Drop Bait On Water

It was a nice rhythm. We'd stopped at the doughnut shack at Sixth Street and Harbor Boulevard and continued on with a dozen plus doughnut holes. Sometimes we silently borrowed a rowboat from the tugboat docks and paddled to Terminal Island, across the harbor just in front of us, and hid the rowboat under an unbusy wharf. Drop fish bait lightly crossword clue. When Tom-Su first moved in, we'd seen him around the projects with his mother. We knew that having a conversation with Tom-Su was impossible, though sometimes he'd say two or three words about a question one of us asked him. Pops must've gotten hip to his son's fish smell, we thought, or had some crazy scenting ability that ran in the family.

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Green ocean plants in jars, in plastic bags, in boxes, and open on the shelves, as if they were growing on vines. The next tug threw his rubbery legs off-balance, and he almost let go of the drop line. Then he wiped his mouth and chin with the pulled-up bottom of his shirt. Just to our right the Beacon Street Park sat on a good-sized hillside and stretched a ten-block length of Harbor Boulevard. Instead we caught the RTD at First and Pacific for downtown L. A. "No, no, " his mother said, "not right school. The project's streets were completely still except for a small cluster of people gathered in front of Tom-Su's apartment. Drop into water crossword. Mr. Kim, though, glared hard at the side of her head, as if he were going to bite her ear off. After we filled our buckets, we rolled up the drop lines, shook Tom-Su from his stupor, and headed for the San Pedro fish market. We could disappear, fly onto boxcars, and sneak up behind him without a rattle. MONDAY morning we ran into Tom-Su waiting for us on the railroad tracks. His eyes focused and refocused several times on the figure at the end of the wharf. But he was his usual goofy mellow, though once or twice we could've sworn he sneaked a knowing peek our way -- as if to say he understood exactly what he'd done to the mackerel and how it had shaken us.

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"I'm sure they'll have room for him there. And that's all he said, with a grin. Anywhere but inside the smaller of the two body bags that were carried out the front door of the apartment that morning. We tossed the chewed-into mackerel into the empty bucket and headed back to our drop lines, but not before we set Tom-Su up in his private spot. "Tom-Su, " one of us once said to him, "what are you looking at? Somebody was snoring loud inside. Drop bait on water crossword clue puzzle answers. We sold our catch to locals before they stepped into the market -- mostly Slavs and Italians, who usually bought everything -- and we split up the money. Principal Dickerson sent Louie home on his reputation alone.

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We also found him a good blanket. But except for his crashing in the boxcar, things felt pretty good to us: the fish were biting well behind the Pink Building, and we were bothered by no one from early morning until late afternoon, when the sky got sleepy and dull. Sometimes we'd bring squid, mostly when we were interested in bigger mackerel or bonito, which brought us more than chump change at the fish market. We didn't understand why Mr. Kim had to rip into his family the way he did. The silence around us was broken into only by a passing seagull, which yapped over and over again until it rose up and faded from sight. We saved his doughnuts and headed for the wharf. As a morning ritual we climbed the nearest tarp-covered and twice-our-height mountain of fishing nets at Deadman's Slip. "Then take him to Harlem Shoemaker, Mrs. Harlem Shoemaker was the school for retarded children. The next several mornings we picked Tom-Su up from his boxcar, and on Mary Ellen's netting let him eat as many doughnuts as he wanted. Once we were underneath, though, we found Tom-Su with his back to us, sitting on a plank held between two pilings.

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It was also where Al Capone was imprisoned many years ago. When Tom-Su reached our boxcar, he walked to the front of it, looking up the tracks and then all around. But mostly we headed to the Pink Building, over by Deadman's Slip and back on the San Pedro side, because the fish there bit hungry and came in spread-out schools. A cab pulled up next to the crowd, and a woman stepped out. We yelled and yelled, and he pulled and pulled, as if he were saving his own life by doing so.

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At those moments we sometimes had the urge to walk to Point Fermin to watch the sun ease fiery red into the Pacific, just to the right of Catalina Island. Often the fish schools jumped greedy from the water for the baited ends of our lowering drop lines, as if they couldn't wait for the frying pan. "Tom-Su have small problem, Mr. Dick'son, " she said, and pointed to her temple with a finger. Tom-Su had buckteeth and often drooled as if his mouth and jaw had been forever dentist-numbed. Pops let out a snort and moved sideways to the edge of the wharf, where he looked below and side to side. Maybe it was mean of us, but we didn't put any bait onto his hook that day. And if Tom-Su was hungry, we couldn't blame him. Tom-Su's hand traced over a flat reflection, careful not to touch the surface. The mother got in a few high-pitched words of her own, but mostly she seemed to take the bullet-shot sentences left, right, left, right.

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Then we noticed a figure at the beginning of Deadman's, snooping around the fishing boats and the tarps lying next to them. We discussed it and decided that thinking that way was itself bad luck. Usually if no one got a bite, we'd choose to play different baits or move to a new spot in the harbor. THAT night a terrible screaming argument that all of the Ranch heard busted out in Tom-Su's apartment. Bananas, grapes, peaches, plums, mangoes, oranges -- none of them worked, although we once snagged a moray eel with a medium-sized strawberry, and fought him for more than an hour. On its far surface you could see the upside down of Terminal Island's cranes and dry docks. IN the beginning it had bugged us that Tom-Su went straight to his lonely area, sat down, and rocked, rocked, rocked. The fish loved to nibble and then chomp at them. Then we strolled over to Berth 300 with drop lines, bait knives, and gotta-have doughnuts, all in one or two buckets. They caught ten to twenty fish to our one. On the walk to the fish market and then to the Ranch we kept looking over at Tom-Su, expecting him to do something strange. As if he were scared of the sunlight. The Kims stared at each other through the window glass as the driver trunked the suitcase, got into the driver's seat, and drove off. We didn't want a repeat of the day before.

Drop Bait Lightly On The Water

In fact, he didn't seem to know what it was we were doing. At ten feet he stopped and looked us each in the face. While the father stood still and hard, he checked our buckets and drop lines like a dock detective. The Sunday morning before school started, we were headed to the Pink Building for the last time that summer. When we heard the maintenance man talk about a double hanging, we were amazed, sure; but as we headed down the railroad tracks and passed the boxcar, we were convinced he was still hiding out somewhere along the waterfront. Then he walked up to his apartment, stopped at the door, and stared into the eyes of his son, who for some unknown reason maintained his grin.

When we jumped in and woke him, he gave us his ear-to-ear grin. A mother and son holding hands? "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kim, " Dickerson said. Kim watched the taxi head down the street and out of sight. After we finished our doughnuts, we strolled to the back wharf of the Pink Building, dropped our gear, unrolled our drop lines, baited hooks, and lowered the lines.