Death in Vineyard Waters Read Online Free

one for very long.
    But I can fish for a very long time and not get tired of it, and one of the best places in the world to catch bluefish from shore is at Wasque Point, on the far southeast corner of Chappaquiddick, where the rip tosses up bait and the blues come to pig out and, in their greed, regularly mistake artificial lures for genuine eatables. Fish are not very smart, in spite of rumors to the contrary. A fact for which we should all go to church regularly to thank whatever gods there may be.
    There were about thirty assorted four-by-fours lined up along the beach at Wasque, and I could see some people down along the shore actually casting. But I could also see that most of the rods were standing straight in their holders or were leaning against vehicles. That meant that the blues weren’t really biting much at the moment. For if they were biting, none of those rods would be standing there; all of them would be working in the hands of fishermen.
    I found a spot almost where I wanted to be and pulled in. I took my rod off the rack, hooked on a three-ounce red-headed Roberts and checked both sides to see what kind of fishermen my neighbors were: were they really fishermen or were they pilgrims—summer ginks who, when they cast, were a danger to everyone within fifty yards? Al Prada’s Jeep was on my left, so that was okay. He wasn’t in it, but was about three cars down the line chewing the fat with some other regulars. I didn’t know the guy on my right, buthe had seven years’ worth of Wasque Reservation stickers on his side window so I figured he must know something about fishing. Having scouted the terrain, I went down to the water.
    I use an eleven-and-a-half-foot graphite rod and twenty-pound black Ande line, so with a plug like the Roberts I can get some distance in my cast most of the time. I’d added a couple extra yards by learning to use a reel without a bail, so by and large I can throw it quite a ways, a useful ability if the fish aren’t close enough to shore. Now I put my back into it and really put the Roberts out there. If there was a fish there, I wanted to get it.
    I didn’t. I got nothing. I cast a dozen more times. Nothing a dozen times. Up and down the line of men, women, and children along the shore, nobody was catching anything. That was both good and bad—bad because nobody was catching anything, indicating that there were no bluefish to be caught right now, and good because it’s really disgusting to have fished as long as I have and get nothing and then to have a child or a hundred-year-old woman who has never held a rod before catch a fish right beside you.
    I tried a couple of other plugs. Nothing. Then, just in case they were feeding under the surface instead of on top of it, I put on a Hopkins with a triple hook. Normally, I knew, I’d not be doing this sort of thing; I’d be up there on the beach with all the other smart fishermen, saving my energy until there was some sign that there was a bluefish out there ready to be caught. But I was not in a normal mood and I needed something to keep me from thinking about Zee. So I put on the Hopkins and whipped it out as far as I could throw. Way out in the rip I saw it splash home, and three turns on the reel later I felt the fish hit.
    Geronimo! It’s really terrific to catch a fish in a crowd of people who aren’t catching anything. On both sides of me, inspired fishermen were quickly lining up and casting, but only I had a fish.
    Wonderful. I cranked him slowly toward shore, hopingthat none of the pilgrims would cross my line and cut him off. He was a biggish fish and the current was still running pretty well, so I walked him down, ducking under rods, until he was close. I could see him in the last wave, and I waited until the moment was right and brought him onto the sand. A good fish, ten pounds or so. I got a hand in his gills and carried him to the Landcruiser. The regulars quickly