Fish fry of the gulf.

On the day that he retired, my father sprinted to the nearest vender of boats and immediately replaced his worn out old boat for another, a brand spanking new one.
As for me, I was thrilled, for the boat he had chosen had a mast and I thought, naively, that I could learn to sail. Sail? My father never took the sail out of it’s box. The motor was the sole means of locomotion to go fishing. Period. No discussion. His new boat was not luxurious. A 20 ft. long long morsel of plywood with a tiny, little cabin meant to protect us form the Mediterranean’s late August storms.

You had to fold yourself in half to enter the cabin which smelled like fuel oil, but my grandfather, who made a special trip Amiens-Golfe Juan to inspect the boat, offered a serious judgement: “Alfred (that was my father’s name) I see that you have broken your commitment to the class-struggle, you have gone out and bought yourself a yacht!”

My grandfather was an imbecile of the first order and the minute that he opened his mouth and scratched the wart on his nose, he could only utter the dumbest of rubbish. But my father was inoculated against the nonsense of Gustave, he couldn’t care less.

Every morning, when the mistral (north winds), allowed, Alfred woke me at 6 a.m.

C’mon, get a move on, we raise anchor in 10 minutes. I know a new spot for fishing, fabulous! You’ll see what you’ll see… Beasts big like this!

My father, every day that God invented, dressed impeccably like the business man that he was. A three-piece suit, a dark blue or gray necktie and a mist of “Mennen” aftershave. When he went fishing the only sartorial difference was a cap of the “wolf of the sea” style, which he used to protect his bald spot from the sun. The force of habit, no doubt…

Standing in the kitchen we downed a quick coffee, my father rolled and lit his first cigarette and we left for the port.

Starting up the diesel motor “Couach” was always a sheer joy for me. The sound was inimitable and the gray smoke, which always made me cough, was a prelude to the happiness to come.

After going out for a good half hour, my father cut the motor.

“Go ahead you can drop the anchor. This is it, the good spot.”

We started unrolling yards of the nylon line from the “palangrotte” (a small plank of cork) and affixed two hermit-crabs to the hook to serve as a little breakfast for any fish deserving to be called a fish.
Standing in the kitchen we downed a quick coffee, my father rolled and lit his first cigarette and we left for the port.

Starting up the diesel motor “Couach” was always a sheer joy for me. The sound was inimitable and the gray smoke, which always made me cough, was a prelude to the happiness to come.

After going out for a good half hour, my father cut the motor.

“Go ahead you can drop the anchor. This is it, the good spot.”

We started unrolling yards of the nylon line from the “palangrotte” (a small plank of cork) and affixed two hermit-crabs to the hook to serve as a little breakfast for any fish deserving to be called a fish.

Generally, after a half-hour without the least little nibble, my father would say: “Pull up the anchor! I think that we must have drifted. The good spot is a little beyond, 200 yards further out. I’m sure about it.

So I went to work, pulling like a bull on the devilish anchor stuck on the bottom, a 150 yards down. I had the impression that it weighed a ton; I panted like a beast of burden, my arms were on fire and the sun was baking my back. But such misery, I was barely a teenager, gave me the impression that I was heroic. I was becoming a man, a real man, tough, who would astonish and seduce all the girls with my muscularity when school started.

When we returned to the port at noon with our 10 measly little fish, who were not even adult, my generous mother let out cries of joy.

“My God these fish are so beautiful. Oh, how we are going to enjoy lunch.”

She poured a half bottle of oil into a cold pan, spread out our miserable fish and lit the ignoble electric camp stove. I don’t have to paint you a picture. What we ate resembled, and had the taste of, little sponges soaked with warm oil. (My mother had no talent for frying fish.) But we never complained, she was so sweet and really wanted to please us, in spite of her culinary handicaps.

The following morning my father woke me at 6 a.m.

“Get up lazybones. Today I have a feeling that we are going to make a killing.”

He straightened his tie, put on his jacket and I am certain that, the moment we left, my mother ran to the supermarket to buy another bottle of oil.

What Class!