In June when Long Island Sound warms to swimming temperature, my father says at Friday dinner, “I hear the porgies are running.” I wonder what my father is going to say next? Will he tell us that he is going fishing with his pals and business partners, Pat and Jimmy Sesti, in Jimmy’s little cabin cruiser with an in-board motor? Or, does my father mean I am going fishing with the Sestis, too? Maybe it’s going to be just my father, my brother Jonah, and me. It might be just my father and me.

“Who’s going, Dad?” I ask.

“You and me, son. We’ll get up at 6 and get out fast to catch the rising tide.” I wonder how I will wake up at 6. I do not want to make us late or get left behind because I don’t get up on time. “I’ll get you up, don’t worry,” he says. He is making bologna sandwiches for tomorrow. My mother forbids bologna, believing it made of what should be thrown away. He sees me eyeing the bologna. Our eyes meet to establish a secret agreement not to let my mother know we have bologna. My mother has gone to bed. We will have our sandwiches with mustard, cheese, pickle relish and the also forbidden potato chips. He has snuck in another no-no, and when I look in the refrigerator I see a third—sodas.

I go to my bedroom wondering if I should sleep in tomorrow’s clothes to save time in the morning. I decide to sleep in my underwear instead of pajamas to save a little time. I am too excited to fall asleep. I want it to be tomorrow. My father is taking me fishing. The faster I fall asleep, the faster I will be on the boat.

In the morning, my father is wearing baggy carpenter jeans, a faded blue chambray work shirt, Keds and a Brooklyn Dodgers cap. I like his smell in these clothes. I like his weekend clothes better than the suit and tie he wears to work. I do not like his workday aroma of Old Jamaican Bay Rum aftershave. In his office uniform, I feel he has begun work before he leaves the house.

Monday to Friday he eats his breakfast in silence, then silently leaves. After work, I see my father at family dinner, we do the dishes together, and then he reads the paper. I watch my TV shows: Our Miss Brooks, Topper, The Lone Ranger and Jimmy Durante. We say good night and then, in the morning, he eats his soft- boiled egg and toast, drinks his coffee and goes to his office again. On Saturday, he works until noon. I walk to the end of our street, about a quarter mile from home, to meet him on his way home from work. We ride to our house together. He usually naps on Saturday afternoon and goes out at night with my mother. On Sunday our family spends time together. This weekend is different. He’s not going to work at all on Saturday.

“Get the motor out of the tool shed, Dan,” he says. I see our red and silver 5-horse power Royal outboard motor. I see the shiny grease and oil stains on its cowling and smell the sweet gasoline fumes from its fuel tank. I try to figure out how the small propeller can send the loaded boat speedily forward.

The motor is too heavy for me. I struggle getting it into the car. My father tells me, “Get the fuel tank, and put in a half-pint of motor oil; bring it to the car.” I wonder why we mix oil into the gas for this motor. I think you don’t do that for cars. I get the fishing poles and tackle box.

At Gilligan’s Marine, we buy hundred-legged red sand worms. My father clamps the motor to the transom of the rowboat. I stand on the dock waiting for orders. “Hand me the fuel tank, Dan. Get the tackle box. Let’s go.” In the harbor channel, my father opens the throttle full to push the rowboat through the oncoming tide. We emerge into the expanse of the bay. We pass Lloyd’s Harbor, Eaton’s Neck, Duck Island, Ashrokan Beach, Sand City, and drop anchor at Target Rock. The British used it for cannon practice during the War for American Independence. I see beaches I have walked, sandy cliffs I’ve trudged up, and green hills I’ve explored. Now I see them from the sea. I sit in the prow. I am an explorer searching new territory. I want to land on every distant beach and search every secret cove. Who knows what new shell or bone I might find?

The fishing is easy. This is bottom fishing, not surf casting or fly-fishing, and soon my father and I fill a basket with slimy, shimmering, rainbow speckled porgies, bug-eyed brown spotted flounder and black tautog. We take more than we need. There’s no stopping our lust for free, fresh food. At home, I eagerly take the job of cleaning the fish. I become a biologist, returned home from faraway places, dissecting specimens I have brought back to my lab. I scale the fish, cut them open, and find their organs.

My mother makes coleslaw and scalloped potatoes. She fries the fish crispy and hot. My father mixes mayonnaise and relish for tartar sauce, just like in a restaurant.

We eat our fill. I am sunburned and drowsy. I want to go fishing with my father again and again and again.

—-
Prompt: I always wanted more of him.