Totems of Fins and Tails
It’s not our seascape, hills and dales,
When I think Montauk, it’s fins and tails.
Not Rita’s mare, or ‘The Affair,’
Not the Light, or stars at night
Not Gosman’s Dock, or Blackfish Rock
Not summer’s sails, nor nor’east gales
What is Montauk?
It’s fins and tails.
During the summer months, you hardly notice them. Too much else going on. But, like the skeletons of trees once their leaves have flown, the dried trophies of seasons past become visible on dock pilings, signs, and telephone poles this time of year.
The fins and tails are scalps of a sort, but also totems to beloved species, to days spent at sea. Unlike deer antlers or trophy heads, fins and tails resurrect movement, mummified memories of the fish’s spirit and power. They continue to swim.
Montauk’s fins and tails were everywhere as I walked around the harbor on Saturday, and I was reminded of the 300-year-old entries in the records of the East Hampton Town Trustees that note the amount of oil tried from the blubber of whales harvested near shore. The English settlers got the oil, but the local Indians (who helped row the boats and heave the lances) wanted, and were given, the whales’ fins and tails to burn, the smoke rising to honor the animal’s spirit and sacrifice.
The fins and tails preserved on dock pilings — the older ones shrunken and warped by the sun — must seem like part of a primitive ritual to some of Montauk’s summer visitors, and, of course they are. Taking the lives of our fellow creatures should not be taken lightly. It tends to draw ancient impulses from deep in our DNA.
To some, fins and tails are like the ears of a brave bull awarded the toreador after a successful fight, or a religious relic, like the dried finger of a saint. A few traditions go deeper. I watched two fishermen take bites from the still-pulsing heart of a giant bluefin tuna as they prepared the fish to be shipped to Japan for sushi. They made light of what they were doing, but there was no denying it was a ritual of respect, a primordial stab at absorbing the giant’s spirit.
It’s impossible to explain, I guess. The other day I was rummaging in the attic and found the tail of a 444-pound, bluefin giant I caught 20 years ago. I remember the mixture of pride and regret I felt when the fish was hoisted aboard the Blue Fin IV charter boat.
I took a picture of the fish hanging on the gin pole before it was wrestled on board, a magnificent creature whose incredible strength and endurance had drained my own during an hour-long battle. I seem to have lost the photo, but I still have that great fish by the tail.