Sacred Sidewalk

A slab of broken rock isn’t usually sacred ground.  I suppose flagstone steps leading up to the Dalai Lama’s prayer station or a makeshift Civil War battlefield alter would qualify, but the one I’m thinking of is made of 1950’s-era concrete sidewalk, buckled in the middle by years of heat, wind and waves.

It lies next to the bridge from a once vibrant shorefront inn, not far from Westerly, RI.   The inn has been in a state of reconstruction for the several years.   It is a beautiful structure but its current dormancy has at least one benefit:  increased fishing and crabbing access at the little bridge that leads to the inn.  The culvert underneath the bridge is 5 feet wide and at full tide is about 4 feet deep.   It allows water from the salt pond to pass into a small shallow basin. In late summer the passage fills with clouds of small peanut bunker, mullet and silversides that are pushed and pulled by the tides and wind. The abundance of prey attracts Blue Crabs, small Bluefish and, on occasion, Striped Bass. 

My son was seven. He is fascinated catching and eating his own food.  I think it’s a tribal and evolutionary thing.   The week before he had been standing in the shallows of the salt pond, not far from the bridge, absent-mindedly reeling in a live mullet on a hook, catching snapper bluefish happily.  From shore, I watched him while sharing dinner of fried chicken and beer with friends as the Labor Day weekend closed in soft yellow-orange sunlight on the marsh.  Our peace was shattered as he screamed for help and, as I turned, a huge whitewater plume erupted from the water not 10 yards from him. 

“What IS THIS!!??” He screamed, terrified. 

I ran quickly to him and took the rod from his hands, realizing that a big striper had taken the mullet.  The fisherman in me overtook the good father as I landed the keeper about 8 minutes later.  We killed it with a rock in front of our horrified, non-fishing guests and he beamed with pride and excitement at being the center of such a great catch.  In his words, it was the best day of his life. 

As the excitement of that hour waned, I began to realize that I should have done it differently.  Yes, he might have lost the fish, but I should have coached him through the catch rather than pull it from him.  I told him so.  The next time, I said, he would make the catch himself. 

In my mind, I wondered if and when that time would come again.  I considered that I might have taken the golden moment forever. 

The next weekend, we rushed back down to the area, as soon as school let out.   We had never fished the bridge.  We went with the intent to crab in the spot where the blue crabs were thick most Septembers.  As the tide hit its peak, we saw telltale signs that things at the bridge were about to get strange.  Great schools of silver mullet were being rushed out of the water by big fish as they entered the small basin next to the bridge.  We could track the movement of the big fish as the mullet schools approached.  Grabbing a castnet, we quickly gathered a dozen good mullet and rigged our rods with heavy leader, big hooks and bobbers.  As the stripers passed near the little bridge we began to cast from the sidewalk into the center with immediate results.  Great rushes and swirls chased our mullet to and fro.  One big fish cartwheeled in an unsuccessful effort to capture a bait.  Another snapped off a rig from the bobber down in an instantaneous hit.    I reminded him that this time, it was his job to do the reeling and to be ready.  He said he was.  

After several misses, his bobber went down and didn’t come up.  He struck at it and the rod doubled over.  A good fish.  The drag was well set and he started his battle.  His younger brother gathered with several other neighbors to watch as a small crowd of passersby stopped to wonder and look on.  After what seemed like an hour (but was only about 10 minutes), the fish came within 5 yards of the small rock wall abutting the sidewalk.  I extended the net and coached him to lead the fish headfirst slowly into it.  Finally, the front half of the keeper in the net, I scooped.  

We brought the fish and laid it on the sidewalk and measured it out.  Twenty-nine inches! High fives and claps on the back, shouts of joy of the capture that only 5 and 7 year olds can make, and pictures taken for the unbelievers.  I asked if he wanted to throw it back, adding that it might be good fishing karma for the future.

“Maybe the next one, I kind of want to eat this first one.”  Spoken like a true fisherman.

I’ve been back to the spot several times since.  Once, later that season on a cool October night, I left a dinner party we were hosting to the dismay of my spouse.  I knew the tide was perfect and couldn’t shake the visions of big stripers chasing the mullet under the moonlight and the glory of that day.  When I arrived, the conditions were perfect, still high tide in the basin, mullet schools tucking under the bridge and a quarter moon lighting a mackerel clouded sky brilliantly.  My breath formed light puffs in the night air as I stood on that cracked piece of sidewalk waiting and listening.  The stripers never came.  As I stood there, the memory of the warmth and joy of that day in my mind, I felt like I was at an altar of some universal chapel.  The depth of my appreciation for what I had been given flowed deeply and part of me never wanted to leave.  Its funny what a broken piece of sidewalk can be sometimes.