Striper Run, Downeaster Soul

Montauk, 7:12 AM, no time to think

Rod doubled, line hissing 

the striper shoots east,

line shrieking off the spool like it's redefining the morning.

Doug's already standing 

net in hand, a half-smoked cigarette hanging off his lip 

"Arty! Go back! Starboard!"

The boat jerks with purpose

like it's done this dance hundreds of times.

"There ain't no island left for islanders like me."

Billy Joel howls in the duct-taped speaker strapped to the throttle.

Montauk's just a shadow in our rearview now.

Captain Art, hands steady on the wheel,

growling, "Don't you dare lose it now."

You can smell engine grime and coffee

as he pilots into the choppy water.

My mom is riding beside me,

Yankees cap backward, sleeves rolled high 

her smile is a flame and her grip's hard.

"Keep the rod low, Jake, let him run if he must," Captain Art belts out.

My mom is half mentor, half fighter,

I like to say more so an icon,

She’s all passion.

The striper plunges, deep

Rod tip shudders like a live wire,

Salt spays on my knuckles.

Doug leans over the side, he’s ready,

eyes narrowing through the morning sun.

"C'mon baby, bring her home…"

"And I've plotted a line to the Vineyard.

But tonight I am Nantucket bound…"

The reel clicks faster 

then slower 

then stillness.

I tug, Doug dips, and the fish bursts through the surface

like silver lightning.

We back away laughing, dripping and screaming,

The fish thrashing at our feet like a legend long told.

Captain Art rolls another smoke.

Mom wipes her hands on her jeans.

Billy keeps singing.

The sun splits open over the Sound.

And for a moment 

We're all just exactly where we're supposed to be.

(Thank you Captain Art for teaching me everything I know. I wish we had more time together, I love you forever and will always be grateful for you.   Art’s legacy will always carry on.)