First Light by William G. Tapply, Philip R. Craig

Jeep. I’d been on the Vineyard a few times, but I’d never really gotten the lay of the land before then. We drove the roads from Chappaquiddickto Aquinnah, both the paved inland roads and the packed-sand beach roads. It was mid-August, and the bluefish and bass had mostly left the Vineyard to find cooler waters up north, although from time to time we stopped at a place where they’d had luck in the past and tried to catch something.
    We drank martinis on the Jacksons’ balcony while the sun went down, and we barbecued in their backyard. We raked quahogs and dug clams while J.W. sang “Oh, my darlin’ clammin’-time,” and we smoked bluefish in the smoker J.W. had made from an old refrigerator, and we sailed the waters in their little catboat.
    Pretty soon, the way those things go, we were friends, and after that, I always spent a summer weekend or two with J.W. and Zee on the Vineyard. We usually fished a little, and sometimes we did pretty well. We ragged on each other about our angling preferences. J.W. teased me about my flimsy fly-fishing equipment and my usual practice of putting back the fish I caught. I told him I didn’t need a stiff eleven-foot rod or a dead fish in the back of my truck to prove my manhood.
    He accused me of Rod Envy.
    I gave Zee some fly-casting lessons. She picked it up instantly. J.W. admitted it looked like fun, but declared himself too old and fumble-fingered to take it up. In fact, J.W. is several years younger than I, and he’s one of the least fumble-fingered men I know.
    So thanks to J.W. and Zee, I learned my way around the Vineyard. I didn’t know the water very well, or the shops or the restaurants or the art galleries. But Ilike language, and I like knowing where things are, so I made a point of noticing where the landmarks were and learning what they were called—those lovely Wompanoag Indian words like Squibnocket and Tashmoo and Sengekontacket, as well as the solid Anglo-Saxon place names like Aquinnah and East Chop and Oak Bluffs.
    Cape Pogue is a long, skinny finger that sticks straight up, pointing due north, at the very northeast corner of Chappaquiddick. A lighthouse perches on the edge of the sea, and when you’re there, it seems like it has to be the farthest-from-anything place on the entire Vineyard. Zee kept going past Cape Pogue Light and swung around a long curve of beach until we’d reversed ourselves and were heading south around the other side of Cape Pogue Pond. On our right, the sun was setting over the low greenish mound of the Vineyard, and the pond was off to our left.
    â€œThis beach is pretty good on this tide,” said Zee. “The fish work their way right along the edge, following the bait into the pond. Sometimes the bass come right into the wash. We can fish our way down into the Gut. That’s the narrow opening where the ocean pours into the pond. A pretty good current will be running there.”
    When we got to the Gut, three or four trucks were parked along the beach, and half a dozen widely spaced fishermen were casting into the water. Some were throwing plugs, and one guy was squatting by his rod, which he’d propped up on a spiked holder he’d stuck into the sand. Bait fishing with an eel, I guessed.A man and a woman, I noticed, were standing beside each other fly casting. Farther out, a few boats were chugging back and forth.
    â€œNot too bad,” said Zee. “A lot of people will probably come down to fish the Gut from the other side when the tide gets running. But we should have this place to ourselves—or at least as much to ourselves as you can get during the Derby.”
    While I set about rigging up, Zee snagged one of her surf rods from the top of her Jeep and strolled barefoot across the sand down to the water’s edge. I paused to watch her cast. She was wearing black shorts and a black T-shirt, and with her dark hair and tawny skin, she was a