There are conversations one has with one's eldest son that sound so bogus and predictable they should be scored to a soundtrack and filmed at sunset. A couple weeks ago I decided to ruin a perfectly good afternoon of bluefishing by giving Junior the "When I die I want to be...." speech.
Faithful readers of this column will know of my supernatural connection to bluefish. For example, did you know that bluefish return to the flats of Cotuit only on my birthday? It's true. At exactly the same hour and minute that I was expelled from my dear mother in the elevator at the Women's Lying-In Climic in Boston. They will only permit me to be the first person every season to catch one. They wait for me and hold a Bluefish Party when I arrive. Did you know Churbuck is Anglo-Illiterate for "Handsome-Smart-Man-Who-Catches-Many-Women-and-Fish?" Yes. I know. It's hard being a legend.
So here's the fish story. There's one hiding in here somewhere. I catch a bluefish -- the first of the season -- on my birthday. The mobs at Oregon Beach were cheering as I arrived to signal the opening of the season, for the fish were waiting, lockjawed, for me to be the first. The fish is a mighty fish, a noble fish, and leaps valiantly from the brine over and over, shaking water from its tail like the very essence of its fierce life which drains from its cold soul up the line and through my arms like cosmic electricity generated by the wind farm of life.
I don't have a net because it's too early in the season to be that well-equipped, but I leader the fish aboard,
and Junior gets ready to give it what-for with the Bluefish-Be-Cool, a monster sized wooden fishbat with a bicycle grip on the handle. This fish bat is mafia-sized, something for smacking the what-for out of sharks, way too big for numbing a ten-pound bluefish.
"Cease," I tell the teen. "Kill not the first fish of the season. It must be kissed and returned to the sea from whence it came."
"You've got to be s#%@%(!g me? That's a nice fish. Let's eat it."
"Nay progeny of my loins. It must be kissed." I start mauling the fish. Again, it is too early in the season to be prepared, I have no pliers, I can't find Captain Andy's De-Hooker. I've got my thumb jammed inside of the gills and the hook, still barbed, isn't slipping out. Finally, I free the fish and get ready to kiss it.
"One of these days that fish is going to latch onto your lip and chew it off."
I kiss the fish and return it to the sea.
"You jerk! What's the point then? I wanted some smoked bluefish pate on my bagel!"
We resume fishing and catch no more. For that was the first fish, the kissed fish, and it has gone off to tell its buddies that He Is On the Flat.
"Did I ever tell you what I want you to do when I am dead?"
"You're senile, you know that? You're re-telling bad stories. I'm cold. Spare me the reincarnation speech."
"I want to be cremated ..."
"Yeah, yeah. And you want me to spread your ashes into the middle of a bluefish blitz. Then you want me to catch one, cook it, and eat it." The teenager is angry. Car insurance for a first-time driver is more expensive than he had figured, and he needs to ask people if they want ketchup and salt if he wants wheels.
"And I will be reincarnated as a bluefish ..." I say as we motor through the gloaming into the calm waters of our home harbor, the air fulgent with the smell of lilacs.
"You'll be reincarnated as a dumpster. Fried dough. Camel Lights. Tequila Shots. Who knows what you put into your body during the `Just Say Whoa!' years."
It's spring. The bluefish are here to worship. Or smear on a Stop & Shop sesame seed bagel ...
Until Next Week .....