"In Brooklyn, in the winter, on a day that broke Kodachrome bright, I boarded the good ship Atomic for a day's fishing. The thermometer had dug in for a goal line defense on the short side of 30, and the wind coughed out of the northwest, cold and punishing. I wished I had brought along a six-pack of Sterno. If it were May, there would have been a lot more fares."
"There were fish to be caught - whiting. The whiting is a small beast, so insignificant that I'd be surprised if it had a Latin name. A Latin abbreviation would be more like it. But in that part of the world, at that time of year, the whiting is the only game in town. It's a fish that you go fishing for, and if you live to fish, which I do, then "there ain't no bad.""
In winter Brooklyn, on a bright day with a northwest wind and temperatures just below 30, the narrator boards the party boat Atomic for a day's whiting fishing. Only twenty-six paid passengers embark for an $18 outing during the lean season while the rest of the fleet remains at anchor. The trip offers the comforts of ice fishing mingled with the miseries of seasickness. The whiting is small and seemingly insignificant, yet it is the only quarry available at that time and place. The narrator seeks both a pail of fish and the indulgence of playing hooky.
Read at Outdoor Life
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