, ought to help put even the most stubborn insomniac into a coma.
And to all
who dare, I wish you Godspeed, good luck, and a thorough night’s sleep!
In either
1960, or 1961, on one of my dad’s leave time, he decided that nothing would do,
but that we go ‘deep sea’ fishing, on one of two, large, commercial, tourist
boats; ours was called—for some unfathomable reason, the “Miss Milwaukee”.
The
general deal was: for a hefty fee, each boat would carry some 40-80 tourists
out about ten miles from shore to spend a half-day fishing for dreams. Upon drop of anchor, these would-be sportsmen
would line the decks on both sides of the ship to prevent it from keeling over,
I guess.
Every man
(and woman) forced to stand shoulder to shoulder could not cast their lines
into the water, but simply released them to drop in front of them,
and…………..wait.
If NOBODY
got a bite, the boat would up-anchor, and move a couple of miles away to try
again. Minutes would pass like hours for me; and while my dad loved it, I hated
almost every second of it, but for dad’s sake, I did give it my best shot.
So far,
despite a growing sense of utter boredom, everything went well; dad expertly
baited my hook, and with good reason: I could never handle a fish hook without
necessitating a visit to the emergency room to have it removed from whatever
part of my body it had gotten driven into.
And, besides, at that time, I was just six years old.
So kindly
imagine if you will, forty or so tourists, with lines dropped straight down in
front of them, with me, at my dad’s side, all the way at the end, a place that
could neither hide me from chaos, nor avoid some kind of disaster.
For some
reason, I could not get the release mechanism on my ‘rent-a-rod’ to work, and
in flopping the rod up and down, and around, finally gave a titanic snap to the
rod, which not only released my fishing line, but, with the wind, and the Fates
against me, carried it all the way across all the other men’s lines, putting
them all into a huge, gigantic, tangle when I started to reel the line up.
Pandemonium
reigned supreme, while everything ground to an abrupt halt, as
everybody—including the boat’s helpers—tried, in vain—to untangle line after
line after line. The delicate salt air
quickly became empurpled with curse words I had—at six—never had heard before,
and I certainly had no clue what the ‘F’ word meant, though, in time, I would.
It did not
take an Einstein, however, to become aware that all these anglers were pissed,
and the gravity of the situation grew as my dear dad gave me one of those,
‘just wait until we get home, buddy’ looks, and in quick succession, my rod was
wrenched from me, and I was banished inside to the cabin, which had tables and
benches, and a very, small lunch counter.
There I
met an older woman, wearing a red-plaid, flannel shirt over her shirt, who was
sitting there, playing dominoes, you know, the old kind that were made of
genuine ivory.
As she and
I sat there, playing dominoes (which was lots more fun for me than fishing,
anyway), I paused to look around me to see the hand-written menu over the lunch
counter. Their prices, while a little steep at the time, and their offerings
amazed and delighted me. Plus, as you
might know, only once have I ever been seasick, and, I was hungry, and, I
thought that eating aboard the boat was a neat experience.
I ran out
to my dad, who—with all the others, were still struggling to untangle their
lines, and shouted, “Hey dad…they have ham sandwiches for fifty-five cents!!!”
And as if
I had not done enough, the very mention of ham sandwiches induced probably
about twenty of the fisherman to lean over, and lose their cookies.
My dad,
now with absolute murder in his eyes, searched through his pockets, and gave me
a dollar, while pushing me back into the cabin before any of the pissed, and
now vomiting anglers could get to me. And of course, all that motion caused the
boat to sway back and forth, inducing ‘mal de mare’ to the fisherman on the
other side of the boat as well.
None of
that even reasonably occurred to me; I was happy, enjoying my coke and ham
sandwich, while playing dominoes with this elderly lady, whose name I will
never remember. I had a great time, in
spite of the promised ‘talking to’ I would get upon returning home.
But
friends…it shows—among other things—how little it takes to make a six year old
boy happy.
Never mind
that—on reaching ‘port’, I was shuttled quickly into the car to wait, as my
dad, and others got the fish they did catch cleaned and gutted. Around that portion of the ‘docks’ were three
or four fat, happy cats, in anticipation of a grand ‘fish dinner’ consisting of
discarded fish pieces and entrails, thrown into the garbage.
I think I
would have gladly gone again, but strangely, was never asked to. Yet, for me, it had been great fun, and a
chance to be with my dad whom I loved with all my heart. I never did get that ‘talking to’, and I
think that somehow my dad knew that this was probably the only way we could
bond, and do something together.
Later, my
dad would leave to be mustered up somewhere in South Florida, to nervously
await the outcome of the Cuban Missile Crisis. And while the utter gravity of
the moment escaped me, except for those useless ‘duck-and-cover’ exercises at
school, where, upon a signal, we would—in effect—hide under our desks, while
our teacher ( George Washington-in-drag ) stood under a reinforced door frame,
in case we were attacked by the ‘Commies’.
How very
stupid and innocent we were in those days.
For a direct exchange of nuclear missiles with Cuba or Russia would have
just vaporized us, and probably have ended civilization as we knew it.
And even
though at six, I could easily read at twelfth grade level, of geo-politick I
knew nothing. In general, I was just a
happy—though naïve—little kid. And while
times have changed, and certainly events, people, and places have been altered,
age, and illnesses have encroached, and happiness? It swings to and fro like
the pendulum on a giant grandfather clock, with days of ennui, depression,
despair, and all that shit, have rendered happening—now—into gratitude, at
best, or thanks, somehow, the naiveté of that six year old boy remains.
And you
know…maybe that’s not such a bad thing, after all.
Meanwhile,
while I am still ill, though I hope the pneumonia is slowly going away (
Whew!), I want to thank you for being my dear friends, and for your kindness,
your caring, your encouragement, and for your patience in reading my diary
entries.
I wish for
you days of ‘no pain’, free of depression, mental anguish, or despair; I wish
for you a most wonderful weekend, full
of joy, hopes-fulfilled, and delight.
I wish you
be free of need, with more than enough to last the month without worry, or
having to ‘count pennies’. I pray that
you be full-surrounded by family and friends who love you without question or
compromise.
I wish for
you balmy and contemplative days, and nights of quiet peace. May your gentle sleep be unbroken, nor
visited by dire nightmare, but with—instead—rest that is restorative. But, as
always, watched-over, and kept ever safe by sweet angels.
Please always know I love you,
‘Zahc’/Charles
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