To Catch A Fish
Author: ZLizabeth
Summary:
He only fished the ocean. A therapist would examine the actions behind fishing, but he preferred to just fish. It's about "another character", you'll guess who. It's a bit different, but not so unique I'd call it groundbreaking. Read and Review, please! It's hard to describe!
Disclaimer:
The characters of Gilmore Girls belong to the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino, and some other people who I'm too lazy to name. Breezy Point isn't mine either, it belongs to the state of New York. The quote at the beginning is by Ernest Lyons. The title was also ripped off from the Hitchcock film "To Catch A Thief."
Prologue
"The fisherman loves to row out in the stillness of the mists of morning when the lake is like polished black glass."
He only fished on the ocean. He would get up early in the morning and drive to Breezy Point in his battered car. It was a red jeep, with soft leather seats bruised by scenes of passion, and scratches of initials and deep fingernail cuts engraved on the sides, where matted cotton fluff bled out of the faded tan. There were bumps and dents on the dashboard, and the radio spoke in baby tongues, garbling out the harsh jazz that he always listened too. The seat belts were broken, and layers of brown nylon pooled in the cracks of seats. The seats sagged, leather breaking from the rain and weather that had filtered in to harden them combined with the weight of tackle, rods and waders. The doors wouldn't lock, and the windows were broken. He would drive along the deserted highways until the smell of salt was as concentrated as his grandfather's margaritas, and then he would stop.
Some days it would be raining. Some days it wouldn't. He fished no matter what the conditions were, because fishing was all he had. He didn't fish as a sport, he fished because he liked to fish. He didn't bring nets, or depth-testers, or any fancy gadgets like that. He fished with a rod and a half empty tackle box. He would park his car close to the beach and walk out with his gear tucked under one arm, the other arm pulling his wind breaker closer around his body. The wind would be strong no matter what day, season or year it was. It would whip at his hair - not that there was much of it anymore. He had been forced to shave his head close when he was seventeen, and old habits die hard.
Breezy Point didn't vary much. It was always cold, and fishing was never easy. When he got to the wet brown sand, he would walk across it slowly. He took off his shoes at his car door and tossed them carelessly under the seat. Walking on the silt, his feet would sink in slowly, and the mud-sand grabbed at his feet and held on to his heels and instep, so that he always felt sticky when he took another step. The New York State Parks and Beaches Conservation Society had not forgotten Breezy Point completely, but the beach was always empty save the regulars, and no teams of workers dressed in forest green ever came to clean up the place with trash bags. Old glass bottles from the beer drinkers who would lean on their cars and swig alcohol were shattered and scattered underneath the top layer of sand. Plastic bags stuck to the beach and made scratching moans when the wind stirred the sand inside them. All sorts of shit from the ocean had gathered here and there. Cracked seashells were everywhere. It was illegal to walk on the beach without shoes, and he knew it. But it didn't matter to him. When the glass or seashells cut into his foot, and pierced his skin hard enough to make it bleed, he would be numb to the pain and walk on into the water, where the salt would clean his cut. His feet were hard and calloused, though, and usually deep wounds were avoided.
He would wade in until the water lapped at his waist. The rubbery pants were too big for him, allowing water to seep in and make his clothes stick to the waders. He didn't mind the cold. He liked feeling the water so close to him. His body went numb, but he still could feel the alive touch of water on him. He would stand still in the water for a minute, and exchange pleasantries with another man if he spotted him, or watch the horizon.
He would start up again as quickly as he had stopped, and he would be flipping back the reel and finding the right place to put his finger on the rod. He tested his balance with his first few casts, and dragged the lure through the waves to feel the current, the depth, the life. He might find a nip on the line if he was lucky, but usually, he just waited for a while until he was ready to fish.
When he was going to fish, he straightened his back and watched every flicker of his rod. He flicked his wrist when he cast, and he would watch the sea with blue eyes. He was patient. He waited a long time for a bite. If it never came, he reeled in and cast again. He had been taught patience.
He usually caught a fish or two. He would reel it in, and his eyes would smile when he saw it. He would run a finger down it's scales and, if he had company, yell an insult to the other fisherman, bragging of his catch. Usually his fish were nothing to brag about. The only fisherman to come here were weathered experts who had stories to tell and things to brag about. Sharks when they were in Columbia, or eels on the shores of Vermont when they were just three. Their fathers had taught them to fish. He would listen to their stories leaning on his jeep, wrapping a bit of extra line around his finger and nodding and laughing along with them. He knew little about these men. He had learned a little about them from their beards and reoccurrances at Breezy Point. Some of them would speak fondly of their daughters, some of them would complain about their wives while others boasted of their sex lives and there were even those who beamed with pride speaking of their girlfriends.
"Women," he had remarked to a crowd of three men, "wouldn't be proud of their publicity here."
"He speaks the truth!" a hearty red-faced man had yelled, "if my Caitlin knew of the stories I've told of her babyhood, she'd pout in the corner of her room."
"We only talk 'cause we love 'em," a clean-shaven Jack said wisely, "I love that bitch at home, even though she can't get it through her head that fishin' isn't an excuse to go sleep with a blonde slut from work."
He would nod, smile, and think about his girls. All of them.
At 7:00, after about three hours of fishing, he would reel in and slip a hook from his lure into the line, and walk back across the beach to the car. When he got to the jeep, he would throw open the door and sit on the edge of the seat, bringing the towel from the floor to slap his feet. He got most of the sand off, and tossed the towel in the back where it wouldn't get the rest of the Jeep dirty. Just out of habit, because his car was dirty already. He would peel off his waders and drape them over the back seat, then rolled down the windows and put his sopping jeans next to them where air could dry them off. He would find another towel on the floor and dry off his legs, then put on another pair of identical jeans. Lastly he would slam the door shut, and it wouldn't close. He would open it and close it again, then back up, away from the beach, and drive back through New York State as it woke up.
*Comments, critisism, complaints, and any sort of review in general would be appreciated. Too short, edited badly, anything!
Author: ZLizabeth
Summary:
He only fished the ocean. A therapist would examine the actions behind fishing, but he preferred to just fish. It's about "another character", you'll guess who. It's a bit different, but not so unique I'd call it groundbreaking. Read and Review, please! It's hard to describe!
Disclaimer:
The characters of Gilmore Girls belong to the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino, and some other people who I'm too lazy to name. Breezy Point isn't mine either, it belongs to the state of New York. The quote at the beginning is by Ernest Lyons. The title was also ripped off from the Hitchcock film "To Catch A Thief."
Prologue
"The fisherman loves to row out in the stillness of the mists of morning when the lake is like polished black glass."
He only fished on the ocean. He would get up early in the morning and drive to Breezy Point in his battered car. It was a red jeep, with soft leather seats bruised by scenes of passion, and scratches of initials and deep fingernail cuts engraved on the sides, where matted cotton fluff bled out of the faded tan. There were bumps and dents on the dashboard, and the radio spoke in baby tongues, garbling out the harsh jazz that he always listened too. The seat belts were broken, and layers of brown nylon pooled in the cracks of seats. The seats sagged, leather breaking from the rain and weather that had filtered in to harden them combined with the weight of tackle, rods and waders. The doors wouldn't lock, and the windows were broken. He would drive along the deserted highways until the smell of salt was as concentrated as his grandfather's margaritas, and then he would stop.
Some days it would be raining. Some days it wouldn't. He fished no matter what the conditions were, because fishing was all he had. He didn't fish as a sport, he fished because he liked to fish. He didn't bring nets, or depth-testers, or any fancy gadgets like that. He fished with a rod and a half empty tackle box. He would park his car close to the beach and walk out with his gear tucked under one arm, the other arm pulling his wind breaker closer around his body. The wind would be strong no matter what day, season or year it was. It would whip at his hair - not that there was much of it anymore. He had been forced to shave his head close when he was seventeen, and old habits die hard.
Breezy Point didn't vary much. It was always cold, and fishing was never easy. When he got to the wet brown sand, he would walk across it slowly. He took off his shoes at his car door and tossed them carelessly under the seat. Walking on the silt, his feet would sink in slowly, and the mud-sand grabbed at his feet and held on to his heels and instep, so that he always felt sticky when he took another step. The New York State Parks and Beaches Conservation Society had not forgotten Breezy Point completely, but the beach was always empty save the regulars, and no teams of workers dressed in forest green ever came to clean up the place with trash bags. Old glass bottles from the beer drinkers who would lean on their cars and swig alcohol were shattered and scattered underneath the top layer of sand. Plastic bags stuck to the beach and made scratching moans when the wind stirred the sand inside them. All sorts of shit from the ocean had gathered here and there. Cracked seashells were everywhere. It was illegal to walk on the beach without shoes, and he knew it. But it didn't matter to him. When the glass or seashells cut into his foot, and pierced his skin hard enough to make it bleed, he would be numb to the pain and walk on into the water, where the salt would clean his cut. His feet were hard and calloused, though, and usually deep wounds were avoided.
He would wade in until the water lapped at his waist. The rubbery pants were too big for him, allowing water to seep in and make his clothes stick to the waders. He didn't mind the cold. He liked feeling the water so close to him. His body went numb, but he still could feel the alive touch of water on him. He would stand still in the water for a minute, and exchange pleasantries with another man if he spotted him, or watch the horizon.
He would start up again as quickly as he had stopped, and he would be flipping back the reel and finding the right place to put his finger on the rod. He tested his balance with his first few casts, and dragged the lure through the waves to feel the current, the depth, the life. He might find a nip on the line if he was lucky, but usually, he just waited for a while until he was ready to fish.
When he was going to fish, he straightened his back and watched every flicker of his rod. He flicked his wrist when he cast, and he would watch the sea with blue eyes. He was patient. He waited a long time for a bite. If it never came, he reeled in and cast again. He had been taught patience.
He usually caught a fish or two. He would reel it in, and his eyes would smile when he saw it. He would run a finger down it's scales and, if he had company, yell an insult to the other fisherman, bragging of his catch. Usually his fish were nothing to brag about. The only fisherman to come here were weathered experts who had stories to tell and things to brag about. Sharks when they were in Columbia, or eels on the shores of Vermont when they were just three. Their fathers had taught them to fish. He would listen to their stories leaning on his jeep, wrapping a bit of extra line around his finger and nodding and laughing along with them. He knew little about these men. He had learned a little about them from their beards and reoccurrances at Breezy Point. Some of them would speak fondly of their daughters, some of them would complain about their wives while others boasted of their sex lives and there were even those who beamed with pride speaking of their girlfriends.
"Women," he had remarked to a crowd of three men, "wouldn't be proud of their publicity here."
"He speaks the truth!" a hearty red-faced man had yelled, "if my Caitlin knew of the stories I've told of her babyhood, she'd pout in the corner of her room."
"We only talk 'cause we love 'em," a clean-shaven Jack said wisely, "I love that bitch at home, even though she can't get it through her head that fishin' isn't an excuse to go sleep with a blonde slut from work."
He would nod, smile, and think about his girls. All of them.
At 7:00, after about three hours of fishing, he would reel in and slip a hook from his lure into the line, and walk back across the beach to the car. When he got to the jeep, he would throw open the door and sit on the edge of the seat, bringing the towel from the floor to slap his feet. He got most of the sand off, and tossed the towel in the back where it wouldn't get the rest of the Jeep dirty. Just out of habit, because his car was dirty already. He would peel off his waders and drape them over the back seat, then rolled down the windows and put his sopping jeans next to them where air could dry them off. He would find another towel on the floor and dry off his legs, then put on another pair of identical jeans. Lastly he would slam the door shut, and it wouldn't close. He would open it and close it again, then back up, away from the beach, and drive back through New York State as it woke up.
*Comments, critisism, complaints, and any sort of review in general would be appreciated. Too short, edited badly, anything!