Love, Grandad

Nick adjusted the collar of his shirt. He cinched his tie a little too tight. In fairness, the black and white ensemble he wore that day was unusual to him. Scanning the pews of the humble St. Lawrence Chapel, he could see the other mourners were shifting and fidgeting, as well. Nick stood at the front of the church near the casket with the rest of his immediate family. Friends, neighbors, and distant relatives of his late grandfather lined up to pay their final respects. One by one, solemn faces offered condolences until the last person was through. After the service, Nick and the other pallbearers hoisted the coffin into the hearse that was parked outside.

Later at the reception, Nick was perusing the snack table and glancing through pictures of his grandfather’s life. He paused at an old photo of his family’s patriarch on the beach many years ago. The strapping young man held up a gargantuan striped bass alongside a group of his buddies. His grandfather was passionate about fishing, and Nick often accompanied him on expeditions to the shore as a boy. It was something special the two shared. Nick hadn’t gone fishing for a few years now; he was focused on building his career. As he examined the washed-out photograph, a hand clasped his shoulder and Nick could feel the weight of an arm being draped across his back like a yoke.

“Ol’ Sam sure loved to wet a line,” said Uncle Lester. Uncle Lester wasn’t really an uncle, but a neighbor who lived next door to the family growing up. His potbelly protruded under his pastel yellow shirt, which was contrasted by a turquoise bolo tie in conspicuous Uncle Lester fashion.

“He sure did. I remember every summer and fall Grampa Sam would constantly sneak me out of the house, out to the shore,” reminisced Nick.

“And then football happened… and girls happened, too. Am I right?” Uncle Lester never took anything too seriously. Even the passing of his best friend could not shake the tendency. But the man had good sense and never crossed into inappropriate territory. He continued while Nick smirked.

“You ended up playing ball in college, didn’t you?”

“No. I think I liked the idea of being a ball player more than I actually liked playing ball,” Nick joked. “I decided to focus on my grades instead of spreading myself too thin.”

“Well, I guess it paid off! I spoke to your mom and dad. They say you’re kickin’ ass out in Philadelphia for some big company!”

“Yea, I’m pretty happy with how things turned out. I’m on track to make manager at my firm by next summer.” The response came out scripted. During his sporadic visits home, it seemed like every conversation went the same way. He didn’t mind filling people in. It just became tedious to have the same automatic dialogue repeatedly.

“Hopefully, you’re finding some time for yourself too, eh?” Asked the elder man.

“I’m making friends and getting connected with my coworkers. My team is so cool. We get along great, and they’ve developed into my friend group out there,” said Nick. Uncle Lester could sense the dodge.

“Now I know that you know that’s not what I asked you, Nicky.” He delivered the accusation so expertly playful that Nick couldn’t help but feel a little disarmed.

“I’m going out and meeting people and working on advancing my career. That’s where I’m at right now and I’m happy to do it.”

“That’s all good, nothing wrong with that. But,” the neighbor pressed on a little, “I just know you’re doing all these great things for your future self. I hope you’re taking care of your present self at least a little.”

“I am, don’t worry.”

Still not convinced, Uncle Lester made one final push. “I’ll tell you what, I’ve got a proposition for you. I need a new partner for the surfcasting tournament this weekend now that my usual teammate is resting in peace. I’d just love it if you would step in for him this year. Would you be willing to help an old man out? I know it would mean so much to your grandpa.”

Nick had every intention of skipping the tournament again. It was a tradition that his grandfather had participated in every autumn when the striper began making their run south for the winter. Nick hadn’t done it since he was a young boy, and he wasn’t about to start again. He was too busy.

“I dunno, Uncle Lester. I’m supposed to head out Saturday afternoon so I can get ready for next week.”

“ I see,” the old man responded. “Well, team entries don’t have to be in until Thursday. Why don’t you think about it and let me know?” With that, Uncle Lester patted Nick on the arm again and shook his hand before departing.

That evening, Nick’s mom cooked dinner for the family. She made Grandpa Sam’s favorite eggplant parmesan. As the kids recounted their favorite memories with their grandfather, Nick started to feel a little moisture around his eyelids. He wasn’t sure if it was the stories or the chopped onions causing it, but either way he was getting sentimental. It was unusual for him to get so touchy-feely. He prided himself on keeping a level head. But even he had to acknowledge that being home brought out the warm fuzzies. Maybe his grandfather was posthumously teaching Nick about the importance of being present, especially around the ones you love. After dinner, he would call Uncle Lester to join him for the tournament. A little more time at home wouldn’t be so bad.

The two arrived pre-dawn Saturday morning at The Rusty Jimmy Tackle Shop. The rest of the competitors were either just rolling up or sipping coffee from thermoses at the bed of their pickups, dressed in camo sweatshirts, faded ball caps and waders. Nick would use Uncle Lester’s loaner equipment, so they just stocked up on clam strips and eels for bait.

The pair left the shop and walked across the sleepy road to the beach entrance. They traversed the walkway, dissecting the dunes until they arrived at the banner advertising the competition. Two ominously smiling cartoon sharks formed symmetrical frames around the title “45th Annual Island Beach Striper Surfcasting Tournament” against the plain white background.

After a brief introduction by the event’s administrators, the rules were set. Duos had from 6:30 AM until 1:00 PM to catch the longest striped bass possible, tip to tail. If the fish was caught and released, a picture with the fish, along with a witness, must validate its authenticity. A fish that would be kept may be presented at the judges table for official measurement. Finally, with the snap of a pop gun, the contestants were free to roam the shores in search of their trophy.

Uncle Lester led Nick out towards an uninhabited stretch of beach. Nick anticipated they would head out towards the stubby jetty where most of the contestants were migrating. The others were hoping to find the pelagic fishes staging an ambush for their prey amid the rocky structure. But Uncle Lester knew better. Analyzing the outcrop, Nick could see why his elder was not interested. There was not a single bird in sight. Nick could practically hear his grandfather’s raspy voice repeating his maxim always follow the birds. Birds would appear overhead if any baitfish were pushed up from the depths by subsurface predators. Where there were birds, there were probably bass.

After half an hour of walking, Nick and Uncle Lester paused at an area where gulls circled against the brightening sky. They scanned the immediate horizon to assess the worthiness of this place and they liked what they saw.

An aquatic alley perpendicular to the shoreline was oddly devoid of any wave activity. Nick remembered that deep channels formed where the riptide carried sand away from the beach. The depth change caused the waves to drop off, which is why there were no rolling breaks over these linear stretches. On the surface, the water looked calm. But underneath, Nick knew that it was a highway shuttling small sea creatures out from the refuge they seek in the shallows. Bass and other predators would wait on the edges of these underwater conveyor belts to snatch up easy meals.

Nick got ready to cast out into the surf. He aimed for the edges of the breaks, out far enough that his bait would not land in white water. White water indicated a sandbar and he wanted to be in the deeper water between the sandbars. That’s where the fish would hide. He unhooked the braided line from his bail-less Penn brand reel, and with his right index finger he pinned the line against the rod. Like an Olympic javelin thrower, he raised his right elbow out 90-degrees. His left arm worked the butt end of the pole like a lever as he took a powerful crow hop towards the ocean. He torqued his whole body into the throw, releasing the line after the distal end of his Ugly Stick crested it’s 12-foot apex. His bait looked shot from a cannon as it soared 80 yards through the chilly air out to sea. A satisfying splash erupted when the sinker broke the surface.

Over the next few hours, the men adjusted their position up and down the beach according to the shifting tides. Nick and Uncle Lester still had nothing to show for their efforts, and 1:00 PM was drawing near.

“This is what your grandpa would have called getting skunk holed” snorted Uncle Lester, clearly upset that his strategy hadn’t paid off. Nick, on the other hand, had basically forgotten all about the tournament. The refreshing smell of salt in the air distracted him. The spray from the ocean and warmth of the sun’s rays had him thankful for where he was at that moment. Now Nick remembered why his grandfather loved fishing so much. It gave him a chance to step away from his self-imposed obligations and reconnect with a tradition so primal and natural. At times it was disheartening, but those instances gave meaning to moments when he did experience success. For the first time in a long time, Nick felt blessed just to be home. He couldn’t care less about hooking into a monster bass…he had found his prize already. Just as he was thinking that a powerful slap reverberated through his rod, bringing him back to the task at hand.

One Year Later

Nick took in the warm blaze of the morning sun from the damp sand. It felt like ages since he and Uncle Lester nearly won that contest on this very shore. The memories he made with his neighbor that day had been priceless, and he made a few more during his travels since. He owed his perspective shift to that competition and a note his grandfather left him. Prior to his passing, Grandpa Sam had instructed Uncle Lester to deliver the letter to Nick at the “right time”. That weekend six years ago must have felt right enough. The whole thing made Nick teary, but one passage stuck with him even when his eyes cleared:

…I’ve spent too much of my life chasing material things. I know this because right now, my most cherished possessions are the memories I have with your grandma, your mom, your brothers, and you Nicky. My biggest wish is that you don’t feel so caught up with life that you forget to live. Bravely give yourself to the people and causes that make your heart full, and know that wherever you go, whoever you become, you will always be loved. Remember, any road you leave on can also bring you back home. If you’re ever scared, close your eyes and think of me. I’ll be right there by your side.

Love, Grandad