FISHER-MAN

“The Belmar docks,” he said. “Seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I remarked. “Yeah, genius, we’re going fishing. I’ll bring the bait, you bring the beer. Capiche?” “Deal,” came my reply, as I studied Fisher-Man’s worn-but-friendly face. “You know a lot of stuff: guitars, medicine, Spanish.” “Select words, my man. It’s all about the right word in the right situation. You dig?” “Si.” He burst out laughing. “That’s high school Spanish, Matt-Ski. I’ll teach you the real deal.” In two short hours I’d grown to admire my new acquaintance, Fisher-Man Curtis Blackwell.