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  •     I wish I were fluent in Spanish, not only so I could trade tongues in what is now our bilingual community, but so I’d be able to read “Don Quixote de la Mancha” in the original. That aging crusader, just itching for a joust, is Everyman, or at least — it dawned on an observer standing beneath the Montauk Lighthouse looking seaward early Friday morning — Every Fisherman.

  •     I believe in wormholes, invisible funnel clouds that now and then lift us to other places or, as happened on Friday, just other times.

  •     The surface of Fort Pond Bay in Montauk was bruised.c, on as pristine a September day as one could imagine.

  •     Friday morning started out only beautiful. No signs of fish as Capt. Ken Rafferty’s boat left the Montauk Harbor inlet heading west toward Gardiner’s Island. He’d called around, spoken to fellow guides already offshore. “No albies” (false albacore), “no bass” (striped bass).

  • Mr. Cuomo brought his lawyer to assure fishermen that both he and Attorney General Schneiderman were prepared to sue the United States Department of Commerce unless the federal approach to managing the harvest of fluke, or summer flounder, in New York State is changed.
  •     Sunday afternoon was one of those magical times reserved for September when, because the sun is lower to the horizon, the world seems to glow. Looking south from the beach in Montauk, a small, stationary flotilla of boats could be seen a few miles from shore working what must have been a productive hive of summer flounder, otherwise known as fluke.

  •     There’s more to fishing than the catch, and whether they say it or not, fishermen pursue more than fish when they take to the sea to face both its healing and destructive powers.

  •    “Dreary” has gotten a bad rap. The word might have been used Labor Day afternoon in the soft fog and light drizzle that shrouded Hither Woods as seen from the end of the town pier that juts into Fort Pond Bay, where members of several families cut clam baits on the wooden railings and fished for porgies. The words of the children flowed effortlessly from English to Spanish and back again, their tongues deciding which of them best fit the nuance at hand. Chinese was spoken, Japanese, and something Slavic. Laughter was the lingua franca.

  •    The plan was to sail the sloop Leilani to the porgy grounds on the east side of Gardiner’s Island from Montauk Harbor on Sunday, preparing clam baits along the way. We’d done it before: stayed the night at an anchorage in the cove on the north side of the island, and feasted on grilled porgy washed down with a glass or two of wine, making the return trip the next morning.

  •    The days pass, sunrise to sunset, and we go about our business for the most part unaware of the mythology that springs from our time and winds through our lives, felt but unseen, like an undercurrent. Once in a while the current, with its demigods and siren songs, comes to the surface as it did last week.

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