This is my church. And Dad’s my high priest story of blue fishing

August 12th, 1997

Sunrise paints the sky in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange. Dad’s already fiddling with the tackle box, his silhouette a familiar outline against the pre-dawn light.

The air smells of salt and damp seaweed, a perfume I can’t get anywhere else. He grunts, a sound I know means he’s got the right lure. A beat-up popper, scarred with teeth marks and faded paint. “Bluefish candy,” he always calls it.

He hands me the rod – an old fiberglass number that probably weighs more than I do – and I try to mimic his easy confidence as I check the line. We walk down the beach, the sand cold and gritty under my bare feet. The Atlantic is a slate-grey expanse, barely ruffled by a gentle breeze.

This is Southern Maine in the summertime. This is my church. And Dad’s my high priest.

We launch the small aluminum skiff from the beach. The outboard sputters to life after a few pulls, coughing up a cloud of blue smoke that dissipates quickly in the morning air. Dad steers us out, past the breakers, towards the darker water where he says the bluefish are lurking.

He kills the engine a mile or so out. The only sound is the gentle rocking of the boat and the distant cries of gulls. He points towards a dark patch of water a hundred yards or so away. “That’s where they were yesterday. Should be feeding again this morning.”

He hands me my popper. “Cast towards that boil. Work it back with short, sharp jerks. Make it look like a wounded baitfish.”

I do as he says, feeling the weight of the lure as it arcs through the air. It splashes down with a satisfying plunk. I start the retrieve, mimicking Dad’s movements. Jerk, jerk, pause. Jerk, jerk, pause.

Nothing.

We drift further. He casts again, his rod a blur of motion. Splash. He starts his retrieve.

Suddenly, the water explodes. A silver flash, a violent splash, and the unmistakable sound of line screaming off the reel.

“Got one!” Dad yells, his face alight with excitement. He fights the fish, the rod bending double. I watch, mesmerized, as he reels in a few feet, then the fish takes off again in another powerful run.

This goes on for several minutes. Finally, he gets the fish close enough to the boat. A beautiful, angry bluefish, its teeth bared, its tail thrashing. He grabs the gaff and expertly hooks it behind the gills.

“Nice one,” I say, genuinely impressed. It’s a good-sized fish, maybe five or six pounds.

He grins. “Your turn.”

I cast again, a little more confidently this time. Jerk, jerk, pause.

WHAM!

My rod almost gets ripped out of my hands. The line sings. My heart leaps into my throat. This is it!

This fish is bigger than Dad’s. It strips line off the reel like it’s nothing. I struggle to keep my balance, bracing myself against the side of the boat. Dad coaches me, telling me to keep the rod tip up, to let the fish run, to reel when I can.

It feels like an eternity. My arms are burning, my back aching. But I can’t give up. I can’t let this fish win.

Slowly, painstakingly, I start to gain ground. I reel in a few feet, then the fish takes off again. But I’m gaining on it.

Finally, I see it. A flash of silver beneath the waves. A huge bluefish, even bigger than Dad’s.

I get it close enough for him to gaff. He leans over the side, scoops it up, and hauls it into the boat.

We both stare at it, panting. It’s magnificent. A real sea monster.

“That’s a ten-pounder, easy,” Dad says, his voice filled with pride. “A beauty.”

I grin, my face flushed with adrenaline and exhaustion. I’ve never caught anything like it.

We fish for another hour, catching a few more bluefish. But nothing compares to that first one. The one that tested me, that pushed me to my limit, that made me feel alive.

As the sun climbs higher, the bite slows down. We decide to head back to shore. The boat ride back is quiet, filled with a comfortable silence.

Back on the beach, we clean the fish, the smell of blood and guts attracting a flock of gulls. We’ll grill some tonight, and Dad will probably smoke the rest. Enough to last us through the week with some left over to give to Mrs. Peterson down the street.

As I wash my hands in the ocean, I look out at the water. It’s calm now, shimmering in the sunlight. I feel a sense of peace, a connection to this place, to this water, to my dad.

These are the moments that matter. The moments I’ll remember. The moments that make life worth living.

Later, as we sit on the porch, sipping iced tea and watching the sunset, Dad puts his arm around me. “Good fishing today, son,” he says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Good fishing.”

And it was. More than just good fishing. It was a perfect day. A perfect memory. A day I’ll cherish forever. A day I’ll tell my own kids about someday when I’m teaching them how to fish for bluefish in Southern Maine. I just hope I can live up to the example my dad has set.