Sea Fever

My aunt wrote the following piece many years ago about her father, my grandfather. I hope she won't mind that I'm running it today in honor of all the Cape Cod fathers and grandfathers who have taught their children and grandchildren to know the ocean.



Memories of My Father
By Janice Horne

My father, Arthur Warren Studely, was born loving the water, yet he never learned to swim. He fished in the ocean and river from Waquoit Bay. He always said if you knew how to fish, you would never go hungry.
My father always wanted a boy, he had four hopes and they turned out to all be girls. I loved the water as much as Father did. When he wasn’t taking Ned Hagen, John Harlow, Eddie Geggart, or Hollis Wright in his boat on Sundays, I would go. When I was asked if I wanted to go, I would be up, lunch packed, and ready to go, before anyone else was even up.
We would either go crabbing, fishing, or clamming. I was never asked to go eeling at night, or scalloping in the fall. Being a girl had its crawbacks, if I had been a boy I would have known all the secrets of the river.
The best time to crab was early in the morning. It was important to beat the other crabbers to the still water. Dad was so graceful standing in the bow of the skiff, holding his nets loose, pushing along the river’s edge with the pole of the net. Crabs were very fast and could move in any direction.
I used to sit very still in the stern of the boat, not making a sound. The least bit of noise would send the crabs into hiding by darting into the seaweed or by covering themselves in the mud. If they covered themselves, it would make the water cloudy and you had to wait until it cleared to find the shape of the crab at the bottom.
Poling and drifting along the shore ever so quietly, we would come upon crabs lying in the sun. Net in hand, Dad would place it in front of a crab, knowing that the crab would dart backwards. Dad would make a quick circle with the net and bring it out of the water, with the crab, seaweed, and sometimes the muck from the bottom, which was quickly washed away by dipping the net up and down in the water. He hardly every missed and sometimes he would catch two crabs at once.
After he had caught his limit he would let me try my hand. It took a while, but as time went by, and after many trips to the river, I was a pretty fair crab catcher for a girl.
We’d have our skiff filled before the summer people can and riled the waters. They missed more often than they caught. While we anchored our boat, the newcombers would ask “How many did you catch?” Dad would say "about 30 or so," all the while still picking up his catch and putting his nets in the truck.
I remember many people asked Dad where he caught so many crabs. He’d always say “Down by the old pine tree.”
“Where is that?” They would ask.
Dad would smile, and say, “That’s what an old timer told me, and I’m still looking, but I’ve found mine and you’ll find yours.”
When Dad was 62 he retired after many years of working as a mechanic in Falmouth. He spent most of his time fishing. In the summer the young children would gather at the beach, where he tended his boat. They were there when he came in from the bay with his catch. The children would help him put away his equipment so they could listen to some of his stories.
My father could tell you a funny story with the straightest face. The children loved his stories, especially the ones about his youth, and his memories of the old timers who fished when he was a boy. They loved to hear about all the secrets he had learned from the old salts. I think after a while Dad went to the bay looking for the young, for he had time on his hands, and it must have made him feel young again, telling them how it was.
Times goes on, but never changes. The young listen and take over when the old wither away. My father is gone now, but the young will still tell their stories of their beloved friend the fisherman.
I can still see my dad standing in his boat when I was young. Waves slopping against the sides, the sound of the wind upon the water. Coming into the lonely shores, soft breezes blowing salty kisses upon the cheek, while drifting in the silent water. Listening to a bird in flight, an oar lock echoing far away. It was the close of a special day.

poem: Sea Fever • poet: John Masefield