Forty-Two
The wind swept down on them out of the north, spraying the beach with stinging sand whipped from the frontal dune. Beyond the breakers, the ocean was hard, cold, granite gray.
They eased the dory off the trailer into the wash, its gunwales filmed white with frost. While Rollo tended to it, Conrad pulled the Model A up the beach, the sand chattering against the windshield.
As he climbed down from the cab a figure appeared on the crest of the dune. It was Ned Kemp, dressed in waders, oilskins and a wool-knit cap.
‘Cap,’ said Ned, approaching.
‘Cap.’
‘Some blow.’
‘Sure is.’
Ned looked at his boots, then up again, the stubble showing white against his chin, the awkwardness hanging heavy between them. They’d just exchanged more words than they’d managed in the past few months put together.
‘You done good,’ said Ned. ‘You done what you had to, but you done it right. Even made us look good.’
‘It wasn’t planned. That’s just the way it turned out.’
‘That’s what you say.’
Ned looked past Conrad to Rollo struggling with the dory in the wash.
‘Lost his voice around the home. Can’t hardly look at me.’
‘What are you doing here, Ned?’
Ned turned back, squinting his tired eyes.
‘I come to see my son,’ he said.
Rollo shifted uneasily as they approached, looking every which way but theirs.
‘There’s a fellow here wants to know if he can lay trawl for us,’ said Conrad. ‘What do you reckon?’
Rollo shrugged, trying to look indifferent. ‘I don’t know. What do you reckon?’
‘Oh…I reckon every greenhorn’s got to learn somewhere.’
Rollo beamed nervously at his father’s affronted scowl. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
They clambered aboard the dory and took their places at the oars. Ned pushed them into deeper water, holding the stern steady, eyes on the breaking seas.
‘I heard you was thinking of going to college.’
‘Figured I’d stick around instead,’ said Conrad.
Ned peered past them, reading the waves.
‘Fishing don’t teach you much,’ he said, ‘but it do teach you you don’t need much.’
A large wave broke under the dory.
‘Go, boys, go!’ yelled Ned, pushing off and dragging himself over the gunwale.
The oars bit, the dory sprang forward, rising steeply, its high, sharp bow splitting the face of the capping sea, carving a passage through.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would never have been written were it not for two people: Stephanie Cabot, my agent and my friend, who urged me to take the idea further; and my wife, Caroline, who supported and encouraged me while I did so. Special thanks are also due to Nick Shevloff and Christina von Schilling, who first introduced me to the South Fork of Long Island and who have provided me with a home-away-from-home there ever since.
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my editors, Julia Wisdom and Jennifer Hershey, for their unstinting enthusiasm and their expert guidance.
Among the many books I found useful in the writing of this work I would like to make particular mention of Peter Matthiessen’s Men’s Lives, John N. Cole’s Striper, Everett T. Rattray’s The South Fork, and The Pond in the Pasture by Capt. Edwin Sherrill, Jr. Other invaluable sources were the excellent online archives of the East Hampton Star, as well as The History Project Inc.—an extensive collection of taped interviews with local people, many of whom have now passed on. My thanks to Tony Prohaska and Martha Kalser for providing this extraordinary oral resource, which is housed in the East Hampton Library.
A great sadness to me during the writing of this book was the death of John N. Cole—a guiding light in my research, who, together with his wife, Jean, welcomed me into their home in Brunswick, Maine. I hope that in some small way John’s spirit lives on in these pages.
Others who gave generously of their time and expertise are Stuart Bennet Vorpahl and his wife, Mary; Peter Matthiessen; Carleton Kelsey; Capt. Harvey L. Bennett; Capt. Edwin Sherrill, Jr; and local librarians, Diana Dayton and Dorothy King, who patiently steered me through the wealth of material contained in the Pennypacker Long Island Collection. I am also extremely grateful to Katie Allen and Paul Sisson for their hospitality; Nicola Levy; Simon Prosser; Philip Gwyn Jones; Tom Weldon; and Anne O’Brien.
Finally, my thanks go to Ileen Maisel, who gave me my first ever break as a writer.