First Love

I suppose you could've called it a love triangle--Cindy was smitten with me, and I was smitten with fishing. In the summer of 1958 my parents rented a bungalow on a cove in Greenwood Lake, New Jersey. It was there that I met Cindy and her brother, Hank, who were staying in the adjacent bungalow. They were close to my age and seemed to know all there was to know about fishing. Of course, that was only the opinion of a 12-year-old boy who was baiting hooks for the first time.

The two of them had plenty of fishing gear and gladly shared it. We spent a good portion of our days sitting on the dock watching bobbers disappear and pulling up sunnies and perch.

Cindy always seemed to be sitting between me and Hank, and when there was no room to squeeze in, she'd choose the side next to me. She was pretty. Her red hair caught fire in the sun, and her dimples just jumped out at me when she smiled my way--and she smiled my way a lot.

But Hank was teaching me about this new, mysterious world of fishing, and at this time in my life, girls were just not a big priority

Thinking back, it must have taken her a lot of courage to ask me to go to the movies. She and her mother were going shopping the next day. After that, she said, her mother could drop her off at the movie house and pick us up later. If my parents could drive me to town that afternoon, we could meet there.

Since Hank didn't like movies, I suppose Cindy was kind of cutting me from the herd to get more of my attention. But I thought a movie sounded good. The show started at 6. I'd have plenty of time to fish before leaving.

By the middle of the next day, Hank and I were at our usual fishing spots and Cindy and her mother were in town.

"You know..." said Hank, with that far-off look he used when he was about to talk fish.

"What?" I said, with that intense look I used when he was about to talk fish.

"It's gonna be a full moon tonight."

"Yeah...and?"

"Catfish," he said, searching the bright sky. "Much bigger than these sunnies. You bottom fish for 'em. Small balls of white bread. Big, big bullheads. They start bitin' just before dusk. 'Specially on a full moon."

"But the movie...." I said.

"Cindy goes every week when the picture changes. She's there with or without you."

"Catfish," I thought. Even the word enchanted me. I'd never seen a catfish. Suddenly "sunny" and "perch" just didn't have the ring, the gusto, of "catfish." And since Cindy went to the movies every week anyway....

Hank's catfish expertise failed him that late afternoon. We didn't feel a nibble. I decided to give up on the dough balls and switch to worms. Later, we heard Cindy's footsteps coming toward us. When she reached the dock, her steps took on an unfamiliar knocking sound. Without turning to see her, I realized it was caused by shoe leather. Cindy was wearing real shoes.

I didn't turn to look. I was feeling a bit guilty about not meeting her. Hank--maybe feeling a bit guilty himself--got to his feet, put his pole over his shoulder, and gave me a quick "See ya," then walked away.

Cindy was right behind me, but I didn't look at her. I just sat there staring down at the water, not sure at all what she was doing but certain that her dimples weren't showing. She didn't say anything. Maybe she was waiting for an explanation. All I could hear was the persistent chatter of crickets and the moans of bullfrogs.

When she moved directly to my right I had no choice but to look at her. The full moon lit her up, showing off the light-blue dress she had worn to the movie. I didn't know what to say. Trying to act as though nothing were wrong, I said something anyway: "Well, I guess catfish don't like worms, do they?"

As she walked off the dock, she said, "Me either."


- END -


Published in Field & Stream (Copyrighted)

An aside: I thought it would be a good idea, especially for beginning writers, to give some anecdotal stuff behind a published piece. I sent something to Field & Stream a while back. It was written in the present tense and was closer to a prose poem than it was prose. The rejection letter read:

"Dear Mr. Marino:

I'm sorry to have to return "The Long Walk." Five of us read it and no one undertood it. I wish I could be more enlightening than that, but that's how it was."

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The next story I sent them was "First Love."

Don't be discouraged by rejections. Keep them as you would purple hearts. I keep mine in a file called "Love Letters." Yeah, in a purple folder.