by Jonathan Ritzman. photos by Jeff Brown.

40

ts a cold, shadowy afternoon when I make my first cast from the cement banks of the Gowanus Canal. The elevated F/G track is towering above me, and trains thunder by with no particular rhythm. There is a neon green birdhouse in the corner of the Lowe's parking lot, and I am casting just beyond it toward the 9th St. drawbridge. If the birdhouse is any indication, Mother Nature is alive and devious in Brooklyn today. There is no discernable current in the camouflage green waterway, which does not exactly blend in with my notions of nature, but I know that for every abandoned boot that sways along the floor there is life that swims around it. I am looking to catch a fish to quell the selfdoubt that whirls around my brain. With each cast Im wondering what kind of fish I will pull out of the canal. Will it gasp for air thankfully? Will it be Gowanuss own white whale? Then, while changing my lure, a drop of the murky waterway lands in the corner of my eye. I began to wonder, why on earth am I fishing in the Gowanus Canal? Prior to moving to Brooklyn I had only fished a handful of times, but the romance of the sport has always intrigued me. In the late 1930s my great grandfather, Samuel Ferguson, caught a legendary swordfish just east of Montauk. The fish was hooked around noon and was finally hoisted aboard some 14 hours later. It weighed nearly a quarter ton. The swordfish lives on in the annals of my familys lore and stories of the fish are still passed on from one generation to the next. The only known photo of the fish still exists as a Ferguson family relic; I received a framed copy of the photo when I was younger and the picture still hangs in my apartment. In it, the behemoth broadbill leans against a rock as a few cars sit behind it to lend perspective. Until recently, the photo has been nothing more than a good conversation piece. Lately, however, it has taken on an unusual life of its own. The more I look at the fish, the more questions I have about myself as a fisherman. How could it be Ive lived all these years and dont have a decent fishing story? How could I come from such fishing royalty, but only have a worn copy of The Old Man and the Sea to show for it? I began to project my own insecurities onto the fish. Youre no fisherman, the pictured beast would hastily groan. Catch something, for Christs sake. Be somebody! The creature seems to wonder why Ive only inherited the fishermans penchant for drinking but not a spiritual kinship with The Deep. I begin to think this cruel, scaly mirror on the wall is right. Maybe I hold some innate ancestral fishing power that Ive yet to harness. On a journey of self-discovery, I decide to catch a fish somewhere in Brooklyn. Its a Sunday in December, and Im on Van Brunt Street in Red Hook. Im looking for someone who can tell me where and how to catch a fish in local waters. Red Hook Bait and Tackle on Van Brunt and Pioneer seems like a decent place to start. The walls of the bar are littered with dusty fish and

game mounts. In a less ironic world there might be snowmobiles parked out back. The owner, Barry OMeara, is wearing a cozy looking cardigan, and he might look younger if not for the gray and black beard hes sporting. Im worried he might laugh at me when I tell him of my quest. I start to ask him about his bar. His Irish accent is faint on his tongue. It was a bait shop when we took it over, he says. But it would have cost a few thousand dollars to change the sign, so we just stuck with it. I get his attention again. Do you know anyone who fishes around here? I ask. He immediately pulls out his phone. He thumbs through his contacts. I know just the guy, he says. His names Robby. Finally, he looks up and his accent comes on a little harder. He got run over by a fucking car though. Barry hands me his cell phone. Robby is on the line. Im caught off guard. I stammer for an icebreaker. Hi, my name is Jonathan, I say. Im looking to talk to someone who fishes around Red Hook. And with an eager tone Robby Giordano sells himself to me, immediately listing the sizes of his latest catches, and referencing the pictures he has to prove it. I tell him Ill be in touch, feeling good about my potential new fishing buddy. After a short phone conversation a couple weeks later, Robbys agreed to give me a tour of his fishing spots. In the back of my mind I hope I can parlay this into an actual fishing trip. But well see. So far, hes the best Ive got. We meet at a coffee shop on Van Brunt then jut down Walcott Street toward the Buttermilk Channel. As we approach one of his favorite spots, Im already sizing up my new coach. He looks like Tony Danza on a bender. Even though Im bigger than him, Im sure before his accident he could have beaten me up. Hes an east coast, no-frills everyman with a dark, 5 oclock shadow. Hes wearing a black beanie, a dark puffy jacket and a decent pair of blue jeans. Nothing too fancy. He isnt trying to impress anyone, but you can tell there is still some class underneath his gritty demeanor. Hes using a little wooden shillelagh Barry gave him to navigate the icy cobblestone streets, a vast improvement from the wheelchair he was bound to for several months. Robby would turn 40 in February and keeps all his fishing gear in his apartment on Dikeman Street in Red Hook. He claims he came out of his mothers womb with a fishing rod in his hand. That must have really sucked for your mom, I say. Its windy and he doesnt hear me. When he was two his parents took him for a walk out on a pier, and he wandered toward a stranger fishing and grabbed the rod as if he already knew how to use it. His parents were stunned. A fisherman was born.

distracted by the boats taxiing up and down the channel. I ask Robby if were trespassing. Were fine, were fine, he says. Im already having doubts about this voyage. Im ducking behind factory buildings with a complete stranger, and for what? I try to remain calm as we stand at the waters edge. Were on the concrete landing that runs behind the building. Robby begins to preach to his congregation of one. Were trying to match Mother Nature as much as possible here, he says. He gestures with his hands any chance he gets, and as he continues talking, I gaze off toward the water. The deep blue swells are audible in their churning and even intimidate me. How will I pull something from this vast, unknown channel? It seems like a daunting task. Its a far cry from the expedition my great grandfather made off Montauk, but I try to maintain focus as Robby goes on. Its about making that piece of bait look alive. I think I have found a veritable fishing sensei as he delves into the importance of the tides around Red Hook. On Valentino you wanna fish the last two hours of the outgoing tide. He goes on about how striped bass are more finicky than other fish in these waters. He starts to offer me spiritual fishing guidance. Every time you cast, you gotta think youre gonna catch something. He rants on that the number one thing is perseverance and whenever you think youre done, he starts to take on a more serious tone, raising his voice a little, you always make one last cast. I cant tell you how important that is, making one last cast. My fears of trespassing have subsided, and I start to wonder why Robby insists on one last cast. Perhaps its the uncertainty of it all. After his accident, Robby thought hed never walk again. It was October 2009 when he was riding his bike in Red Hook through a five-way intersection with reverse traffic lanes, what he calls the devils triangle of Red Hook. He was caught in the headlights of a full-size Ford SUV. (Due to an ongoing legal case, Robby asked that I not write the specific intersection). In a last ditch attempt to save my life, I fell to the ground like a quarterback getting sacked, he tells me. The truck ran over both his legs and the frame of his bike drove into his thigh with the full force of the SUV. He broke his right femur and right hip and his left leg was obliterated beneath the knee. The bone would have stuck out of my thigh if it wasnt so shattered, he says. It looked like someone pushed a cereal bowl into my leg. I wince when he tells me this, but he remembers it casually, hardly stoic is his recollection. Though, like any fisherman, he loves a good story. He tells me the last time he fished behind the building, which he suggests remains unnamed, he had a run in with a territorial local named Vladimir. Turns out a few anglers, including Vladimira larger 40-something Croatian manwere having a day behind the building. Vladimir had briefly left to the liquor store when Robby landed a sizable striped bass. When Vladimir returned and saw Robbys fish, he was inexplicably incensed, perhaps jealous of Robbys catch, Robby explains. 41

follow him past a dead end sign on the south west edge of the Brooklyn cruise terminal and at the street's end he shimmies through a pried open fence in front of me. Its along an abandoned looking building, but the trucks out front hint someone might care what were up to. Im looking for security guards but trying to act cool about it. My feet crunch on the pre-natal sea glass strewn about the landing. By now, there is a sweeping view of lower Manhattan, and Im

He came over to me, grabbed my fish. I thought it was a joke at first, and he chucked it back into the water. I was so pissed. Robby confronted Vladimir, questioning his actions. Things nearly turned physical, and a few of Robbys friends came to his defense knowing that he was still in rough shape. Eventually Vladimir left, avoiding a more serious situation. Later that night Robby sent Vladimir a text message suggesting that it might not be a good idea to come around Red Hook if that was the way he was going to carry himself. Robby hasnt seen him since. After an hour ducking in and out of alleys behind different buildings and fishing holes, Robby is starting to show more of a limp. I suggest we grab a beer and he agrees. Were a couple High Lifes deep when he decides hell take me striper fishing on Valentino Pier, which juts out from the end of Coffey Street due west off of the curving hook of Brooklyn. I mention to Robby that striped bass season ended in November (as most of the fish have migrated south to warmer waters.) He insists, however, there is a residential school of fish that sticks around through the winter. Over the years, Robby has swum with the migratory school. Natures path for Robby has been a constant catch and release. After his family moved to Florida, his parents went through an ugly divorce. As an escape, Robby turned his back to land and fished off the local pier. Hed regularly catch snapper, snook, even sharks. Years later, after moving to Seattle, he turned to the water again, fishing for salmon offshore while his girlfriend of the time was in and out of jail on drugrelated charges. And now, here in Red Hook still recovering from two broken legs, subsequently unable to continue his job as a deckhand with the water taxi, he fishes for stripers at the west end of Coffey Street, off Louis Valentino Pier. It helps supplement the modest disability check he collects each month. I still had 100 stitches in my leg when I caught two stripers at once out there. I should be skeptical, knowing that fishermen have a tendency to embellish. But I believe him. The man has seen a lot, on shore and off. The next day, Robby shows up with all the necessary tackle for our expedition. Everything we need is in his rusted black fishing cart that he first used as a walker after his accident. Its an amalgamation of urban ingenuity and rugged outdoorsman. Necessity is, more curtly, the mother of cool shit like this. It looks like a soupd up version of my elderly neighbors laundry cart. Robbys wrapped foam from a pool toy around the handle to stick his hooks and lures into. There are three PVC pipe rod-holders attached to the front with electrical tape and the cart itself holds all the weights, reels, line, knives and bait you need for a day fishing. The bait today is some old bunker fish from Robbys 42

freezer, and hes immediately slicing hunks off the whole fish on a cutting board thats permanently fastened to the end of the pier with a rusted chain. He hooks a three-by-five inch chunk on each of the four hooks attached to varying size rods and heaves each one of them toward the southern tip of Governors Island, straight at Lady Liberty, who looks as though she could be making a cast herself. Then, we wait. I navely thought there'd be more to this experience than just waiting for a fish to bite, and I start to question my motives. Why did I drag this guy with two bum legs out to the pier? Am I being selfish? Is there more to this? While we hold for a bite Robby has wonton soup delivered to the end of the pier. Just as I start to fish around the broth trying to pluck a wonton from it, one of the reels begins to tick. Something is pulling the line. This is it. Robby jumps to the rod and gives it a tug, but nothing offers resistance. It could have been the tide going out, swinging the bait, he says.

Except Vladimir wont get out of his car. He drove down to the pier with his rod and he never once stepped foot out of his car, likely seeing Robby and having second thoughts. It was a small victory for a captain and his mate, and all we could hang our hats on when we eventually left the pier. But I didnt care all that I caught in Red Hook was a mild cold and a couple of plastic bags. Robby had already taught me everything I needed to know before we even cast a line out. There was still more to be done. I wondered if my great grandfather would have rested on his waders and given up. Since the frigid water off Brooklyn didnt seem to be playing host to any big bites, I decided to look elsewhere. I needed to find warmer waters where a few stray fish might have taken refuge from the unforgiving winter. And then it dawned on me. Ill fish the Gowanus. I figure these waters are likely warmer as they are nestled inland amidst Brooklyn businesses, but are there fish in it? After some quick research a recent New York Post article reveals people should avoid eating fish or crabs caught in the polluted channel. So, with this piece of double-edged inspiration, I head to the canal. So here I am, peering into the formidable trench that is the Gowanus Canal. Im armed with a forty-dollar rod and reel from Capitol Fishing in Manhattan, a five-dollar box of lures and a ten-dollar state-issued fishing license when I start making cast after cast. Yes, the canal is a bacterial coup dtat and, no, people probably shouldnt fish in it. But I dont care. It still sounds like water, and for the purposes of my quest to uncover my innate fishing prowess, the faint warmth of commerce is my friend and teammate. Something big is in there, and I know it. When I started this voyage I didnt know which way the ocean was from my apartment. But here I am, filled with confidence, making cast after cast into the mighty Gowanus. A few boats troll by me and with them the hours of fishing pass. Again, I should be discouraged but Im not. I think about how far Ive come. With the sun close to setting and my fingers growing numb, I start to pack up my gear. I continue to reflect. I think of my great-grandfather and the swordfish he caught. I wonder what hed think of me now, if Id made him proud just for trying. I wonder if Ill ever have a picture of my own to hang next to his. Then, while putting away my tackle, I remember Robbys creed. One last cast, just one last cast. So I blow warm air into my fists, pull my rod back and indeed, make one last cast. I slowly start to reel in my line hoping the action on my lure will entice whatever whirls beneath. And with the faint Brooklyn siren song being whistled by police cars in the distance, it happens. It actually happens. My line tightens. My rod bends. And my real journey is just beginning.

So, after four hours on the blustery pier and two orders of wonton soup, we pack up our gear. I should have been discouraged, but I wasnt. My fishing Miyagi had stressed persistence, so I wasnt going to reel it in just yet. Then, about half way through our second day fishing, the warmest day in weeks, something interesting happens. A car pulls up at the end of the pier. Oh shit, thats Vladimir, Robby says. Thats his car, thats his car. I look down the pier and see a beige, GMC Jimmy with a fishing rod on top parked on Coffey Street. My heart starts to race and I ask him what we should do. We wait to see if he comes out here. He says this with confidence as I begin to crack my knuckles. Robby is immediately on the phone with his hardened friend from the Red Hook Houses. Hey Al, Im down here at the pier, and Vladimir just showed up. Just wanted to let you know in case he tries anything. What have I gotten myself into? I was looking to fight a fish, not some Croatian maniac. Im scared, but I feign excitement, acting ready to go to bat for my sensei.

43