During a long hot spell a couple of weeks ago in the Northeast, Sherman and I had the opportunity to take a deep-sea fishing trip off the Jersey Shore. I know what you are thinking: How many gays go deep-sea fishing? Well, at last count, there are at least two.
The Jersey Shore is a magical place. It is certainly a throwback to the 1950s, a place where Father Knows Best, the Beaver would have felt comfortable, and June could waltz in any minute with a martini in one hand and a plate of steak and potatoes in the other. No place is too far from anywhere else at the Jersey Shore, but a mere 51 miles can take two hours to travel, depending on weather and other drivers.
Our destination was a dock where the fishing boat Dusty Tangles was moored, the water quietly lapping at the shore. We had packed our ice chest, sun block, camera and hats. We parked at the far end of the lot and walked sleepily toward our boat, as other boat owners said to us under their breath: “Hey, gottaboat? Yo, $100 gay-run-teed to catch,” and “Not the Dusty Tangles, she nasty, yo”.
We walked past these fine vessels, our heads dropped in shame. It reminded me of the 2 a.m. Sidewalk Sale at the Dixie Bell, except this was in the light of day. I felt dirty and sleazy and cheap.
To be honest, I don’t know why we had ended up choosing the Dusty Tangles. She was old and had seen better days. Looking around, I noticed the newer and slightly larger fishing vessels with sharp new paint and flags with flashy names on their bows. The largest -- and my favorite -- was named Virginia Hamm. Nearby were the Kitty Litter and the dashing Aura Lee Fixated.
In contrast, there was not enough paste, paint or duct tape in the world to make the Dusty Tangles look remotely like the screen star she had been in her heyday.
Finally we made it out to sea, where we chased one school of fish after another. It was a madhouse.
Joining Dusty Tangles in the hunt was the Kitty Litter in the lead, followed by Virginia Hamm. The boats circled a school of bluefish, and passengers standing on two decks threw out lines crossing each other.
I expected the excursion to be a gentlemen’s game of catch-and-release, but it soon became clear that after each gentle pickup with a net came a spear to the midsection of the fish.
Ugh. I was done. For the rest of the fishing trip, I faked throwing out my line and began daydreaming.
The first prize – for First Fish -- was awarded. The prizes for Largest Fish and Most Fish would come later.
As the sun began to sink behind the horizon, I made a game of renaming the other fishing vessels.
And in the end, I realized something: I think I won.
