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  •     Piers, docks, quays, whatever you choose to call them, Montauk’s Fort Pond Bay has had many over the years. They were built to accommodate commercial fishermen, to test torpedoes, to disembark soldiers, Cunard Line passengers, and more than a few cases of bootlegged booze. One even allowed railroad cars to put to sea.

        Whatever its purpose, build it and they will come — the ones with a fishing rod, a bucket, some bait, and a few hours to wile away projecting a fish dinner as an excuse.

  • As rescuers are commended, another vessel is towed 86 miles to home
  •     Funny how thoughts cascade, one tumbling into another like stones down a bluff face. This one particular tumble began when Glenn Grothmann of Paulie’s Tackle fame mentioned that herring were being caught from the pier on Montauk’s Fort Pond Bay last week, lots of them.

  •     It’s not uncommon to be awakened by cannon fire this time of year on the East End. Duck hunting season began on Thanksgiving Day. Open season on Amazon drones could be just around the corner.

        “Cannon” was the word that came to mind when this former hunter first felt the recoil of a 12-gauge shotgun my father gave me at the age of 12.

  •        Early Thanksgiving morning, George Drago was walking the beach at Ditch Plain in Montauk. He was just west of the spot surfers refer to as “Poles,” a now-empty beach named after the supports for a bulkhead built to protect the bluff below the old Rheinstein estate. Poles, bluff, and estate are long-gone, eaten by the sea.

  • You have paddled out and now sit on your surfboard waiting for waves, the sun low in the sky despite the noon hour. The air temperature is 35 degrees Fahrenheit, the ocean about the same. Your mind wanders. You’re here only by virtue of the warmth your wetsuit provides through the science of its advanced neoprene. 

  •     Last week I got a call from Orla Reveille, who holds sway over at the Viking Dock in Montauk. She told me to slide by and pick up a book, “The Forsberg Empire,” a memoir by Capt. Paul G. Forsberg “as told to Manny Luftglass.”

  •     I was standing on Turtle Hill on Sunday about noon in front of the Montauk Lighthouse and beside the Lost at Sea Memorial looking down on eight seals close to shore, some floating on their backs, others with just their heads out of water looking shoreward at the few human visitors.

  •        The scene: Tuesday, Nov. 4, Stuart’s Seafood Market, Amagansett, one day after the start of the 2013 scallop season. A man stands before the store’s display case. A woman, a longtime friend, enters, greets her friend and stands beside him looking into the case.

           As the counter clerk approaches, the man begins to ask: “Have you come for . . . ?”

  •     My mother was raised on a farm in Nedrow, N.Y., just south of Syracuse. For many years, she taught what was called home economics — sewing, cooking, the basics — at Division Avenue High School in Levittown, where I grew up. The community was made up mostly of families transplanted from the city.

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