But you could do that in those days-get a couple hours of sleep, work all day, surf all afternoon, play all night and shake it off. Can’t do that anymore-now you put in a short night and youache the next morning.
But those were the golden days, Frank thinks, and suddenly he feels sad. Nostalgia, isn’t that what they call it? he thinks as he shakes himself from his reverie and walks toward the bait shack, remembering summer on a cold, wet winter day.
We thought those summers would never end.
Never thought we’d ever feel the cold in our bones.
Two minutes after he opens, the fishermen start coming in.
Frank knows most of them-they’re his OBP regulars-especially on a weekday, when the weekend fishermen have to go to work. So on a Tuesday morning, he gets his retired guys, the sixty-five-and-ups, who have nothing better to do with their time than to stand on the dock in the cold and wet and try to catch a fish. Then, more and more over the years, you have your Asians-mostly Vietnamese, along with some Chinese and Malaysians-middle-aged guys for whom thisis work. This is how they put food on the table, and they always still seem amazed that they can do this pretty much for free, buy a fishing license and some bait and throw a line into the ocean and feed their families from the bounty of the sea.