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It all started with a bluefish blitz at Metcalf's Hole on South Beach. It was early summer and the bluefish were everywhere. After hitting the yard sales, Zee and I had taken a lunch out to Pocha Pond, on a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning. I had unfolded the old bedspread I use for a beach blanket, and while Zee lay on it in the lee of the tall rushes that grow there and read, I waded out for some chowder quahogs. For some reason, Pocha Pond doesn't seem to have any small quahogs, only big ones. How they make the jump from teeny seed to chowder size with no intervening steps is a mystery to me, although the Great Quahog God probably understands it perfectly. After I had my small basket full, I waded back to shore, and ogled Zee, who looked splendid in her wee bikini.
"Nice bod," I said.
Zee lifted her eyes. "By next month, you'll be a married man, so you're going to have to learn to stop drooling over single women."
"Next month is July. This is still June, and you're still single, so don't rush me."
"Come here," she said. "I want to explain something to you."
I went to her.
"Lean down."
I leaned down. She tossed her book, and pulled me down on top of her.
"Help, help," I whispered. "I'm being assaulted."
I was wet and cool, and she was warm and dry. Pretty soon we were both warm and wet.
"There," said Zee. "Let that be a lesson to you."
"I have short-term memory loss," I said, as we untangled and put our bathing suits back in place. "What was that we just did? Can we do it again?"
"I can do it again," said Zee, "but I think you'll need a few minutes before giving it another go. Meanwhile, let's eat."
Wedid that, washing lunch down with cold Sam Adams beer, and afterward we napped in the hot Martha's Vineyard sun, improving both our tans and our energies at the same time.
In mid-afternoon, Zee stretched and smiled. She looked like a long, lean cat. Her blue-black hair framed her tanned face, and her dark eyes were lazy and sensual. She leaned over me.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm saving myself for my marriage. I don't drool over single women anymore. I'm afraid I must ask you to be on your way."
She looked beyond me and sighed. "I'm afraid I must do just that. Here comes a caravan of jeeps. Our haven is no longer ours alone."
I rolled over and looked. Sure enough, here came three trucks down from the Dike Bridge, headed for Wasque. Fishermen or picnickers coming back from Cape Pogue Pond, no doubt. I looked at my watch. Three o'clock. By the time we got home, it would be martini time. I gave Zee a chaste kiss, and we packed up.
But as we came off the Wasque reservation, what should we see but a line of ORV's at Metcalf's Hole.
"Hey," said Zee. "They're catching fish! Let's get over there!"
We did that, and found a gap where we could park my old Land Cruiser. Fishermen were shoulder to shoulder, and there were fish under every truck. We got our rods off the roof rack, and walked right down to the surf.
"There's at least two schools out there," said George Martin, hauling in a nice fish. "One outside and one in close. A lot of cut lines."
Zee made her cast and was instantly on. "Hot damn!" She set the hook and began working the fish. I made my cast and got a hit after about a half dozen turns on the reel. There were mega-fish out there.
"Blast and drat!" Zee's line was limp. "Cut off!" she said, reeling in as fast as she could.
I landed my fish just as she finished rerigging and headed back to the surf. She landed two fish before she was cut off again. She uttered a very unladylike word and headed back up to the truck.
I brought in my fifth fish as she was digging through her tackle box, looking for another leader. She found it and tied it on. "Don't say a thing," said Zee, looking up at me from under lowered brows. She ran down to the beach.
Five minutes later, she was back at the truck again, looking for yet another rig.
"I've told you to use a longer leader," I said helpfully, while I unhooked a nice eight-pounder right beside her. "Look at me. A thirty-inch leader, and I haven't been cut off once. But you and those eighteen-inchers. Why do you use those things? How many rigs have you lost this morning?"
"Shut up," explained Zee.
I cut my fish's throat and tossed it into the shade of the rusty Land Cruiser beside the others. Zee, rigged up once more, headed down to the surf to make her cast.
According to George Martin, the fish had come in just after noon and had been there ever since. They were taking anything you could throw out there, so all of us were using junk lures, and one thing worked as well as the next. It was terrific fishing, but a lot of gear was being lost to crossed lines and the fins and teeth of the voracious blues.
