The Hamptons are an ontological construct on the Eastern End of Long Island occurring between Memorial and Labor days. Separated from the rest of the world by a state of perpetual youth, everyone in the Hamptons is under 25 and has a sports car. Married people may share the same geography but are excluded by an invisible wall that prohibits baby carriages. While the actual beach front is a small part of the landscape, its influence is felt everywhere like the presence of a whale in the bathtub.
People as old as 65 join the summer group houses and pretend to be under 25 for the summer. There are gay, straight, singles, couples, married but separated, single parent, divorced, tennis and volleyball houses. There may be surfing houses. Most people go every other week-end (1/2 share) and some one week end a month (1/4 share.) These both involve sharing with another person, usually of the same sex, like a college dorm arrangement. A full share, your own room every weekend, is a rarity.
The last summer I was under 25 occurred the year I turned 45 and I indulged in a full share in West Hampton Beach. It was an odd house, run by a gay stock broker who pretended to be straight. There was a trial lawyer with a lap dancing/escort girlfriend. He pretended she was a nurse. Other women in the house hated the sight of her perfect form when she lay out by the pool in a string bikini. My roommates were mother and daughter Labradors, Hope the Dope and Jane the Pain. Jane was the most entertaining member of the house. She would go around the pool and push a soggy tennis ball at the feet of each person one at a time. She never tired of flying into the water after the ball and racing back up the pool steps for more. When all the inmates were exhausted she would push the ball into the water by herself, retrieve it, then push it in again.
I have never cared for heat, humidity, scorching sun or burning sand so I avoided the beach during the day. I ran the dogs there at dawn when I managed to get up that early and late at night when I could not. My real discovery in the Hamptons was its trout fishing. While driving around trying to avoid the beach I stumbled upon the Connetquot River State Park Preserve. The river is a designated Wild and Scenic Trout Stream with a hatchery and nature preserve. The Southside Sportsmen’s Club once used the river and grounds exclusively and it remained a playground for the Robber Barons and their descendants until well into the 20th century. To some extent it is still operated like a club. Only a small number of fishermen are admitted to the park at any one time and each are assigned beats on the river.The first time I tried to fish the Connetquot it was full. I went again and drew a beat tenanted by a nesting pair of Canada Geese. The gander in particular seemed to take umbrage at my attempts to share the river with him and rushed at me menacingly. The following weekend it rained heavily the whole time. At last their came in May a Saturday filled with promise. A salt breeze filled my nostrils as I walked a mile or so from the parking lot to my beat, no mean feat in waders. Nesting osprey and strolling wild turkeys gave way in my thoughts as I neared the river, to lurking sea run rainbows gorging on fresh water delicacies. I paid no attention to a gull on the opposite bank. He stood there like he was waiting for a bus, staring everywhere but the river. It was mid-May and there was a hatch on the water. I tied on a likely may fly pattern, spread the floatant goo on its feathers and made a cast.
The fly drifted slowly into the shadow of a fallen pine just where the river made a sharp bend and narrowed. This was the likely holding pen for the grim reaper of all rainbow trout. There was a small splash and my fly was gone. 1-2-3 I set the hook and the fish started to run. I let the line burn off the reel in careful coils. Then he turned around and ran upstream. I reeled franticly and regained control of the line. Now he began to fight in earnest and made a jump. Remember the gull? On this first jump the gull abandoned all thoughts of public transportation and grabbed my fish in mid-air.
It was a large fish but he had an amazing grip on it and I was forced to cut the 12 foot leader and let him have my fish. He settled down on the opposite bank and began to eat my beautiful rainbow. At least he has more than he can want, I thought. I tied on a new leader, found a copy of the successful May fly, and made another cast. Bang, another fish. The fight was furious but there were no aerial antics. This was a big brown. At last he tired and I inched him to the surface. I planned to lift him from the stream, admire his handsome palette in the morning sun and let him go.
Remember the gull? He had stopped eating my rainbow and grabbed the brown just as I had it on the surface. Again the nasty creature wrested it from me and added the fish to his gory horde. He mocked me, now ripping off and shred of rainbow, then chasing it down with a strip of the brown. I surrendered the beat to him and trudged a much longer mile back to the car.
0 comments:
Post a Comment