The Pier

It was good to watch that God-damned pier crash into the sea.

Hurricane Sandy was racing up the East Coast toward New Jersey.  As it did, CNN was showing footage of the fishing pier at Moorhead City, NC as it took the force of a last few massive waves before collapsing into the ocean.  I had forgotten that pier (maybe intentionally) for about 35 years.  Now, seeing it break down and lean into the Atlantic brought back once painful memories that seem both trivial and funny. 

I was about 10 at the time.  My family had chosen the April break to drive to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to visit with our Grand Aunt and Uncle.  The beaches of North Carolina were foreign to us, but they weren’t that different from the beaches of Charlestown and New Jersey.  The waves rolled in like they do at Narragansett and Misquamicut but the water seemed a lighter green with more sand mixed in.  It was warmer and people we met on the beach suggested we shuffle our feet as we walked to kick up any skates that might be straying in for feeding.  An added attraction that we stumbled on the first day was a long wooden pier that jutted out hundreds of yards into the Atlantic.  Fisherman lined the edges of it and bought frozen shrimp to fish off its high planks for flounder, spot, skate and the occasional shark. 

My brothers (9 and 7) and I were allowed the freedom of walking the ½ mile down the beach from the condominium our relatives were in to fish.  More importantly, I was given the privilege and responsibility of using my dad’s favorite Abu-Garcia spinning reel and the dull yellow rod connected to it.  We had a few 1.5 oz. sinkers and some hooks and after visiting the pier with us, my dad showed us how to rig and walked back home.  He was leaving my brothers and, more importantly, his beloved spinning rod in my care.  I felt good.  For a 10 year-old, a father’s confidence is strong magic. 

The first two days of fishing were great.  My brothers and I rotated through using the rod with good effect.  The small spot and occasional “windowpane” flounder were sport for us.  The energy on the pier in the early evening was full of laughter and hope.  I can still smell the tar from the pilings.  Families came up to watch the fisherman (including us) and older, wiser anglers would move toward the end of the pier for bigger fish as the tide rose and the light lowered.  The second night, we watched in amazement as a man two spotlights down the pier battled a 6-foot shark before snapping the fish off as it thrashed 20 feet below.  As it slowly swam away, we glanced nervously at each other considering the next day’s beach swim. 

The third night started much the same as the first two.  We had eased into a familiar routine and the fishing became more playful and casual.  We began “talking” to the fish nibbling at our bait.  Our comfort was about to become my grief.  When it came to be my turn to cast again, I went through the second nature routine of the cast.  When I shifted my weight to fire the sinker as far out from the pier as I could, the bail clicked back with my movement.  In a fraction of a second, physics and gravity took charge.  The momentum of my cast and the weight of the sinker lifted the rod from my relaxed grip.  As the several seconds passed, my disbelieving eyes watched as the rod fell through space toward the green Atlantic below.  As the rod splashed and slowly sank, I instantly considered jumping off of the pier after it.   Common sense and fear ruled the day and I stayed, head in hands against the rail.  My brothers were wide-eyed behind me, mouths agape.  “Big Brother” had messed up, big-time.  Tears began to well up as I imagined my father’s disappointment, shock and anger.  A neighboring fisherman tried to cast for a while to dredge it up, temporarily boosting my feeble hopes.  Finally I resigned to defeat and reality.  I had messed up, big-time, and it was time to walk back and face the music.  My brothers walked beside me trying to console me as the tears rolled down on the long walk back.  Strangers walking by surely wondered what terrible thing had befallen me.

In the distance, I saw my father and mother walking toward us down the beach and my sorrow and fear deepened.  I could feel my throat dry and tighten.  As they came closer I could see the concern for me on their faces. 

“What’s wrong?” my father asked.

“I lost your rod.” I choked out, starting to cry again.

“Where?” he wondered.

“I dropped it off the pier by accident” I managed, breathless.

“Is that all?” he laughed.

His laughter caught me off guard. Is that all?  I’d just dumped what I assumed was the man’s most prized possession on Earth into the depths of the shark-infested Atlantic and all he had to say was “Is that all?”. 

He grabbed my by the shoulders, pulled me in and tussled my hair. 

“It’s just a piece of plastic and fiberglass that we can replace tomorrow.” he chuckled. “I thought you guys had been hurt or something.”

A feeling of relief flooded my soul.  We turned back toward the hotel.  Someone suggested ice cream and mini-golf.  I wondered if I could try swimming out to retrieve the rod tomorrow.  I remembered that shark and mini-golf sounded good. 

I hope that I’m able to treat my sons with the same degree of understanding when they “screw up” in their formative years.  I’m grateful he had the perspective that he did about the rod.  I’m also sort of happy that pier has disappeared into the Atlantic.