BLUE FISH

                Max Blue remembers the first live fish he ever saw, not counting the Goldfish his mom kept in a tank. That fish was bigger than him, longer and heavier, and he has the photograph to prove it. It was a 30-pound Mudcat hauled out of the Big River in Jefferson County, Missouri about where the Ozark Mountains start to get their feet. Five-year-old Max was in the boat when his Dad came across that mean-looking sucker pulling so hard on the trot line stretching across the river it came close to dislodging the sturdy bush on the river bank where the line was attached. That fish fed the family for a week after his mom cleaned and fried it; it tasted awful.

                So forget about catfish if eating is the goal. Let’s talk about small mouth Bass. If you’ve ever tasted the sweet flaky milk-white flesh of this fish steamed in ginger sauce the way Liddy Blue does it, well, it’s like the poet Ernest Sommerfeld put it – “How are we to move after we’ve seen deer running?” How are we to eat after we’ve eaten small mouth Bass? You could say the same about fishing for the small mouth Bass.

                Max and Liddy had to work their way through a lot of fishing experiences before they settled on the small mouth bass of the Juniata River just north of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. The tortuous path is documented in Max Blue’s fishing stories. The agony of “Headboat.” The frustration of “Stover’s Dam.” The terror of “Hell Or High Water.” The humiliation of “Pink Cards and Piscators.” The ultimate understanding of what fishing is about in “The Rhyme of the Ancient Piscators.”  

HEADBOAT

   by Max Blue

We decide to try deep-sea fishing, Liddy and me. We are hooked by the pictures of all those red snappers. We must get up at four A.M. because the boat leaves promptly at six, and it will take at least an hour to drive there. We set the alarm clock and go to bed early. I sleep soundly, as usual. Suddenly the light clicks on.

Liddy urges, “Get up, get up, it’s five o’clock, the alarm didn’t go off.”

 I catapult out of bed, rush to look at the clock; it is 12:30. I go back to sleep. Liddy goes back to bed but she does not sleep. At four A.M. I am awakened by the ringing alarm. Liddy is already up.

It is a warm day in early April, and we are treated to a waning Carolina moon perched atop the pine trees as we get into the Rabbit for the drive to Morehead City. On the way we get another treat—the sun rising through horizon clouds over the North Carolina capes. We arrive in time for breakfast in the Captain’s Gallery restaurant at Pier eight. I have an apple Danish and coffee, Liddy has French toast, which she shares with me. We board the CAROLINA  PRINCESS  in plenty of time for the 0600 sortie.

The CAROLINA  PRINCESS  is a headboat, she is 65 feet long and equipped with twin diesel engines capable of generating 1100 horsepower. She can log 25 knots, and carry as many as 60 passengers for fishing. Today there are 13 fishermen, one fisherboy, and one fisherwoman …Liddy. The crew consists of Captain “Woo-Woo” Koenig, two chaps in their early 20s, a 14 year-old boy, and a 10 year-old boy, designated respectively, as mates one through four.

The CAROLINA  PRINCESS manages two blasts on a whistle that sounds like it has laryngitis, and  backs away from pier eight at exactly six A.M. The water in the harbor is glassy smooth as we move along at five knots. Liddy and me anticipate an exciting and enjoyable day. We sit on a wooden bench lining the portside of the cabin-lounge. We note two colossal cranes on tracks alongside a several hundred-foot-long dock. The port of Morehead City is equipped to handle large ocean-going vessels; the dock is protected by a series of quarter-moon rubber tire fenders. We see a clump of oil storage tanks and a network of pipes leading from ship-docking facilities in the harbor—the port can accommodate large oil tankers. We pass the first channel buoys—red to port, black to starboard. The buoys are like lonely sentinels, bobbing and rocking gently under the influence of the boat’s wake and the inrolling tide. Their bells speak with a warning voice, “Beware, beware.”

The captain accelerates to 15 knots. The boat is beginning to pitch, I wishfully claim it is because we are running in the wake of the CAPTAIN STACY , an 85-foot headboat. I am wrong. We are pitching because we are heading into three-foot swells. We fall into a rhythmic, monotonous, but not altogether unpleasant pattern— bow up and out of the water as the crest of the swell passes amidships and rolls aft, a momentary hesitation, then smack-slam, as the bow comes down hard and burrows into the trough before the next swell. The sea is not rough, there is a small breeze and no white caps, but there are these three to five-foot swells and they are relentless.

Porpoises are sighted frolicking 1,000 yards off the starboard bow (smack-slam). Liddy and me move to the bow area where others have congregated. We all enjoy the salt spray misting our faces (smack-slam). A boy is leaning over the rail in the very eyes of the boat; he is pointing at the water and shouting excitedly. All crowd forward. Two porpoises are pacing the boat. Their smooth brown skin can be seen barely submerged, and only inches ahead of the speeding cutwater. They seem in danger of being overrun, but it is only an illusion, they are in control. They swim with an effortless grace. They exhort the boat to try harder . . . faster, faster, faster (smack-slam). They roll on their sides, then on their backs; they smile, they taunt the boat.

The porpoises tire of their game and the spray is approaching a splash; Liddy and me return to our seats. We have been underway 45 minutes (smack-slam). We see a flashing light shrouded in fog, but clearly visible some four miles away. The light flashes every 15 seconds. It is the Cape Lookout light; we are traversing the Cape Lookout shoals. The Pier Eight flyer has pictures of the Olympus Dive Charters, and tells us that we can dive “The graveyard of the Atlantic”. We hope Captain Woo Woo can keep us from becoming part of the graveyard (smack-slam).

Liddy gets up shakily. I get up shakily. I hold onto the rail, she holds onto me; we make our way aft. We arrive at the fantail where a crowd has gathered. The crew is cutting frozen mullet into large chunks.  Liddy gets a whiff. I get a whiff. We lurch to the starboard side for a hasty get-away. We land on a bench, starboard side amidships. Liddy is feeling queasy, she lays her head on my lap. We have been underway for an hour and a half, it will be another two hours before we reach the fishing area, about 50 miles at sea in the middle of the Gulf Stream. The water is only 15 fathoms deep where the Gulf Stream begins, about 33 miles out, and at this time of the year it is too cold for good fishing. We are headed for deeper water, but will we ever get there? The swells now have a varied pattern, they hit us from many angles, we are being tumbled like cracker in a barrel. It is a crackerbarrel sea. I feel queasy. I know I am going to be sick, it is only a question of when.

Liddy looks up at me, her face twisted in agony and despair. “I am very sick,” she says. For the next 11 hours she is silent. We will each face the ordeal in our own way. Shared nausea was not in our bargain.

I stare resentfully at the sea, it is gray and unattractive, reflecting the sky. “You have done this to me before,” I think. I see a lonely sea gull working hard to keep up. I am conscious of the engine’s roar; it does not soothe me. The Captain brings the boat hard to port to avoid a floating log. The unexpected motion adds to my misery. Several floating logs are sighted, they do not appear to be flotsam, but might well be jetsam although who can tell this close to the graveyard of the Atlantic? Suddenly, perspiration beads form on my forehead, something rises in my throat, my mouth is flooded with saliva. I tense, fighting the feeling. It subsides, but only briefly. It comes again with increased intensity. I squirm, I struggle, I rush to the railing and, with a cry of “gardyloo!”  give up what’s left of my apple Danish and French toast to 10 fathoms of water. This is major-league nausea. No, it is world-class nausea; it is the Olympics of nausea and, oceans of woe, it is the marathon. It is like eating fried liver.

No one pays any attention to Liddy and me. We are avoided as if we had leprosy. No one else seems to be sick, they must like fried liver. It is nine A.M., we are getting close. Fishing rigs are brought out. People are seen drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. I make another trip to the rail. Nothing remains in my stomach but juice; it doesn’t matter, the nausea does not subside. I wretch. Liddy has also made two trips to the rail. The Captain cuts the throttle; the boat slows. The reduced noise and lessened motion are a welcome respite. The boat is meandering slowly . . . the Captain is trying to locate fish. He will not settle for a school, he is looking for a university. He is equipped with the newest electronic fish finder, “Capable of spotting a single fish or a large school of fish in a depth of over one thousand feet.”

The 14- year-old third mate comes by and cheerfully announces, “You can get your pole now.” Leaving Liddy with her feet on the deck and her head on the hard wooden seat, I stumble aft to exchange our tickets for two fishing rigs. The rigs are Brobdingnagian; we are equipped to catch whales. The reel is almost as wide as my shoe is long, the sinker is a two pound lead weight, the line is pencil-thick, the two hooks are three inches from eye to curve, and one and a half inches from point to shank. I drag them back to where Liddy is half-sitting, half-lying with her eyes tightly shut. I lean the rigs against the rail and sit down. The boy comes with a double handful of cut mullet and plops it down on the rail next to our rigs. “Get ready,” he says. I feel awful but am determined to try. I ask Liddy if she wants to fish. She does not reply. I take this to mean ‘no’. It is not that she has lost interest in fishing. Her senses of sight, sound, smell, and taste have always been extraordinary, suggesting optimal neuronal connections. However, her brain, now being assaulted with stimuli from all these sources at once, has homogenized them into a maelstrom, resulting in dizziness, confusion, and disorientation. She is trying to cope by remaining as still as possible. She is like a hibernating bear, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, a fetus in a womb. 

I, on the other hand, having impaired neuronal connections, remain vaguely aware of my surroundings. I note dim forms swaying by the rail up and down the deck. Their hooks are baited, they are poised to begin. I follow suit. I select two large chunks of cut mullet, impale them on my hooks, hold my rod over the water, which is almost close enough to touch.

 “How deep do we fish?” I ask my neighbor.

“Off the bottom,” he answers.

The Captain guns the engines and then lets them idle. Everyone tenses, the whistle toots, “Start fishing” is shouted, but no one needs to be told. I flick a lever on the reel and my line begins a reckless plunge. I wonder at the speed of its descent, I feel a rush of excitement, this part is fun. The sinker hits bottom— thunk— 150 feet down. I have a monumental backlash. No one told me to hold my thumb on the line. The man on my right has an electrically powered reel which gives off a high-pitched zzzinngg as it winds in. He thinks he has caught something big, his eyes shine with excitement as he cradles the rig against his chest. His sinker and fully baited hooks jump out of the water – no fish. I am not the only novice aboard. The man on my left is still struggling to bring in his catch. He finally does. It is a strange looking creature with long curly whiskers, no larger than a good-sized bluegill. Third Mate says it is a sand bass and puts it on a stringer. I didn’t think it was a keeper. We have been fishing no more than ten minutes when CAROLINA  PRINCESS gives another whistle toot.

“Lines up,” comes the cry. The Captain thinks we can do better.

We move for 10 minutes and try again. This time it is better. Two stations down, a man reels in two red snappers at one time. They lie passively in the water as they near the surface. They seem to float in a ghostly manner. The man who hooked them is calm, almost detached. The crew can be heard shouting around the boat, “Grouper here

 . . . trigger fish.”

The fishermen are strangely quiet as they boat their catches. What joyless fishing is this? My pole twitches slightly, I begin to reel in line, I feel nothing. I turn the reel handle for a long time. It becomes harder and harder to turn and finally I cannot turn it at all. I call First Mate for help. The line has accumulated on one side of the spool. He does not scold. He asks if I had a fish on the line.  I reply, “Who can tell?” He winds my fish into sight then hands me the pole. I bring it aboard. It is a beautiful fish. Why do I feel indifferent? Toot.

 “Lines up.” Wait a minute! People are catching fish here.

 “Captain wants to find a place where they are thicker,” First Mate reassures me with a wink. He gives me a slip of paper with the number five on it and takes my fish to the ice chest.

I sit back down next to Liddy. The engines roar, the boat bucks into the swells at 15 knots. I expect another short trip. Wrong again. I sit for 15 minutes. I sit for 30 minutes. I am racked with nausea.

 “The Captain is torturing us,” I say to Liddy. She does not move. I am turned with my back to the spray. I am beginning to get wet; for the first time I am cold. I sit for 45 minutes. I stagger aft to consult with a bait cutter. I ask hopefully and forlornly, already knowing the answer, “Is he heading back to port?” What I meant to ask was,“What the hell is he doing?”

With a straight face the cutter says, “He is taking us out to deeper water.” From what I know of deep-sea fishing, I wonder if we can endure deeper-sea fishing. We travel another 30 minutes before the boat mercifully slows and the other fishermen reappear on deck. When the boat stops Liddy creeps into the cabin and assumes the fetal position on a soft-cushioned lounge bench.

I say, “Wouldn’t you like to fish?” She does not reply. 

I shamble on deck, bait my hooks and let them fall. It is not as much fun holding your thumb on the reel. It occurs to me that, after the porpoises, the high point of this trip was a free-falling sinker. It takes a long time for this sinker to hit bottom. We are now in 60 fathoms of water, on the edge of the continental shelf. A few more miles and the depth drops to 300 fathoms. My sinker hits bottom (no backlash for the experienced headboat fisherman), and I start to reel it in. It feels heavy. I wonder if I have caught something. I continue to turn the handle; it is not easy. It is like reeling in an anvil, and about as much fun. I lapse into fantasy. I am sitting on the crossbar of a goalpost at the end of a football field. The field is oriented down into the water. I have released my hook, line, and sinker to the opposite end of the field, 320 feet away, and have hooked the other goalpost which I now begin to reel in. I need both hands to keep from losing my rig overboard. I either have a fish or the other goalpost; I won’t know which until it gets to the surface. It is a fish. A small grouper, only seven or eight pounds. It is the biggest fish I have ever caught. I am not thrilled. Toot.

“Lines up.”

I have had enough. I grope to the cabin. Liddy is lying still. I sit at a booth, fold my arms on the table to pillow my head. I feel better already. I doze. I do not move for three hours, although I am aware of the starts and stops. Suddenly I am aware that something is different. We are not pitching. We are not rolling. We are moving smoothly at 20 knots. We are heading for port. The swells are following. I sit up. I am no longer nauseated. I look around. People are sprawled in various stages of collapse. Several are asleep with heads down on the tables. Someone has covered Liddy with a coat. She has not moved for five hours. It is 2:30, we are four hours from docking. Woo woo Koenig has taken us 75 miles into the Atlantic Ocean.

For 45 minutes I stare out a port at the barren emptiness of the sea. We are moving rapidly but the scene is unchanging; I am mesmerized. I lay my head back down and doze again. I am shaken awake by hands from two directions. I immediately sense it is about Liddy. She is sitting with her feet on the floor, her head hanging between her knees. I sit next to her. I bend my head close to hers. I ask if she needs anything. She hears. She shakes her head. She puts her head on my lap. We remain this way for two hours, not even moving for a “Man overboard” false alarm.

Someone says, “There’s the sea buoy, it can’t be long now.” But this too is a false alarm for the sea buoy is 32 miles from the harbor mouth, an hour and a half at 20 knots.

By the time we reach the channel buoys the crew has strung each person’s catch from overhead hooks on the starboard side. I get up to inspect the catch. Liddy keeps her head down. The catch is impressive, well over 100 fish, mostly in the five to 10 pound range, but including one medium-sized grouper weighing about 20 pounds. I hear someone grousing about how it was better the last time.

I go back to the cabin. A man with a can of beer in his hand is talking to Liddy. Her head is still down so he bends over and I hear him say, “I rilly have to give you credit. I know it would have been eashy to inshist that the Captain take you back in when you got shick. But you din’t do that, you din’t shpoil it for the resht of ush. You got a lot of gutsh lady.” He chuckles. Liddy looks at him out of one eye. Her lips move. He leans closer to hear. He straightens up. He is perplexed.

            “What did she say?” I ask.

            “She shed, ‘who was that masked man?’” He bends over to talk to her again. “The nexsht  time you go out you should get shum shcopolamine,” he says. “Itsh like a little Band-Aid and you put it right behind your ear. Then you won’t get sheshick.”  Her lips move again. He leans closer. He straightens up and looks at his beer can.

“What did she say?”

“She shed, ‘impeach Nixon’. “ He walks away shaking his head.

First Mate follows him, says, “I always wondered what that thing behind the Captain’s ear was.”

As we move slowly through the inner harbor it becomes clear why the Captain was insistent on finding fish, why they are hung on the starboard side, and why he timed our arrival for the dinner hour. The boat moves slowly past the Sanitary Fish Market and Restaurant where diners look out through a picture window and carefully assess the catch, no doubt planning when they will reserve space on the CAROLINA  PRINCESS.

Finally, the PRINCESS  eases into her berth alongside Pier Eight. It is raining. Many wives and children can be seen waiting with opened umbrellas and happy faces. Liddy gets up and leans on my arm. We are the first to step over the rail onto the dock.

The man with the beer in his hand rushes over, grinning and asks, “How doesh it feel to be shtanding on dry ground?”

Liddy looks at him, looks down at the wet wooden dock, then looks at me and asks in a loud and clear voice, “What is he talking about?” I shrug. Then, listing only slightly to port, we walk down the pier as if nothing had happened.

PINK CARDS AND PISCATORS

                                                                            by Max Blue

The day begins perfect and gets better. It is one of those days the weatherman likes to call “In the top ten.” You could look until your eyes crossed, but you wouldn’t find even a hint of pollution. It is a day that pulls you like gravity out of the house and into the sunshine and fresh air; it is a good feeling just to be out. Liddy feels so good she lifts our 50-pound marine battery and puts it into the boat. She does this while I park the Rabbit after depositing the boat and fishing gear next to the launch site at Little Buffalo State Park Lake. I am shocked that she would do this. I am even more shocked that she could do this.

The boy standing on the sagging wooden dock says we should pay no attention to the sign that reads BOAT LAUNCHING PERMITS REQUIRED.  He seems to know what he is talking about so we push off into the sparkling water with thoughts only for the hungry fish we know are out there waiting to be tempted by our turgid night crawlers and bewitching artificial lures.

It is just past noon and the park pullulates with activity. Happy shouts are heard drifting up from the picnic and swimming pool areas opposite the boat launch, half a mile up the lake. People are enjoying themselves; they are having fun, they are at peace. Boats dot the lake. Rowboats, sailboats, canoes, paddle boats, fishing boats with electric motors. The sign at the dock also reads ELECTRIC MOTORS ONLY, and this directive is heeded.

We decide first to tempt the fish near the dam at the south end of the lake. Liddy uses worms, as usual. I use a Mepps Black Fury with a 45-degree spinner blade. The product information sheet tells me “Whether you fish this black and yellow spinner in clear water/bright days or dark water/overcast days, it is a consistent producer.” I feel I am taking unfair advantage of the fish.

We drift across the lake. The opposite shore is guarded by platoons of hemlock, spruce, and maple; they rise in ranks above the lake, obliterating the horizon, shading the lake in ever lengthening shadows as the afternoon unfolds. We pass a moored boat occupied by a pair of fiercely concentrating fishermen. They tense over their lines as if they mean to bring fish aboard by sheer willpower. They do not smile. They do not wave, nor do they nod.

“They look fishy to me,” I say. Liddy throws a worm at me.

We reach the opposite shore, and tie up to the dead limb of a fallen tree that extends 30 feet into the lake; now for some serious fishing. Liddy begins losing her bait as fast as she can get it into the water, but she can’t hook anything. Finally she lowers her newly baited hook a few feet into the clear water, and watches in astonishment as a horde of miniature sunfish pounce, pummel, and punish the defenseless worm in a blur of lightning-quick attacks that feed the runts of the lake.

Liddy will try an artificial lure. But not just any artificial lure. She reaches into the tackle box and brings out a prize . . . it is a Rooster Tail. Carefully she removes the beauty from its plastic case, glued to the red, white, and blue cardboard backing with the leaping rainbow trout on it. She reads the instructions on the back. “Cast out and let the Rooster Tail flutter as it settles to the proper depth, then give a quick jerk to get the blade spinning. Do not reel too fast; let the hackle skirt pulsate as you reel in with a pause-and-retrieve action.”

Liddy attaches the Rooster Tail to the end of her line with a bowline knot she has recently learned how to tie, and confidently casts it into a likely spot near a fallen tree. She gets the blade spinning and starts to reel it in. A few turns of the reel and then it happens . . . she is snagged. She pulls. She tugs. She whips the rod from side to side trying to dislodge the hook. She lets out line. She takes in line. She tries every trick she knows, and she knows a lot. Nothing works. She pulls harder until the tension releases suddenly with a snap. She has lost her Rooster Tail.

“Shit,” says Liddy.

We fish in grim silence for a while. Liddy uses a rubber crawfish, I stick with my Mepps Black Fury . . . no luck. A 12-year-old boy materializes out of the woods.

            “Hey mister,” he calls. “You wanna buy some lures, cheap?”

            “Whatcha got?”

            “I got a Swiss Swing Plain, America’s number one lure.”

            “You don’t say.”

            “How about a Rapala Fat-Rap?”

            “You look familiar. Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

            “Lots of people say that.”

            “What’s your name?”

             “Occasion.” He says it in the French fashion.

             “That’s a rare name.”

              “I guess that’s the best way to describe me: rare.”

             “What else have you got?”

             “I’ve got some nice Bass Busters.”

             “You got any Rooster Tails?” asks Liddy.

             “No, but I got a Max-E Spinner, and if you come back tomorrow I’ll have a Rooster Tail.” He laughs a bit too loud for Liddy.

             “How’d you like a punch in the nose?” snarls Liddy. The boy laughs even louder and slips away into the woods.

We decide to try the other end of the lake. We motor up the middle of the lake, past rowboats, past two paddle boats racing in reverse, past a family in an overloaded canoe, past a small sailboat occupied by a thin man and a plump lady. The thin man wears a baseball cap and is shirtless. He lies on his back controlling the angle of the sail with a clothesline wrapped around his wrist. The boat moves erratically as he flips the sail from one side to the other.  The plump lady shouts an apology as we move by. “He don’t know what he’s doin’, he never done this before.” The thin man grins.

The lake narrows as we approach the other end where it is fed by a creek. We are close to the swimming pool and picnic areas, which are standing room only. We can hear the public address loudspeaker.

“Attention please.” Long pause. Very long pause. Now, more urgently, “Attention please.”  Pause. “A little girl is lost. She is five years old, wearing a yellow bathing suit and her name is Innocence. If you find her please bring her to the concession stand. There is a reward. Thank you.”

Suddenly, an explosion of whoops. A volleyball has been spiked.

Two little boys are throwing rocks into the water. They stop to stare at us as we drift by. They wave shyly. Their father sits on a folding lawn chair watching them occasionally. He is trying to relax but he cannot stop his knees from bouncing. His toes are rooted to the ground but both heels move synchronously like racing pistons. They only stop when he speaks to us.

“Catchin’ anything?”

 “Weeds,” says Liddy.

We cut the motor and begin to drift slowly back where we came from. We pass a man standing in knee-deep water practicing with a fly rod. We pass three well-fed fishermen sitting in lawn chairs along the bank watching their lines. They look like members of the Pickwick Club of London. One of them sighs, and says resignedly, “She’s got me.”

Liddy is reeling in her line and with it comes another line . . .  a brussels-sprout-sized sinker is attached a foot above the hook at the end of the line upon which is impaled a struggling, prawn-sized crawfish. The pudgy piscator is angling the bottom for catfish and carp. He is not annoyed by the interruption of having his line hooked, but neither is he surprised. It is a diversion for him, and for Liddy, her first catch of the day. She unhooks the hook, and tosses it back into the water. Without a nod, the ample angler gathers in his line and flings it back into the water with a clangorous grunt.

We spy a shady spot along the shore where overhanging trees protect the water from beachbound intruders. It lures us to cast our lines and we do. Facing the shore, my back to the lake, I am unaware of the boat that quietly approaches until I feel a gentle bump. I turn and see the alien boat directly alongside. A man in a tan shirt is reaching for our gunwale to secure the boats together. There are two men in the boat . . . I wonder if they are pirates. They both wear mirrored sunglasses. They have triangular patches on their shirt shoulders that read, “Commonwealth of Pennsylvania—Pennsylvania Fish Commission.” I think about the boat-launching permit. They wear enameled nametags pinned to their left shirt pockets. I can read the one nearest me: WRIGHT. The law is always right, I think. The other name I cannot make out, but he is older and he is in charge.

              “How long have you had this boat?”

              “Since last November. Is something wrong?”

              “The boat doesn’t have any numbers.”

              “Numbers?”

              “Yes, numbers. You’re supposed to have registration numbers on both sides of the bow.”

              “Oh. But the boat is registered. The red Keystone State stickers are there.”

              “Yes, but the numbers are not. Let me see your registration card.”

              I experience a flash of panic. I don’t remember having a registration card. I look at Liddy. She shrugs. I reach for my wallet, knowing it isn’t there, having no idea what I am looking for.

“It’s a pink card.”

I find a pink card that reads “Hawk Mountain Sanctuary Association.” I hand it to him.

He looks at it and hands it back without comment. I start to hand him a receipt for certified mail, then think better of it. I have a bright idea.“Maybe it’s in the tackle box.”

              Liddy rummages through the tackle box, but finds nothing that looks anything like a pink card.

“You should have gotten it in the mail along with the red stickers.”

 “I don’t remember getting it. That must be it. They didn’t send it to us.”

“This is serious. How do I know you didn’t steal this boat?”  I see the jail cell

closing.

“You can call Sears. We bought it there last November. Or was it October?”

              “November,” says Liddy.

 “Look, I’m sure we didn’t get the registration card. How could I forget a thing like that? They made a mistake and didn’t send it. I’m sure of it.”

“Let me see your fishing license.” He points to the plastic encased fishing license pinned to my cap. I unpin it and hand it to him. He looks at it, then turns it over.

“What have we here?” he exclaims.

            It is the pink boat registration card. I see the jail cell opening.

“Well now, Kamaswami,” he says, looking at the card. Where before he was uncertain now he is confident.

“Uh . . . my name is Loo.”

“He likes to say Kamaswami,” says Wright.

The chief compares the hull number with that on the boat.

“I guess it’s your boat all right.” I can’t tell if he is relieved or disappointed.

“Now then, about the numbers.” He pauses. He appears to be looking at me, but I can’t be sure seeing my reflection in his mirrors. “Along with your registration card and red stickers,” he continues, “you received a little booklet called Summary of Boating Regulations, 1983. It tells about the numbers.”

I start to say we didn’t receive the booklet but change my mind. “Why didn’t they send us the numbers?” I ask.

“It’s your responsibility to get the numbers. Look, Loo,” Kamaswami is my pal, “you are clearly in violation of the law and I’m afraid I’ll have to lean on you.”  Partner Wright is amused.

“All I can say is that there was no intent to break the law. We just didn’t know about the numbers.”

 “Ignorance of the law is not an acceptable excuse, Loo.” Kamaswami shrugs. What can he do? “I will have to cite you.” He waits for me to speak, apparently expecting to hear an outlandish reason why he should not cite me.

I am out of excuses, I wait for the verdict. “Now then,” he says, “these are your rights: you can either plead guilty now and pay a $10 fine, or you can appear in court on Tuesday morning and contest the citation.”

“Guilty.”

“I think it’s best.” He begins to write the ticket. We wait in silence as he writes. He does not hurry.

While he writes a question comes to me. “How did this lake get its name?” I ask

Wright.

Wright knows the answer and is eager to tell me. “If you look carefully at an old Pennsylvania map of this area,” he says, “you will see that there was a creek running through here called Big Goat Creek. When they decided to dam up the creek and make a recreational lake and State Park, somebody got the idea that Big Goat State Park was not the finest name they ever heard so it was decided to change it to little Buffalo State Park even though as far as anyone knows there have never been any buffalo around here.”

            “Are there any fish in this lake?” Liddy wants to know.

Both officers are indignant . . .  they speak at the same time, “This lake is full of fish,” says Wright. 

“We stocked it with bass, muskie, trout, and bluegills,” says the Chief.

“I fish here myself,” says Wright, giving ultimate legitimacy to the exercise. “Caught a bunch of bass just the other night  . . . right over there.” He points.

 “What did you catch them on?” I ask.

“A Mister Twister,” he answers

“The chief finally finishes writing the ticket and hands it to Wright. “Read it to him,” he orders.

Wright clears his throat and begins to read, haltingly.  “Charge: Rules and Regulations — Display of Numbers. Nature of offense—did operate an eleven-foot Sears boat powered with an electric motor without displaying registration number Pa 5662 AB validated 3-16-83.

“Being charged with violating the Fish and Boat Code, you have a right to a hearing and summary proceeding in accordance with the Pennsylvania Rules of Criminal Procedure. If you elect to sign this acknowledgement, you are forfeiting such rights.”

He hands me the ticket. I stare at it, trying to read the fine print. It is signed by Waterways Patrolman and District Officer, A. Turner Leaner. I sign the ticket and hand it back. The leaner gives me a carbon copy, and says, conspiratorially . . . we are old friends, “You understand how important this is, Loo. Sometime we have to make examples of people so things don’t get completely out of hand.”

“Oh yes,” I say, “that’s very clear. We taxpayers are lucky to have people like you out here upholding the law.” 

He smiles, nodding in agreement. They push off, “Have a nice day,” he calls as they move away.

Liddy and me drift in silence for a while, casting our lines indifferently, pondering our fate. Finally I speak, “What will the children say when they find out their father is a criminal?”

“They will probably send their mother a sympathy card,” says Liddy.

More silence, then Liddy flicks another dart, “I always thought your eyes were a little beady,” she says.

I pick up a small sheet of paper from the tackle box and look at it carefully, then comment, “The information on this sheet is written in French and English. Did you know that Fat-Rap in English translates to Grand Plongeur in French?”

            “Vous ne dites pas?” Liddy knows French.

            “Here’s one that’s called Esperance. I guess as long as we don’t lose that one we’ll make it.”

Liddy smiles and nods. “Oui,” she says.