Size Does Matter

Settlers’ Landing, Long Island:  The tidal creek that flows in and out of the large body of water that is Three Mile Harbor is a narrow channel.  Forty feet at its widest point and holding fish at most stages of the tide.  It’s one of my favorite places to sneak in an hour or so of fishing – armed only with a light spinning rod and the smallest of lures.  And it was last Sunday, cool and breezy after a cold front had passed through, that I drove there mid-afternoon to do just that.

But two other people also had the same idea.  I assumed they were husband and wife but it matters not.  They, like me, were intent on catching fish.  Now I’m not one of those territorial anglers who become grumpy when someone decides to fish within a hundred yards of me.  In fact I often enjoy the meeting with others and the conversations that follow.  But last Sunday that was not going to happen.

The happy couple looked as though they had walked out of the pages of an Orvis catalog.  Immaculate clothing with all the right labels; expensive sunglasses, he wearing a new fishing weskit (vest) with numerous pockets and flaps, and both sporting matching baseball caps.  I felt hopelessly underdressed in my old shorts and a polo shirt that I generally reserve for mowing the lawn.  I looked down at my feet and smiled at my elderly water shoes that cost ten dollars in a local store. But at least my sunglasses looked the part, even if they cost a fraction of what these budding fisher-folk had paid for theirs.

Their rods were clearly brand new and half-decent (if a little on the long side for such a narrow water.)  But the reels were oversized and, because I could see the cast clearly at a distance of fifty feet, loaded with too heavy a line.  I guessed twenty pounds or more.  But then came the lures.  Huge metal spoons and colorful tubes were produced from a large tackle box, which they proceeded to cast into the flooding tide with great sploshes and deep ripples.  And when they caught nothing after a few retrieves they would change the lure for another one.  And another one.  And so it went on for half an hour.  At one point the man turned to the woman and announced “Everything my father knew about fishing he passed on to me.”  By now I had stopped fishing (the disturbance to the water was a little much) and was sitting on the sandy bank enjoying the spectator sport and eating an apple.  They caught nothing except long strands of sea grass, and eventually he announced that there were no fish to be caught.  They packed up and left – and walked past me without so much as a glance.  I put that down to my shirt.

I finished my apple and resumed fishing.  Did I catch anything?  Let’s just say that I did – and it was more than the number of fish offered in the gospel I had read that morning.

Snapper Simplicity

I’ve written at length before about preferred styles and methods of fishing and also about the vagaries of the salt and freshwater fishing seasons in this particular place – the east end of Long Island, New York.  With regard to the latter we have entered the doldrums of the summer.  Once the high air temperatures reach and remain constant in the upper seventies Fahrenheit the freshwater bass dive deep to remain cool, and catching them is very difficult.  (And also involves doing battle with a variety of insect life whose sole purpose seems to be biting for blood!)  Perch are still amenable, and will come obligingly to the lure in most inlets and creeks, but generally speaking my attention turns to salt water for the month of August.  And the snapper.

The snapper, or young bluefish, arrives during the month of July and is at its most prolific and aggressive for the next two months.  The adults have wintered in Florida but they have moved north by April, spawning prolifically along the way.  It’s just a matter of finding a perfect fishing spot on the bay side of the island, and with the simplest of tackle one can enjoy hours of catching fish.

My ever-favorite spot is North West Creek some six miles from my home.  Located in County Parklands it is one of those tucked away places that never seems to get crowded even in the busiest of seasons.  Most people visit to use the public boat ramp or picnic on the narrow beach between the dunes and the water’s edge, and few fish there.  But I do!

Yesterday, armed with a light weight spinning rod (one I bought for a trip to Pembrokeshire, Wales, many years ago) and a handful of assorted lures I stood on the dock and caught five of these snappers within the space of the hour.  The trusty shiny spoon accounted for three of them, and I then switched to a Mepps-style spinner that brought two more fish to hand.

I’ve never enjoyed truly the heavyweight fishing that involves getting up before the sun and casting huge lures great distances into the ocean surf.  But a tranquil late afternoon where the fish are sporting and the mind does more work than the rod is a perfect way to escape.

The Midnight Feast!

Sandi returned from Florida yesterday and among the gifts that she brought back from a British store and restaurant was something quite small, edible and guaranteed to transport me mentally to the mid 1960s.  It was a bag of Walker’s Crisps.  Prawn Cocktail flavour to be precise. Now that flavour did not exist in those young days – the “new” taste was “Cheese and Onion” shortly to be followed by “Salt and Vinegar,” but my mind wandered nevertheless.  And remembered what we used to call the “Midnight Feast.”

Rewind some forty-seven years. I was in the third form at the King’s School, Worcester, and a “day-bug” who had to go home every afternoon.  We of the fifty percent of the school who were day boys would learn of the culture and traditions of the other half – the boarders - which included the time-honoured ritual of the Midnight Feast. This involved secreted food from the school house pantry, augmented by crisps (U.S. Potato chips) and pop (U.S. Soda) bought at the tuck shop. We, as “day-bugs,” would hear of such feasts after the event, usually whispered with triumph by their participants at morning prayers or along the back row of the Latin class on Monday – always the first lesson.

So those of us who had the “burden” of living at home had to surely create our own version of this rebellious meal, egged on not only by the wish to live as the boarders lived, but by the numerous encouragements in the writings of Enid Blyton!  But if we could not be boarders we had to depend on our own siblings. And our own resources.

Remember that for a schoolboy in those days (and how I hate that turn of phrase. Once I thought it an expression of my parents’ generation,) midnight was late. And I mean late, very late. The hour almost took upon itself a aura of mysticism – plus there was the challenge of staying up so late that was an act of rebellion in itself.

My younger brother was not too sure, but the prospect of pop and crisps (and whatever else I had managed to procure. One time I think there was cheddar cheese) would persuade him. And I would somehow stay awake until 11.55, and then wake him to sleepily drink and munch. The food was irrelevant. The occasion was deliciously subversive. And hiding the scrunched-up packets of Walker’s crisps, used cups and the empty bottle of Corona lemonade under the bed I felt equal to those snotty boarders who boasted of their rites!

Independence Day 2014

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.


Did Thomas Jefferson, the principal, but not the only hand behind that Preamble realize the weight and significance of those thirty-six words? I think not, for despite the linguistic beauty and balance of those famous lines, they contain nothing that was original, or even remarkable.

Jefferson admitted this. He later wrote honestly of this work, the drafting of the Declaration of Independence, stating that it was:

Neither aiming at originality of principle or sentiment, nor yet copied from any particular and previous writing, it was intended to be an expression of the American mind, and to give to that expression the proper tone and spirit called for by the occasion.

Yet the Preamble, and the words that followed were to change the course of history. And in more ways than we might think. This was no mere separation from Great Britain and all that that implied. It was the beginning of a new era, and new nation, and a new vision.

Thank God for the newness of it all! Cessation from Britain could have been concluded in a different way, substituting one system of corrupt government and institution for another. If that had happened, this weekend and holiday would have hollow cause for celebration. But thankfully that was not the case.

Those who wrote and those who signed the Declaration of Independence did so out of necessity. They’d had enough and were not prepared to take any more. But in founding the new nation, and fighting for their freedom, they announced to the world, in particular the European powers, that they were acting out of a sense, not only of genuine grievance, but also a declared hope in a better future. For all people.

We mustn’t pour too much personal glory on the fifty-six men who signed the Declaration of Independence. They were no saints by any stretch of the imagination, and some by even the standards of their day had colorful financial backgrounds. Many had both wives and mistresses. Some were commented upon for acts of violence towards their domestic staff. Most were slave-owners, but again let it be said that they were men of their day. Over half of them were Anglicans, eventually to be called Episcopalians – so at least the country got off on the right foot!

Who ever they were, whatever their background, what they agreed was that the new nation, still as yet to be fought for, would be one which demanded high ideals of its citizens. Ideals and standards which are enshrined to this day.

The relationship of July 4th, 1776 to the United States of America may be likened to the relationship between the Day of Pentecost and the Christian Church. Both mark points of beginning and inspiration for the future. Both are, broadly speaking, birthdays.

But just as the Church does not simply look back to Pentecost but rather looks to it as continually inspiring the present day as the Holy Spirit continues to be poured out in the world, so the United States ought not to regard the Declaration of Independence as a mere historical document.

Just as the Church without the spirit of Pentecost is void and without substance and purpose, so also is the United States – unless it continues to bring to life in each generation those brave and bold words adopted and signed by the Continental Congress in 1776.

That all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights.

The making real of those words is an endless challenge, and one which involves all. Let’s celebrate that challenge in whatever way we choose.