A bad day fishing…
©Mark H. Pillsbury
Part One
“Dad, it’s Michael, hey good morning; we going fishing today?”
The dutiful middle-son Michael rose unusually early, but he knew a beautiful day lay ahead of him. His older brother acted as Dad’s fishing partner, but Patrick went to work today in the city. The brothers secretly agreed somehow once a week they would force their Dad outside for some sort of physical activity.
With scruffy gray-hair and a hard-scrabble beard, Michael’s Dad resembled the “old man and the sea” character played by Spencer Tracy. Despite the retired fireman’s failing health, the O'Keafes prized the trips they took out on the water in fair weather, so today Michael had the honor of being his Dad’s “buddy.”
Although their relationship was strained in a good, subconscious-Irish-Catholic way, as the independent, stubborn, middle-child, Michael carried on his connection with his Dad by staying out of trouble. So different than the patriarch, but also blindly loyal, loving, and traditional, Michael hardly ever mustered the nerve to confront the old man when they disagreed.
Instead of adopting the family business of firefighting, he could have easily succeeded lawyering; even though he rarely argued with his father, he usually twisted his Dad like a pretzel. They just kept their distance as a path of least resistance, however Michael held this deeply inside, causing him immense regret. Daniel James “Jim” O'Keafe lived out his retirement alone in West Nyack, New York, a widower addicted to ESPN, cold beer, and fishing with his boys; two of whom followed his path into public service as fireman in the NYFD. When journalists used the phrase “New York’s Finest” describing Gotham policemen, the erroneousness annoyed him.
Very few firemen were brought up on charges, yet NYPD internal affairs had as many officers as the local FBI office. Firemen were just not imbalanced like policemen, even though going into a burning building did not qualify as Jim’s idea of risk management. The thin blue line between the criminal mind and the criminal hunter often blurred as policemen fought it daily on the mean streets of New York. Fireman often had long stretches of tedious chores at the station as opposed to constantly patrolling; maybe their domesticity offered fewer temptations. Either way, Jim O'Keafe never trusted policemen like he did firemen, they were far too complicated and their ethical dilemmas did not suit his black-and-white personality; he liked simple things like sports, fishing, and putting out a blaze. Even when he drank, he did not think too much.
“Goddamn fish better watch out, Mikey, but where are we going?” the old veteran probably wouldn’t remember what they had planned, even though Michael took them to a new spot in the State Park on the other side of the Hudson River. “Where’s Patty this morning, Mike?” he asked, “Working in the city Dad, he switched off with a buddy so he could take off next Monday.”
Michael implored Jim O'Keafe he was just as qualified a guide as Patrick, his older brother, because neither of them had taken their Dad to this particular lake in Harriman State Park, which contained plentiful fishing lakes with adjacent public boat ramps.
“The weather’s so good, Dad, it don’t matter whether we catch anything?!” (The essence of Michael’s sunny outlook on life and especially in his time remaining with his father).
“Bullshit, Mikey, we are gonna kill ‘em today, you gotta have the positive attitude, plus—I got a couple of new lures for this trip,” “Where the hell is this lake you’re taking me to?” His Dad always took charge, and seemed to get more demanding with age, especially after their mother Joan passed away. Most of his childhood, their Mom made herself the buffer, now it seemed since she died, Dad’s sharp edges popped back out like thorns. The years of fighting fires in Manhattan caused him to offer a “fearless” persona to the world, part John Wayne and part Vulcan god Hephaestus.
Michael’s next generation “buffer” appeared to be his son Aiden, who ironically drew none of the typical Jim O'Keefe ire. Dramatically changing around this young boy, Michael felt intrinsically, it was somehow subconscious regret of how hard his Dad treated his own sons which somehow caused Jim to set up a protective force-field around Aiden. However clumsy, rude, emotional, or dim-witted Aiden acted around his grandfather, Jim treated him like a royal prince. Although Michael thought it hypocritical and inappropriate, he marveled at the way his father changed around Aiden, lamenting his son’s schooling on this pristine, late-summer morning.
image credit: stockphoto
After taking the Palisades Interstate Parkway north into the park, they dropped the small john-boat into the water from a steep old boat ramp. The teamwork required for this procedure made Michael cringe. Mr. O'Keafe blustered from the boat, “Turn the focking wheel, son!” “Straighten the trailer, straighten the trailer, we’re crooked; Goddamn, son, you could break an anvil!” “What in Mary’s precious name are you trying to do with this focking boat trailer? Jesus,” “I am glad you don’t drive the flippin fire trucks like this!” The relentless berating continued like ridiculously twisted Irish theater. Michael offered no rejoinder; however in truth his Dad’s hearing wasn’t good enough to merit a response.
The boat properly situated finally, Michael got out of his truck and politely told his Dad to switch places with him so he'd do the hard duty of starting the small outboard engine. Miraculously, Jim swallowed any comments about the extended cord-pulling required to ignite the trolling motor, and after quickly parking the truck and getting back aboard they were off. Relieved to be underway, and buoyed by the sunshine, Mike even let his Dad drive the boat!
Decompressing as they slowly puttered across the lake, Michael recalled the time 20 years ago as he carried one of his father’s tackle boxes down a narrow boat dock with no railings. One side contained the boat slips and the other a 3 foot drop-off into the cold water. The rhythmic swing of walking with the case pressed Michael along with a momentum beyond his control, and when he ventured too far to the right it carried him over into the water.
With the coordinated grace of a ballet dancer, Michael moved to the opposite side of the box in midair (falling); gingerly placing it on the dock, releasing it, and dismounting gymnastically into the lake. His Dad ran to the aid of the tackle box first, making sure it was secure and flat on the dock and then roiled the boy to get out of the water. With Jim you had to be great, because good was never good enough.
Part Two
With Jim as the captain of the boat, Michael had time to stare off to the shoreline and think. They did not have a flight plan for their trip, and Jim did not follow a set path, in fact it seemed like he going slightly off course.
The wandering john-boat provided a good comparison to Michael’s mind, not at all concerned about their direction. Free of plaguing stress, warmed by the late summer heat, and happy like nothing left in the world mattered, he thought he would appreciate the day just for its unique blandness.
“Son, goddammit, wake up! Don’t you know what part of the lake needs fishing?” Jim O'Keafe barked at his boy. “Where am I supposed to drive this damn thing?” Michael lazily replied, “See what happens when the real pilot isn't driving the boat?”
“Where do you want to enjoy the day, Dad? Over there or over here?!” he said pointing two different directions. They were in the middle of the second largest State Park in New York, but just a few miles north of New York City.
The red ball rose in the east, a slight breeze rustled the trees; there was deafening quiet. Hardly inhabited during a weekday morning, the peace illuminated by the intensely blue, cloudless sky belied the growing tension between the men. Without much space between them, Michael studied his Dad’s features as sons love to do, trying by divination to perceive what he will resemble when old age calls.
Patiently, and with resolve to enjoy the day on the lake, Michael asked his Dad, “Don’t you wish Mom was out here today?” “She would love this crystal lake, and the birds squawking.” It caught Jim off-guard, because they never discussed his former wife, Michael and Patrick’s mom. Even though a radical departure from their typical repartee, and as calmly as if it were the last day of his life, Michael pronounced boldly to his Dad, “There’s so much I would like to ask about Mom!” Jim said nothing and he worried he would eventually have to answer questions or engage in conversation about Joan.
As the two sat peacefully on the lake, they turned to observe a large, glistening silver jumbo-jet cruising fast and low about 500 feet, southbound along the Hudson River. Upon initial observation it was strange the big jet did not slow in order to ditch on the river; it made no emergency landing, instead it flew straight and level; steady, as if it were on a mission. They both glanced at each other, without words; acknowledging the strangeness of what they just witnessed.
Part Three
Boeing’s valuable and versatile “767” ferried passengers on long-haul flights partly because it carried a very high fuel load, but also due to its capacity for paying customers. However, on this sublimely calm and bright Tuesday morning, American Airlines Flight 11 [“AA11”] was not packed like a sardine can, and the 87 passengers boarded easily.
Nevertheless, accompanying AA11’s crew of 11, were 5 silent assassins dressed like typical travelling executives. These dark, wordless plotters designed to seize command of the “glass cockpit” and hijack the flight.
On September 11, 2001, AA 11 originated out of Boston’s Logan Airport soaring upward on a west-northwest heading at approximately 8:24am, until unexpectedly it pivoted around Lake George, New York, suddenly turning 100 degrees due south. The ersatz aviators found the Hudson River as their guide, and while other Jihadists simultaneously carried out one of the most sinister conspiracies in history, Mohamed Atta calmly captained AA11 without the required proficiency that real pilots had in landing the plane. He was on course, however, guiding the Boeing superliner on a downhill heading directly toward New York City.
“Ain’t never seen a big one like that close-up flying that fast and low!” Jim exclaimed. “And what the hellzit doin’ on the deck, trailing the river?!”
Michael O'Keafe froze with both premonition and confusion. He briefly thought about his brother Patrick, on duty in Manhattan with Rescue Company 1.
Just a few minutes later, at approximately 8:46am, American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the north side of the North Tower (1 World Trade Center) between the 94th and 98th floors, flying at a speed of 490 miles per hour and exploding on impact. The 9/11 terror attacks had begun.
©Mark H. Pillsbury
[This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is merely coincidental]
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