Praise for The Last Marlin
The author of Searching for Bobby Fischer has written a graceful father-son memoir that artfully braids rich, disparate strands: Atlantic game fishing, the New York wholesale hustle, dysfunctional Jewish clannishness, and the decline of pelagic life.... This elegiac view of remnant worlds, of stinkpots and what is now called declining family values, infuses the book with tragedy even as it celebrates the slap of tuna on wet decks off Montauk and Bimini.
Outside
Finding purity in the rarified world of big-game fishing was Ernest Hemingways forte, and he imbued it with transcendent significance. Fred does the same in The Last Marlin, but in far more human terms.
John Clemans, Motorboating & Sailing
As Searching for Bobby Fischer used chess as a canvas to portray a father-son relationship, The Last Marlin goes beyond fishing to explore the inner life of Fred and his vibrant yet enigmatic father Abe.... This suspenseful book will sweep you away, break your heart, and leave you smiling.
Chesslife
The book is beautifully written, with lines of prose flowing easily into the next. Each line, and the space in between, serves to fill out a picture of how the author coped with the wreckage of his early life. The memoir is not candy coated.... We come to care about these people. In the process we also come to understand Fred Waitzkin ... a surprisingly gentle journey through some very turbulent waters.
The Marthas Vineyard Times
Though there is much sorrow and confusion on these pages, there is great beautya nearly profligate amount of italmost everywhere you look ... clearly one of a kind and deeply moving.
Jewish Exponent
I am reminded once again, having loved Searching for Bobby Fischer, how terrifically gifted a writer Fred Waitzkin is. His new book is both deeply moving and joyous, both dark and celebratory.
Anita Shreve
When Fred Waitzkin was younger, he thought he had it in him to be a great writer. He was right. This memoir of growing up is passionate, often very funny, very tender, and thoroughly engrossing. He is excruciatingly open about his familys eccentricities. And to be at his shoulder whenever he fishes is a real adventure.
Peter Jennings
The Last Marlin
The Story of a Family at Sea
Fred Waitzkin
For Stella and Abe
Contents
Family Values
WHEN I BEGAN VISITING BIMINI AS A TEENAGER, I PASSED LONG days in the white fiberglass fighting chair on my fathers boat trolling for marlin off the pines north of the island. Even back then fishing for me was a combination of action and fantasy. With long stretches to burn between strikes, I learned to love daydreaming on the ocean. While I stared at the baits and listened to the throbbing diesels, I thought of Sexy Mama dancing topless to the thumping beat of conga drums at the Calypso Club halfway between Alicetown and Porgy Bay. I was a drummer myself and imagined her shaking her chest to my beat. I tried to seduce her with passionate slaps and rolls and then I slowed the rhythm until her movements were earthy and we were both dripping sweat. She wouldnt let me touch her. I drummed on the armrest of the fighting chair until her shapely legs and full coffee-colored breasts faded in my mind to office buildings in midtown Manhattan, new high-risers sheathed in plate glass and glimmering with thousands of fluorescent lighting fixturesI loved thinking about fluorescents. My dad was a lighting fixture salesman, and we were always talking about his newest deals and the finer points of selling. In the fifties there was no one in New York City landing more big fluorescent lighting jobs than my dad.
I kept an eye on the big mackerel and bonefish baits skipping through the white water behind the boat and frequently I bounced up in the chair and pointed astern. But the dorsal fin and long sickle tail sliding off a wave or coming up behind a distant outrigger bait was usually an illusion. The wash of wake and waves churned up legions of record-breaking blue marlin and accolades I would receive on the dock at the Bimini Big Game Club or I could see myself modestly describing my latest eight-hundred-pound catch to envious fifteen-year-old buddies on Long Island.
Then half-asleep I would glimpse a long brown shape beneath the surface forty yards astern streaking toward me and suddenly a massive head coming out right behind the boat, swinging at the mackerel. This was no fantasy. Again the marlin lifted itself out, grabbed the bait, crashed back in, throwing water like a depth charge. I struck with the big rod, my shoulders wrenched forward by a violent lurching weight, bracing against the footrest, and then after the fishs long first run, I reeled until my right arm burned, slowly lifting the rod with my back and legs, winding on the downswing, pumping and winding while the boat backed down into the sea and I was drenched in blue water. I could hear my fathers deep cough and feel his tension and excitement behind me. Look at him jump, I could hear him say. Look at him jump. After an hour or two of lifting and cranking, this immense beast of my dreams was alongside and we were actually pulling him on board Dads Ebb Tide.
The value of this curious semi-somnolent blood sport was confirmed to me by its association with Ernest Hemingway, who was, of course, my favorite writer and who, I believed, understood and enjoyed life better than anyone else. In the thirties, when Bimini was anointed sportfishing capital of the world, Hemingway lived on the island, writing and trolling for marlin and bluefin tuna. There were vast numbers of marauding sharks offshore, so many that when a large fish was hooked and slowed by the drag of the reel, it was forced to confront an impossible gauntlet of ten- and twelve-foot killers. When the marlin or tuna was finally cranked to the boat, the pioneer angler cursed his bad luck, for the trophy fish was now backbone and a dead head.
When I first came to the island there were still tremendous numbers of sharks. I was appalled and fascinated that these powerful hunters appeared in the Gulf Stream whenever a game fish was wounded. We even watched hammerheads and tiger sharks finning along the white bathing beach or slowly moving through the clear water of the Bimini harbor. I could hardly wait to step off the boat in the late afternoon to begin preparing my rigs. In a few hours I would be chumming the water off the Game Clubs dark and rickety east dock while my father sat in the bar sipping a Scotch. I caught some big sharks from that dock. One moonless night I hooked one that started leapingI could hear the heavy thud each time the shark slammed into the calm water. Suddenly it turned back in my direction and the shark rammed the shaky piling right beneath my feet. I was impelled to drop the line and run for my life, but I wanted Dad to be proud of me. I heaved on the thick line wishing he would bring his drink out here and take a look. I actually got the eight-footer onto the dock, a female blacktip, and a dozen little ones wriggled out of her. They squirmed at my feet, and in the confusion of the moment with the mother bucking and snapping at my legs, I didnt know whether I wanted to kick the baby sharks into the water or to crush them with my shoes