One of the nice things about taking bike rides on beautiful days or even not-so-beautiful days around Ocean Drive is the friendly little wave one gets from bikers headed in the opposite direction.
Today, as I chugged along — chugging was necessary given my gears were messed up and I was unable to shift out of the toughest rung of speeds for some reason — I crossed paths with a very serious-looking, seriously-garbed cyclist/gentleman stooped over his fancy handlebars. Nice wave. Then there was the older, as in my age, woman sitting upright on a comfy looking surf bike. Nice wave. Then the older guy in a baseball hat (no helmet) followed shortly thereafter by the happy-looking tourist couple. Three more waves. Finally, on the hill between Fort Adams and the SVF Foundation, there was the 20-something moustachio'd rider who was simultaneously navigating the steepish, winding decline and talking on his cell phone. He didn't wave. He had his hands full ...
It was a different story on a bike ride earlier in the week, when I didn't see any fellow cyclists at all. Not a one. Weird. I did, though, happen upon a couple of fishermen on the rocks. I'd taken a detour from The Drive up & out to Castle Hill for no reason other than I have a penchant for detours; then, given I hadn't been there in a while (a year or more), I disembarked to walk down & out to Castle Hill Light. I saw no one at first. Just descended the weathered steps before wandering off to the left/port/whatever, where I parked myself on the warm-if-shit-laden landscape.
It was only after I'd gotten settled and gotten my fix of assorted visions involving boats sailing past Horsehead, Beavertail and R-6 (that buoy off Butter Ball Rock) in especially sparkly conditions that I realized I wasn't alone. I was sandwiched, loosely speaking, between two fishermen. One to my right. One to my left. After I'd been sitting there awhile, one of these fishermen approached ...
Have to admit, I had a hard time understanding him. He wanted something; that much was clear. He spoke, but the accent was strong. He motioned, but I was confused. It finally dawned on me (light does dawn over Marblehead): He'd caught a fish. I had a camera. This called for a picture.
So I took his picture — with a rather impressive striper — and said I'd send it to him. All I needed was his e-mail address, but when I asked him for it, he looked puzzled. I asked again, and he said, "58 Darling." Did he think I'd asked his age? Was he calling me Darling? Is there some sort of e-mail server at 58darling.com? Communication or lack thereof gets complicated ...
At last, the fisherman took out his license (for driving, not fishing) and showed it to me. His name was Vital (pronounced Vee-tal?), and his address was 58 Darling Street in some yonder town. I had no pen, and my questionable memory certainly wasn't going to suffice, but then I remembered my smart phone, on which I tip-tapped the info in the Notes app (Super Son would be proud of me). I told Vital I'd get his photo printed and send it along. He & I had managed quite the sign-language conversation by this point. I'd seen the other fish he caught: a blackfish and a tautog in a bucket. He showed me his bait, a mishmash of crabs and squid.
He also said thank you, I think. I'm not kidding when I say I had that much difficulty understanding. All except the last thing Vital said to me (it came through clear as day): "Good life, good luck."
Seriously ...
Then he walked away with a little wave ...
