Amagansett

Forty-Two

The wind swept down on them out of the north, spraying the beach with stinging sand whipped from the frontal dune. Beyond the breakers, the ocean was hard, cold, granite gray.

They eased the dory off the trailer into the wash, its gunwales filmed white with frost. While Rollo tended to it, Conrad pulled the Model A up the beach, the sand chattering against the windshield.

As he climbed down from the cab a figure appeared on the crest of the dune. It was Ned Kemp, dressed in waders, oilskins and a wool-knit cap.

‘Cap,’ said Ned, approaching.

‘Cap.’

‘Some blow.’

‘Sure is.’

Ned looked at his boots, then up again, the stubble showing white against his chin, the awkwardness hanging heavy between them. They’d just exchanged more words than they’d managed in the past few months put together.

‘You done good,’ said Ned. ‘You done what you had to, but you done it right. Even made us look good.’

‘It wasn’t planned. That’s just the way it turned out.’

‘That’s what you say.’

Ned looked past Conrad to Rollo struggling with the dory in the wash.

‘Lost his voice around the home. Can’t hardly look at me.’

‘What are you doing here, Ned?’

Ned turned back, squinting his tired eyes.

‘I come to see my son,’ he said.

Rollo shifted uneasily as they approached, looking every which way but theirs.

‘There’s a fellow here wants to know if he can lay trawl for us,’ said Conrad. ‘What do you reckon?’

Rollo shrugged, trying to look indifferent. ‘I don’t know. What do you reckon?’

‘Oh…I reckon every greenhorn’s got to learn somewhere.’

Rollo beamed nervously at his father’s affronted scowl. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

They clambered aboard the dory and took their places at the oars. Ned pushed them into deeper water, holding the stern steady, eyes on the breaking seas.

‘I heard you was thinking of going to college.’

‘Figured I’d stick around instead,’ said Conrad.

Ned peered past them, reading the waves.

‘Fishing don’t teach you much,’ he said, ‘but it do teach you you don’t need much.’

A large wave broke under the dory.

‘Go, boys, go!’ yelled Ned, pushing off and dragging himself over the gunwale.

The oars bit, the dory sprang forward, rising steeply, its high, sharp bow splitting the face of the capping sea, carving a passage through.