Roads, Mills, Laps

I’ve just begun reading Jack London’s semi-autobiographical novel, Martin Eden. It’s about a young, aspiring writer who faces constant rejection and refuses to give up. I like it. It strikes a chord, though I’m hardly an Eden-esque character; I’m not in my 20s and I’m not stuck in the 20th Century; I’m certainly not caught between a well-to-do woman I adore and a passionate woman who adores me. No. Rounding up, I’m 40 and pretty much think I’m all set with my second wife.

But this essay isn’t about Mr. Eden; it’s about 9th Street. Mr. London is the connection. A few years ago, I was alone, living in some dead-end condominium in the worst parts of Connecticut. I could hear my neighbors watching NASCAR races outside—out sitting in the middle of the street with their nicotine-stained hands wrapped around cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I missed Benicia and decided (after randomly searching my bookcase) to read what Jack London wrote about our town.

Ironically, the summer before, I was in the basement of the Benicia Public Library at the used book sale. My mother and father frequented those sales and brought me along. Over half my present library has been supplied (on the cheap) by those sales. It’s a shame for the public that the library discards so many old and decent books. Well at least they’re safe with me (and my parents).

Anyway, at that particular sale, I picked up a collection of London’s works. In it was Tales of the Fish Patrol—a story about London’s travails policing the Carquinez Straits for illegal salmon poachers. Reading it reminded me of 9th Street. I spent a great deal of time down there. My friends and I rode our bikes from Southampton—quite a trek. At the time, I owned a generic-brand BMX bike. On its padded frame, it bore the enigmatic name SCHUCKS. Back then, kids’ BMX bikes were familial status symbols—revealing much about parental wealth. Rich kids rode Redlines and the Diamondbacks; poor kids rode Huffys; I was from a six-child family, so I rode a SCHUCKS.

I had a blue backpack with lots of zippers. In it, I stuffed my plastic tackle box. I had to tilt it vertically to fit; this upset any semblance of organization. By the time I had descended the Southampton hills and arrived at 9th Street, hooks and lures had burst forth from my tackle box. Spinners had wrapped themselves around spools of fishing line.

I never really caught anything at 9th Street. At the time, I didn’t know how to fish—didn’t know what lure to use; didn’t know how to cast; didn’t know how to jig; didn’t know what bait to buy. I wasted my allowance at Raley’s buying the biggest, flashiest lures—the kind reserved for tarpon off the coast of Cabo San Lucas. I remember on one occasion that an unfortunate mud-sucking bullhead accidentally ran into my lure. I thought I had a record-sized sturgeon on my line and set the gargantuan hook like Captain Ahab —nearly eviscerating that dirty, palm-sized fish. By the time it surfaced in front of the pier, it was belly up. I used pieces of it for the next two hours to bait my hook—acting under the idiotic, survivalist assumption that striped bass like to feast on sun-baked sections of bottom-feeders.

The ride home from 9th Street was the worst. My hands smelled like tidal estuarial bait. I was sunburned and tired. Except for that one sick fish, I never caught anything down there but driftwood (dating back to Mr. London) and snags. Worst: I had to end my trip pushing my SCHUCKS-brand bike up the 20% grade that comprises Chelsea Hills.

That next week, I’d mow the lawn with my dad’s jerry-rigged lawnmower (started manually with speaker wire wrapped around my hands). I’d get my allowance and then get that dopey dream again, picturing those elusive, trophy-sized stripers in my hands. I imagined calling my parents using my emergency dime that was taped to my generic-brand Vans shoes—telling them to put the seats down on our silver Suburban to make room for my big catch.

That never happened.

The 9th Street pier only gives me memories of lost luck. But fishing down there taught me not to wallow in self-pity–to persevere and to keep throwing my proverbial line out into the water: exactly the same lesson Jack London sought to teach when he wrote Martin Eden.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 19th, 2008 at 7:59 pm and is filed under Chronicles of a Benician. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.