Not Just the Fish

For Father's Day

Wall Street Greek's Fine Arts Contributor and New York Stories Columnist Nicholas Zaharakos writes a tribute to his father's memory. Nicholas’ father's passport lists his name as Stavros. As a young working man he was known as Steve. When he finally owned a luncheonette he was called Charlie. To Nicholas he was always "Pop." When he could, he went fishing out of Brooklyn's Sheepshead Bay. As a rite of passage, Pop introduced all seven of his children to his passion for fishing. He would take each kid when they reached nine or ten years old. The Charlie character in "Not Just the Fish," is a dedication to all the father figures who are the salt of the earth.

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Not Just the Fish

These old bones are the first to get on the Emerald Star to go fishing. I was chattering in the cold and damp, as I watched Charlie Christos’s son Bill waiting with a boy for their turn to board. No matter how warm it would get later, it would always feel nippy in an early spring morning at Brooklyn’s Sheepshead Bay. They were both dressed in brand-new deck shoes and matching blue windbreakers.

The kid looked out of place because it should have been a school day and he couldn’t be more than nine years old. Until late June, this is an old fossil’s boat, to say it politely. Bill Christos used to go fishing with his father every now and then. I haven’t seen him in quite a while. Maybe Charlie went back to Greece, as he kept saying he would.

You sure knew it when Charlie was on board with his loud laugh and the black Greek Fisherman cap he wore. He owned Christos’s Auto Repair on Flatbush Avenue, but he could have sold shares in the Brooklyn Bridge for a living. The last time I saw Charlie was when I was pulling in a bluefish and then lost that fish because I didn’t call for a mate to bring the net. There he was, saying, “Haste makes waste.” I usually let his Ben Franklin quotes go in one ear and out the other. However that day I wanted to whack him with my fishing pole.

As they got on board, I heard Captain Mac ask: “Hey, I haven’t seen you dad in ages. Is he okay? Where is he? Fishing’s been terrific!”

Bill said this a little too straight out for my taste: “Well, I’m sure pop is in that great fishing boat in the sky, hauling in the big ones all the time.”

Old Mac lost his stride for a second. “Jeez, I’m sorry to hear that. Please give my sympathies to the rest of the family,” he said extending his hand. “Charlie was a swell guy, a lot of fun. What happened?”

Bill spoke better this time. “He had a stroke three months ago. You know Charlie; he wouldn’t listen to his doctor or anybody else for that matter – to lose weight or to give up his two packs a day of Lucky Strikes.” Bill added quietly, pop had a good life, I was there to close his eyes.”

Captain Mac smiled his understanding as he turned to the boy.

Bill explained, “I have his first grandchild with me, little Billy. He’s my Godchild. I’m going to teach him how to fish. I was his age my first time. Billy’s dad couldn’t take the day off from his construction job --- now, it’s his busy season.”

The captain shook the kid’s hand. “Welcome aboard, and listen to your uncle,” he boomed with an even larger smile.

His New York Mets baseball cap was too big. It almost fell off when he stretched his head back to look up at Captain Mac. He had bright eyes, and an “I just found where you hid the cookies grin.” They stowed their gear and poles starboard where Charlie would have stayed. Bill reserved their spot by tying rags that were used after handling the bait and fish onto the rail. I tied mine next to theirs; I was curious to see how things would go, even though I figured they might get in my way. There is nothing worse than wasting time untangling lines because of inexperienced fisherman.

“C’mon, little Billy, let’s stay warm in the cabin.”

“Uncle Bill, will this ship cross the ocean? I hope it doesn’t sink! I want to catch a whale or a shark.”

“Aw, don’t be silly we are just going across the bay. It should be a calm day, or I wouldn’t have taken you. This used to be a sub-chaser; it’s made of wood, not like the fiberglass ones that they build now.” I followed them inside the boathouse where Bill continued. “You’ll like the fish we are going after. Nothing tastes better than fresh fluke or flounder. I’ll show you how to bait the hooks with live worms. You’re not afraid of worms, are you?”

“I’m not afraid of worms,” the little guy said, crinkling his nose. “But the only fish I really like is tuna fish, fresh out of the can with plenty of mayonnaise.”

The Emerald Star takes less than an hour to cross from Brooklyn to off New Jersey‘s Sandy Hook where we would fish. During that time, I saw the kid eat a package of Devil Dogs along with steaming chocolate out of a red thermos. After the shoving off, only my pointing out the Statue of Liberty in the distance got his interest momentarily from his goodies. Bill wiped off the crumb-ring around the lad’s mouth, reminding him that what they had packed was to last for the entire day.

Rudy and Mike, the two mates, and several of the other men paid their respects to Bill. He didn’t realize how popular his father was, and neither did I. He seemed a little embarrassed every time he got up to shake hands and say thank you.

I get fidgety waiting for the fishing to start. I gazed at the photographs of past trips taped to the wood panels. Most were faded and curled from age and the sea air. A few had fallen behind the radiator. I found my favorite, and smoothed it with one hand and put on my glasses with the other to get a better look.

There I was, wearing my Eisenhower army jacket. It was ideal for fishing—heavy clothed and with many pockets. They sure don’t make quality like that anymore. I was displaying a seven-pound fluke, large enough to win the pool for the entire season. Charlie was in the background of that snapshot—we sure do go back a ways together, I reckon. It was 1955 when the Brooklyn Dodgers finally won a World Series from the mighty New York Yankees. I remember I couldn’t believe I actually caught something that size. Now, I can’t believe I was ever that skinny.

When we crossed the bay, Mac weighed anchor. He gave two toots on the horn, to put the lines in. I have to admit that the little elf kept out of my way. He got a kick out of handling the Swiss Army knife, and cutting the sand worms in half. The morning fog was burning off, and it started to warm up a bit.

“I’m going to show you how to fish just like Grandpa taught me,” said Bill. “Let me help you hold the pole.”

“I can do it, I can do it by myself,” the squirt said in a high voice, as he squirmed away.

At the first two spots we tried, no one caught anything. Captain Mac got on the speaker. “Fishing was great yesterday! Everyone got about ten to fifteen keepers. We should do okay.”

“The fishing is always great yesterday,” a few of us old-timers grumbled together.

Mac continued, “We’ll go to the secret fishing spot.” Now some of us chuckled together.

After five minutes, we settled into the “secret spot,” with just about all the other charters out from Brooklyn. The gray lapping waves made the boats bob up and down playfully. There were just a few small catches there, but what the heck, it was still early. The sun was at the noon position, and these old bones got to shed a layer of clothing.

Bill Christos sure was a sport. He wasn’t getting to do much fishing himself, because he was busy untangling the kids line. Bill would lend the boy his pole, but by the time he got that tackle straightened out, the kid would mess up the one Bill had given him. I would have wanted to make bait out of him. But it’s a big boat and you got to mind your own business when the lines are in the water. When we moved again, I showed him how to hold the reel when you release it, so as not to get it snagged when you pull the line back in. I saw one thing that Bill wouldn’t let the tadpole get away with – he always had to call Bill, “Uncle Bill.” When he didn’t, he was ignored until he did. I liked that.

The boy often yelped that he had a hit. That was just the ocean bottom tugging. It got so I didn’t pay that any mind. Besides, there was 48 bucks for the pool fish. Not bad for a weekday. Even Bill threw in two dollars for his nephew. I call that dumb! All I know is winning would pay for three more outings for me, and I go fishing to win. What else is there for a mothballed subway conductor to do?

Near the end of the day, the fishing started to pick up. Mostly everybody caught a few, though nothing over a couple of pounds. With Bill’s coaching the small fry pulled in two. Holy mackerel! The way he carried on, you would have thought that he actually did catch a whale or a shark. I nicknamed them Abbott and Costello and he played with them splashing in his bucket.

I was beginning to like the Little Lord Fauntleroy, because you could see he was learning. Besides, I had the pool money sewed up. This old master caught a five-pounder. The flat fish was the size of a doormat. This old sea horse sure ain’t ready for the glue factory yet. No doubt I had the prize money, and a lot of fish to boot. But you got to respect your superstitions. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch is always good advice. Only Bill saw me pull her in.

It was starting to cool off, when Captain Mac announced, “This is the last place we’ll try before heading back. Make it good!” I decided to sit this one out and just watch the show. I could see that the little guy was tuckered out. The good sea air will do that. His cheeks were flushed like two halves of a Macintosh apple. He should have been taking a nap, but he was a game one. His uncle was bushed too and told him, “little Billy, this time you’re on your own. If you snarl your line, you’ll have to undo it yourself. I’ve had it.” He started to pack up their gear.

The kid put fresh bait on both hooks himself and cast out neatly. He was handling the tackle a lot better than he did in the morning.

I tell you, he was a picture, so serious in that oversized cap. His tongue was sticking out as he watched the line in the fairly still water. Every so often, he would tug the sinker carefully on the bottom just as I had told him to do.

Son of a gun! He got a strong hit. What a squeal! “Uncle Bill! Uncle Bill! Please help me!” The way the rod was bending you knew he had hooked the Real McCoy.

“Uncle Bill! Please!” he pleaded, as he turned his head away for a second from the shaking pole. Bill just waved his hand, as if to say, it’s your ball game now.

I started to get up but stopped, and took it all in. Everybody on the boat must have halted their own fishing. Damn! The child was having trouble. He could lose the whole kit and caboodle. Lord! What was wrong with Bill? I had to stop myself again from going over.

Somehow, he managed to haul his catch in. It was a beauty, a good three-pounder. That is nothing to sneeze at, even for a man. That was the last one caught. The captain gave a long toot to signal it was time to head home. The little leprechaun was jumping out of his pants! “I caught the biggest fish! I caught the biggest fish!”

Everything has to be official on Captain McSweeney’s boat. It was the time for the weigh-in. Rudy, the mermaid-tattooed mate, sang out, “Anybody think they can beat the little champ?”

The little stinker was holding the still-flopping flounder with both hands as he presented it to the mate like it was the crown jewels.

I covered my bucket.

Just to make it a contest John Sullivan put his catch on the other side of the scale held by Rudy. The scale became lopsided at once; John’s fish went up as the kid’s went down.

For a minute, Bill Christos looked at me like I was crazy. I took a step backward, just crossed my arms, smiled and shook my head. He grinned gratefully back. Young Billy beamed when Mac took a picture of him holding the prize winning flounder.

“Well” said Bill, “What are you going to do with the pool money? You know, with it we can go again. You even have enough to treat that nice old fishing buddy of grandpa’s,” he hinted.

“Okay, Uncle Bill,” the boy replied exhaustedly.

We still had the ride home.

Bill took his Godchild into the cabin. Easily, he slipped into dreamland on a bench, with his uncle’s sweater for a pillow and my jacket for a blanket. Nobody minded being quiet when they went in to warm up. After all, it had been a good day for everyone. Looking again at the photographs I decided to ask Captain Mac, after he docks, if I could bring aboard albums to preserve them.

Seagulls escorted the gently rocking Emerald Star across Lower New York Bay. I looked back at the setting sun. It was bathing the sea with a bright orange glow.

You know, I used to think it was just the blarney when Charlie would say, “I go fishing for the fishing, not just the fish.”



Thank you Nicholas for the tear-jerker, and thanks for the memories pop, and happy Father's Day. Love ya! - Markos "The Greek" Kaminis



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