Amagansett Read Free Page A

sea. Conrad eased the gear stick into neutral, letting the motor idle. He knew better than to say anything, and had time to roll a smoke before Rollo finally turned.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’ He appeared puzzled that his sixth sense had deserted him. ‘Good a place as any, I reckon.’
    Conrad backed the trailer down to the water and they dragged the dory into the wash. As surfboats went she was a little shorter than most—fourteen feet along the bottom—but in all other respects she was typical, her high, flaring sides climbing to sharp ends fore and aft that sliced through the surf when going off and parted the following sea around her stern on the equally perilous run to shore. Along with her oars and two nets, she was the only piece of his father’s gear that Conrad still owned.
    Hitching the inshore end of the net to the back of the Model A, Conrad pulled the vehicle up the beach until the line ran taut. He hurried back to join Rollo and they wrestled the dory through the thumping chaos of white water, fighting to keep its bow headed into the seas.
    Conrad scrambled aboard. Moving fast, he slipped the oars into their locks and began to row gently, still standing, setting his stroke. His eyes were fixed on Rollo, chest-high in the water, doing his best to steady the dory. There was no need for Conrad to glance over his shoulder at the rearing seas. Everything could be read in Rollo’s face as he waited for a slatch between two series of waves.
    The next few seconds were critical. Rollo’s judgment would determine whether they went off cleanly, or whether they filled up, broached to, or—God forbid—pitchpoled.
    ‘Pull!’ yelled Rollo, pushing off and struggling aboard in one graceless movement.
    Conrad arched his back into the stroke. The dory slid up the face of the first capping sea. It broke over the bow, dowsing them, but Conrad was already well into his second stroke, shifting hisweight, the oars biting deep, driving them down into the trough. His third stroke, long and measured, propelled them up and over the face of the next wave before it broke. They knew they were safe now unless Conrad popped an oar or the gods tossed a rogue wave their way. But the gods were in a good mood and Conrad hadn’t popped an oar in almost a decade.
    Clear of the surf, Rollo could now concentrate on paying out the net, pitching the coils of lead line over the gunwale, the cork line dragged right along with it. Conrad settled down on to the thwart and eased into his long distinctive stroke. Carrying so little twine, he soon began to turn the dory in a short clean arc. The thicker mesh of the bunt began passing through Rollo’s hands. This reinforced middle section housed the bag at the very center of the net, marked by a cork flag buoy. As soon as the bag was set Conrad swung the dory parallel to the beach.
    Rollo paid out the rest of the net until the offshore wing narrowed to a manila line coiled at his feet. This was Conrad’s signal to turn again and begin their run to shore.
    Speed and timing were everything when approaching the surf line. If Conrad lost momentum the dory would slip back into the trough, floundering at the mercy of the chasing waves. If he came in too fast the dory would hurtle down the face of a breaking sea, plant her bow in the sand and pitchpole forward, jackknifing over in one brief, heart-stopping moment, crushing her occupants.
    Rollo was aft, his face a mask of concentration, applying just enough resistance to the net line whipping through his hands to keep the dory’s stern headed seaward. If Conrad misjudged, coming in too fast, Rollo could yank on the line, stalling the boat’s headway, buying them another shot at a clean approach. The line would skin his palms in an instant, but it was a small price to pay to avoid pitchpoling.
    As it was, Conrad committed them to the surf on the back of a large, lazy sea that lowered them kindly into the maelstrom of white