We went fishing in a hired boat, with a hired captain and a hired mate. They took us out of the harbor along the submerged jetty, out past Great Point to a spot where two currents came together. There was a line running down the water: on one side it was glassy green and rolling, on the other it was dark chop. The mate set up a line for Henry, and he got an immediate bite, a hard pull on the line that you could see was something big. He reeled the fish in and the mate caught it in a net. It was a 34-inch striped bass, good eating, and relatively rare. It was a prize, so we kept it. The mate dropped it in a metal box at Henry and David’s feet, where it thrashed and died. We would eat half of it for dinner, and give the other half to the mate.

The boat circled around, crossing the currents, for another hour or so, and we caught bluefish for the rest of the time. They’re very oily, and my family doesn’t like to eat them, so the mate threw them back. After that there was just the pleasure of repetition, of letting the line drag, the boat turn, feeling the fish bite, reeling it in, then watching the mate catch the line and use a metal piece he had to free the fish from the hook. We were never sick. I thought we might be, but we were too busy reeling in fish to be sick. The captain called down from his seat above us, encouraging us to catch more, showing us where the blues were making the water virtually boil, from their numbers. On the way in and way out you couldn’t hear anything but the wind and the motor.

The fishing was stupid, it was fishing for stupid people, but it was still something I did with my family, somewhere beautiful. We killed something, and we ate it. Now we’re back.