my life in fishing: solo

“Yeah man, just smash it open. Hell, there might be a pearl inside.” I didn’t want to get into the whole clam/oyster differential, and James had gotten a sense of my squeamishness, first in overcoming the repeating spearing of worms and now in the prospect of mindlessly stomping a clam open to harvest its flesh to catch more of its ilk. So I did it. The clam split open with a big gush of water and pieces of shell spinning away from underfoot. No pearl. James, disappointed, returns to pursuing his turtle. Then the old fisherman shows up. He has two tackle boxes, three poles, one big cooler and a take no bullshit from youngsters attitude. He regards the both of us with a slightly leery disposition, me even moreso since I’m the naïve white kid come to fish with no knowledge at all. When I point out the clam I caught, he brushes it off, a literal sweep of his hand. “Everyone’s caught one of those.” He takes James under his wing and teaches him how to cast. I hook a hunk of clam onto my hook and cast out.