Widows watch

We were running early for a 7pm dinner reservation one night last summer, so Robb and I decided to kill some time looking for star fish at Stinky Beach. Robb wedged the car into one of the improvised spaces, and we threw our shoes on the floor of the car. The usual clusters of people were gathered into a nervous clump at the near end of the beach, next to the rocks. They craned and squinted at the inlet and spoke in low voices. An emergency worker paced along the shore. This old woman in the group told us what she saw.

Two fishermen arrived and one waded out into the pocket of water that swirls as it passes the corner of the rip rap. Robb told me many times that it's the perfect place for fishing because the hungry ones wait at the edge of the slower water for their food to come floating by. But the wading man suddenly dipped under the surface, as though he stepped into a hole. He popped up, struggled for air, and his fishing rod began to drift away. He swam a little further out to rescue the rod while he waders filled with the dark water. As he again sank below the surface, the old woman ran off the beach to dial 911 at a neighboring house.

By the time we arrived, the Coast Guard boat had already retrieved his floating body. We heard later that on his first cast of the night, the wading man had a heart attack that caused him to dunk under and let go of his fishing rod. Then as he came back to the surface, already weakened and further weakening, he began to battle the rushing inlet. The whole incident, although we were not witnesses, disturbed my dinner, but Robb seemed thoughtful. I said, "You are thinking that it was a good way to go, right?" He reluctantly admitted that the fisherman in him would be content with such an end. To die while engaged in his favorite activity. Is that a good death? And what of his friend still standing on the sand?

Robb often mentions a desire to bring a kayak or surfboard along with him surf fishing in order to cast out further. In this scenario, he paddles out past the sandbar holding his surf rod aloft and casts his line into the beyond, where sharks and larger fish patrol. He mentioned this plan to another fisherman on Saturday morning, and the man said his friend does it all the time. But his friend simply swims out to the sandbar with his bait tied to him on a float. Robb estimated the distance to the sandbar and decided to give it a try. Without the bait, though. No sense in making himself into a tasty target for sharks.

He waded into the water with his surf rod and was soon over his head. Surprised but not dissuaded by the depth of the water, he swam toward the sandbar. Every so often he stretched a toe down, feeling for the bottom but finding none. He continued swimming. All the while holding up his fifteen foot surf rod. Although the rod itself can get wet, the reel cannot be submerged in salt water. (Or dropped in the sand, as I discovered the hard way.) The reels need tender care to keep the complicated internal organs operating smoothly and to prevent the salt from infecting them with a corrosive cancer.

That morning they had driven out onto the remote beaches of the island. Out where you can fish and drink beer and enjoy the pale wilderness. There are no lifeguards reading the horizon. And the ponies and sika deer watch with an idle, distracted curiosity. Robb continued his awkward swim, holding the fishing rod while searching for sand with his feet. He glanced back to the shore and realized he was twice as far out as he thought the sandbar should be. He reached down with his foot and could find nothing solid. He plunged the tip of his surf rod toward the bottom, but it did not connect either. The water was too deep, and the sandbar was not getting any closer. He began the difficult swim toward the shore.

He was making slow progress against the current and beginning to tire. He periodically probed downward with the surf rod. So much for holding the reel out of the salt. He kept swimming and reaching. Finally the rod touched sand, but the water was still well over his head. Robb doggedly continuted, breathing hard, dragging his gear along with him. Once he could touch the bottom with his feet, the waves crashed over him. He used their momentum to carry himself in to the beach. He was much longer returning than going out, but finally he dragged himself out, exhausted. Saturday was not a good day to die fishing.

He told me the story Monday night, and I was suddenly exhausted. This will not become one of my favorite "Robb stories" because I can't help feeling that I, too, am still standing on the sand. I don't want that phone call from his fishing buddy. So I make him promise not to float away. You see, husbands are fragile things that can gulp sea water and sag under the weight of their tired limbs and sink below the waves. And that might be okay with them. But they must remember that wives are fragile, too.

[Many people have been sucked out to sea by the tropical rip current this summer.]