Dead in Vineyard Sand Read Free

in a career.”
    And I knew she was right.
    That afternoon the waves were small, so while Zee and the kids played on the ocean side of the beach, I waded far out into the bay with my wire basket andrake, and collected stuffers and littlenecks. The latter would be appetizers for tonight’s supper and the former would be frozen for future chowders or stuffed quahogs.
    Raking for quahogs can be almost hypnotically relaxing. You stand in cool water with the warm sun turning you even browner. If you feel too hot, you just bend your knees and dip into the water to cool off. Erect again, you rake steadily until you have your quahogs or you’re ready to go ashore without them. It’s a task that requires no thought, but allows your mind to float whither it will as your eyes roam the bay, taking in sailboats, distant swimmers on the beach, other shellfishermen, gulls and terns; your ears are full of the sounds of life on the bay: distant voices, the calls of seabirds, the slosh of small waves.
    While I raked, I was thinking about Glen Norton and golf and wondering if maybe I should actually take up the grand old game. One thing I liked about it was that, in theory at least, you don’t get to blame somebody else if you do badly. Like tennis and chess, and unlike team sports, you can fault no one but yourself for failure; on the other hand, you get all the credit if you do well.
    Of course, losers always find excuses for losing: a camera clicked, a flash went off, someone moved or shouted or whispered, an official made a wrong call, someone cheated. Golf, tennis, and chess all produce sour grapes; but still, in theory, you are master of your fate, whatever it is.
    I had actually played golf once: a single round in Japan decades earlier when I was seventeen and on my way to be a hero in Vietnam. While we’d waited for transport, golfing grunts, on their way to the same war, had taken me to a misty course early one morning. I’drented clubs and, knowing nothing about the game but what my friends had told me, had teed up on the first hole and struck a gigantic shot right down the middle of the fairway. It had gone up and over a hill and had disappeared into the mist. It was the first and best shot I ever made, and I remember thinking, There’s nothing to this game.
    I’d shot 108 and had never played again.
    But now Glen Norton was hounding me and even Zee seemed to think it might be good for me. Hmmmm.
    When my basket was full, I waded ashore and joined my family. By then most of the other beachgoers were heading home, their SUVs stuffed with sandy people, blankets, umbrellas, balls, beach bags, coolers, and inner tubes.
    Later, when I came ashore after a float and a splashing water fight with the children, I told Zee my golfing thoughts.
    â€œAnd what have you decided?” she asked, handing me a cracker topped with a dollop of smoked bluefish pâté.
    â€œI’ve decided it’s too expensive and that I’ve got a lot of better things to do in the summertime. Maybe I’ll play some in the fall, when more of the local guys play.”
    I got a Sam Adams out of the cooler and poured some down. Delish! Also illegal, but the beer police were not around.
    â€œHey, Pa! Hey, Ma! Look!”
    Joshua and Diana had followed me ashore and were now standing and pointing out to sea. We looked where they were pointing and saw a dark head moving toward Wasque.
    A big seal. It swam then sank from sight, then came up again farther to the east, and swam some more.
    Sun, sand, surf, and now a seal. Being here had to be better than being on a golf course.
    But we’d no sooner gotten home and showered and changed and rinsed our wet things and hung them out on the solar dryer, than the phone rang. It was Glen Norton, inviting me to play, as his guest, the next afternoon.
    â€œA couple of my pals are coming down from Boston and we need a fourth,” he said in his usual cheery voice. “I know