Dead Down East (2 page)

“‘I didn’t like Boston,’ she said flatly, perhaps
hinting that she didn’t care much for the first words out of my
mouth either, ‘The roundabouts scared the daylights out of me.’

“‘All you do is flow with the traffic, stay
in the outside lane and find your exit,’ I said, still frozen in my
tracks, unable to think of anything reasonable to say, let alone
romantic.

“She stood there dumbfounded for a few
seconds and then said, ‘I’m still scared, but now it’s not about
the traffic.’

“‘What are you afraid of now?’ I asked.

“‘I’m afraid you won’t invite me in. If you
don’t, I’ll have to leave, and then figure out something else to do
with my life.’

“‘So, you want to come inside?’ I
mumbled.

“‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said, with
a charming mixture of presumption and glee.

“By midnight we were a couple.”

Without warning I had a strike. A smallmouth
bass rose for my fly, but in a heartbeat it disappeared. I pulled
up too late. My attention had been divided by Michael’s engaging
story. He smiled and then asked, “Are you fishing, or are you
daydreaming?”

“I guess I was gawking. But you are mostly to
blame. I was transfixed by your poem, and how you romanced your
novel.”

Michael seemed genuinely amused by the way I
phrased my response.

“Tell me something, Michael,” I went on, “why
have you never written a story inspired by fly fishing? It’s the
second great love of your life.”

“Well, Jesse, like so many good books, it’s
already been written, and twice for good measure. Those two books
harvested most of the imagery and metaphors I might ever cultivate
for such a story. Ernest Thompson wrote the play,
On Golden
Pond
, in 1979. A couple years later it became a blockbuster
film. I’m sure you know that Mr. Thompson spent his summers here,
on Great Pond, while he was writing the play. It’s a well-known
fact, around here at least, that
this
is Golden Pond.”

“I have heard that,” I said.

“There’s a marvelous touch in the movie that
has become part of the local lore. Dave Webster owned the marina in
Belgrade Lakes and delivered the mail from his boat,
Mariah
,
for half a century. I used to see Dave every year making his runs
when I stayed here in late spring. Although he was a generation
older than I, we became friends. Dave was friendly with everyone he
met. That was his special gift.

“Before they began filming the movie, he took
some of the cast for a spin around Great Pond on his boat, and
related stories about his days as a mailman. The actor who
portrayed him as ‘Charlie’ was William Lanteau. Dave schooled him
well. Even Lanteau’s accent was spot on. Later Dave commented, ‘I
never, ever used the words, ‘
Holy Mack-a-nole
,’ as Charlie
does in the movie.’ No doubt Dave felt that Lanteau played him a
bit too much like a yokel. Nevertheless, William Lanteau created an
endearing character. When I first heard ‘Charlie’ speak in the
film, I did a double take, thinking I was actually hearing Dave
himself. It was brilliant. Several years later, Dave told me about
his connection to the film. He passed away in 1996.”

I waited for Michael to go on with his story,
but he simply continued casting his fly along the shoreline, almost
as if he had never spoken a word. Perhaps the thought of Dave’s
passing reminded him once again how brief our time is.

I felt a chill set in. I found my thermos
still nestled into the anchor rope at the bow, unscrewed the top
and poured myself some coffee. Steam rose from my cup. The smell of
the roasted beans set my mind at ease. It’s curious how
invigorating this simple ritual of the cup can be, not to mention
the java and its rousing caffeine. I took a few sips and felt the
heat flow inside. I let the brew have its way with me.

After I finished my coffee and returned the
thermos to its resting place, I asked the question that had been
lingering, “Michael, you said that book has been written twice for
good measure. What’s the other book?”

After his next cast nestled the fly inches
from a log near the bank, Michael replied, “
A River Runs Through
It
. It’s a tale about fly fishing, and, of course, about
growing up. The book is a novella, written by Norman Maclean in
1976. I remember the date because I read it while we were
celebrating our country’s bi-centennial.”

Michael smiled and added, “As fly fishermen,
we are part of a dying breed. We’re throwbacks to a time that
exists only in the memories of a few stubborn devotees of our
craft. Sure, a new book about the likes of us might make a quaint
story. In fact, I once began the research for just such a novel.
That was in 1992. I had imagined that
On Golden Pond
and
Norman Maclean’s novella had faded from the collective memory long
enough to make my version seem fresh. Before I was two weeks into
the project, the film,
A River Runs Through It
, was
released. So I just dropped the idea entirely. It would have
sounded plagiarized. But even more to the point, who’s going to
read a book about a young fly fisherman today, when he can watch
Brad Pitt in high definition cast his fly across a stream as if God
had created him to do just that?”

The sun was now making its way above the hill
of pine trees on the east side of the cove. A gentle breeze from
the north stirred the birch leaves, but the lake remained perfectly
calm. There was not yet even a ripple to move us along to virgin
fishing spots. Michael pulled an oar every now and then, providing
us fresh water along the bank to try our luck. As we drifted, all
we could hear, other than the occasional thoughts running out of
our mouths and the more steady ones passing through our minds, was
the sound of our lines sliding through the guides…and the
wildlife.

A red-winged black bird called out into the
silence. I couldn’t tell if he was pining for a mate, or squawking
because we had come too close to his perch. A pair of dragonflies
flew by, mating in mid air. (And we humans think we’re resourceful
in the art of making love!) There were frogs and crickets, and down
the way a river otter splashed near the shore and then disappeared
below the surface.

When a loon spoke up, so did Michael. “I have
often wondered why this species was named
The Common Loon
.
There’s nothing common about it. If all the sounds along the shore
were likened to
The Pastoral
, Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony,
then the shrill solitary wail of the not at all common loon can be
imitated best with a
Shakuhachi
, the classical, bamboo flute
of Japan. Wistful. Alone. Calling through the uncertainty for its
mate.”

Michael went on, “It seems eccentric that we
humans classify ourselves entirely separate from the other animals
of the earth. Every creature that has visited us this morning is as
fully conscious and aware of this environment as we are, and surely
more so. Their lives depend precisely on that awareness. While we
dote over our own personal histories, fears, expectations and other
assorted trivialities, they act totally in the moment with no
hesitation or trace of self-consciousness.”

His words penetrated. For the next ten
minutes we didn’t say a word. The breeze picked up slightly and
pushed us gently along the bank. The oars now became unnecessary,
so I set them inside the boat. Michael and I fished together in
silence as if performing a ballet on water.

Then, out of the blue, Michael asked, “Jesse,
why don’t you write that novel?”

“Well, Michael, if something exciting or
significant ever happens to me, I might give it a try. You taught
me a thing or two in class about imagery and the tempo of phrasing.
At the moment, I have three livelihoods and still can barely make
my mortgage payments. I suppose becoming an author might give me a
fourth income stream. But to write a worthwhile novel, I will need
a great mentor and an editor. Do you know any mature literature
professors who have the time and the patience for that?”

Michael grinned and replied, “At your
service.”

“Can I use your poem about the fish?”

“Absolutely!”

I smiled, “Well, if anything interesting ever
does
happen in my life, I’ll do just that; you have my
word.”

After a minute or so, Michael returned to
something I had said earlier, “You mentioned that you have
three
livelihoods, Jesse, but I know only two of them. You
are a bass player and singer in your band,
Ocean Noises
, and
you are also a fine carpenter.”

I peered back at him for a moment with an
awkward, almost foolish, look on my face, and eventually said,
“I’ll tell you, but only if you promise not to laugh out loud.”

“I would never do that out here,” Michael
replied, in a whimsical tone, “It might spook the fish.”

“I didn’t tell you before because I imagined
you’d think the occupation is too dodgy, or maybe a bit corny or
pretentious. It’s not steady work by a long shot. I haven’t had a
client for months, but…I am a licensed private investigator.”

“You’re not packing heat in your tackle box
are you?” he chuckled. “Till now I’ve had only one rule for you
when you visit us at Bear Spring Camps. Your cell phone must be
turned off, or on silent, at all times. You can use it, of course,
if a real emergency arises. Now, I’ll have to add another rule. No
guns at the lake.”

“Not to worry, Michael. I keep my .38 Special
under lock and key in my home. I’ve fired it only two or three
times so far, and that was at a shooting range in Augusta. I hope I
never have to pull it out on a job.”

“How long have you been a detective?” he
asked.

“About six years.”

Michael couldn’t help himself. To hell with
the fish. He laughed out loud. “You’ve been a private investigator
for six years, and this is the first I’ve heard of it? Sounds like
you’ve been a little too private. Who are your clients?”

“I haven’t had very many, maybe a couple
dozen in all. A divorce case here, a missing person there, and
occasionally I’ve been hired to protect someone for a short period
of time. When that happens, I have to be armed. It scares the
daylights out of me, of course, but it comes with the territory,
and I’m gradually getting used to it. I also provide advice on
security systems. That’s about it so far. I’m in the yellow pages
of the Augusta phone book under my real name, ‘Jesse Thorpe,
Licensed Investigator, Bonded and Insured.’ Would you care for one
of my business cards?” I said with a grin. “I carry all three of
them in my wallet.”

Michael made no reply. He just smiled and
cast his fly again near the bank. Within a few moments, my PI
advertisement was lost to the lapping of the water and rustling of
the trees. Then, as if on cue, Michael had a rise on his popper.
Without missing a beat, he gave his fly rod a firm snap, and he
hooked a nice smallmouth. His rod bowed as it strained with the
weight of the fish. The bass put up a valiant fight against an
experienced angler. Light tackle gave the fish a fair chance to
shake free, but on this day, Michael prevailed. After leaping and
diving for several minutes, including one spectacular dance atop
the water on his tail, the fish was clearly spent. Michael steered
him near the boat, and I slipped the net under and brought him in.
Immediately he flipped out of the netting and onto the aluminum
hull, and made quite a racket until Michael managed to get his
thumb inside its mouth and lift him up for us to admire. He was
beautiful, greenish brown in color, and weighed almost three
pounds. He was breathing heavily, and his dorsal fin stood straight
up, rigid and menacing.

I’m certain that Michael enjoyed releasing
this fish even more than catching him. He held the bass firmly by
the lower jaw, at a slight angle to the horizon, so that the weight
of the fish kept its mouth open, while he carefully extracted the
hook. Michael admired the fierce, yet tired look in the
smallmouth’s eyes, and then gently returned him to the water. We
both watched the bass regain his bearings as he slipped down into
the sleepy water. It occurred to me that Michael had released the
fish as if he were turning loose one of his own sons from the
family nest, tenderly into the vast expanse. Together in that
simple, private moment, our wonder and vulnerabilities mingled. We
marveled without words at the unspoiled, natural beauty of this
place…pines, birches and maples as far as the eye can see,
surrounding a prehistoric lake. “Mysteriously we took to
flight.”

Michael smiled at me and said, “It’s been a
great morning so far. Let’s go in and have some breakfast!”

“Sounds good. I’m starved,” I replied.

I reeled in my line, took hold of the popper and
attached its hook to the tiny metal loop on the under side of my
fly rod. Then I put my Orvis down along the edge of the boat, set
the oars carefully next to our fly rods, and sat down in the
bow.

Michael put the gearshift lever into neutral,
pulled out the choke on the 6 HP Johnson outboard motor, pushed the
primer button once, and gave a strong pull on the starter cord. The
motor coughed up a little smoke and then began to rumble. That put
an end to our otherwise tranquil morning.

He pushed in the choke, eased the gearshift into
forward and turned the throttle. The boat hesitated a brief moment
as the propeller engaged and the transom wedged itself into the
water, lifting me up with the bow almost a foot into the air. Then
we eased back down as the boat planed out, and we surged forward. A
slight turn on the handle of the outboard set our course across a
mile and a half of open water, straight toward three-dozen rustic
cabins lined up on the other side of the pond. Great Pond!

Why call this a “pond” I thought, for at least the
hundredth time? I guess if comparing it to Huron, Superior, or even
Moosehead, it is a pond. But for me it’s a “lake,” and a mighty one
at that. It’s seven miles long, and four miles wide. It has a
shoreline of almost fifty miles. With two of us in the boat, our
top speed is about twelve miles per hour. It would take us at least
four hours to circumnavigate this “pond.”