Category: Fourre-tout

By Noel Marcovecchio
Copyright 1995, 2017

We all watched as O’Toole cranked in his line. He tried to look cool but we could tell how thrilled he was. Over the side, we saw the fish below the surface as O’Toole continued to reel it in. What a beauty; I had never seen a fish so large. The salmon was about to be netted and excitement ran high. If one hit O’Toole’s line it surely wouldn’t be long before rest of us would catch fish too.

The crewman put the long-handled net over the side waiting for the fish to be brought a little closer. Suddenly, the tip of the rod shot up and O’Toole fell backward onto the deck. In the blink of an eye, the silver prize was gone. No one said anything as O’Toole got to his feet and reeled in the remainder of his limp line. The skipper grabbed the line and examined it. O’Toole had forgotten to close the clip which held the rig in place; it was the reason fish escaped. “Putz” the skipper said to no one in particular as he returned to the wheelhouse.

“Jesus Christ, O’Toole,” Capogrosso shouted. “Don’t you know how to set up a rig by now?” I hope you aren’t going to live up to your nickname.” O’Toole turned very red as Capogrosso resumed his place at the rail.

“What’s his nickname?” I asked.

“El Niño,” Billy replied. “After they got skunked the last time Capogrosso started calling him El Niño.”

El Niño is a weather condition that can happen in late December hence the reference to baby Jesus. It’s a complex situation but its warm weather that negatively affects coastal fishing.

“I’m even surprised he let O’Toole come out with us,” Billy added.

For the rest of the day we drifted and trolled; moaned and cursed; drank and got sick. I think we did everything you could do on a boat but catch fish. The skipper threw a line in the water and in no time caught a fish, which was quickly followed by another. They weren’t as big as the one that got away but they were the only fish we had. We continued on for another hour without a single bite and finally, the skipper decided he had enough for one day and headed for home.

The trip back in was worse than the voyage out. In the morning we were full of hope and enthusiasm but the trip back was a boatload of disappointment and fatigue. As time crept by everybody started thinking about the two fish the skipper had caught. Suddenly, as if he could read minds the skipper appeared shuffling a deck of cards.

“We’re going to draw for the fish.” He said.

He spread out the cards and we each took one. I drew the queen of hearts; my chances were good. The queen was a high card but O’Toole had drawn a queen too. He and I had to draw again. We stuck our cards back in the deck and the skipper shuffled. I, like all of the Mangiapane’s, had grown up with a deck of cards in my hand so following a card in a deck being shuffled by an amateur was a breeze. He spread the cards and I quickly pulled out the queen of hearts again. O’Toole drew a four; the fish was mine. The winner of second fish was decided the same way but without me. If I pulled the queen for a third time to win the second fish, I might have found myself swimming back home.

We finally arrived in Sausalito and, one by one stepped on to the dock. It felt weird since our legs had gotten used to standing on the deck in constant motion; I welcomed the stability. The events of the day are just about done. I saw a lot of empty-handed fishermen come ashore from other boats. I felt better as I walked to my car with a cleaned salmon in a plastic bag but as I reached my car a guy ran up to me.

“Hey, were you on the Courageous Caruso?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s your fish?”

“Yeah.”

“Boy, we didn’t catch anything; you must really know how to fish. What did you catch it on?

“Two queens.”

The End

By Noel Marcovecchio
Copyright 1995, 2017

“Hey Mangiapane, give me ninety bucks.” I turned and saw looming behind me the Honorable Frank Capogrosso, Judge of the Superior Court. I wondered why he was asking. Where I grew up if a judge asked you for money you handed it over.

“We’re going fishing, Ralph. Abalone Ron introduced me to the skipper of the Courageous Caruso, a charter boat out of Sausalito. I signed us all up for three weeks from this Saturday, so give me ninety bucks.”

I knew Abalone Ron on sight. For some reason, he had unlimited access to the hallway that separated the courtrooms from the judges’ chambers. Every week Ron would go from judge to judge selling the fresh catch of the day. They must have been great customers because Ron had been showing up for years.

I had never been fishing in my life. The only boat I ever been aboard was the Staten Island ferry. Somehow I couldn’t picture myself on some tub chugging into the swells of the blue Pacific. I told Capogrosso that I wasn’t a fisherman and didn’t want to go.

“Cut it out Ralph, and give me the money. I got a bunch of guys from the DA’s off and the PD too. A few cops too but I want some guys from the private bar, so you’re coming. Look, you’ll bring home some salmon; it’ll make your sister happy; how bad can it be?”

I tried to explain that I knew nothing about salmon fishing but he assured me that there was nothing to know. The skipper used an electronic fish finder; the crew baited the hooks and when you caught something they netted it into the boat. I left Capogrosso ninety dollars lighter.

The day arrived and I woke up at 4:30 am. I stumbled out of my house, into my car and drove over the bridge to Sausalito. I parked and saw Capogrosso’s other victims. What a dismal looking group, but Capogrosso was like a bumblebee buzzing from one sleepy victim to the next with a thermos of coffee. The group included my best friend Norman Coombs, assistant DA Billy Figiarino, an assortment of lawyers, homicide inspectors, Dr. Rusty Podcoddler from the coroner’s office plus defense lawyer and self-proclaimed fishing expert, Hugh O’Toole.

O’Toole seemed to share Capogrosso’s enthusiasm. He was wide awake and talked constantly about all of the websites he had checked for the latest hot spots and of previous fishing adventures. Not bad I thought, somebody with a little experience… but then O’Toole managed to get snarled in his own tackle before we boarded the boat.

Now awake and resigned, we climbed on board and headed out. The Courageous Caruso surged through the Golden Gate, rising and falling through the incoming tide. I didn’t feel too well and I could see that I wasn’t alone. Norm yelled, “I think I’m going to die!” Capogrosso thought that was funny and shouted, “Hey Doctor Rusty, I think we’re going to have some customers for you in a minute. At the end of his laughing fit, Capogrosso turned to O’Toole. “I hope this trip is better than the last time.”

We chugged out to sea. The skipper kept checking the fish finder and radioed other boats in an attempt to find salmon. After about two hours of seemingly aimless search, he declared that we had arrived where the fish were hiding. Everyone got ready. The hooks were baited with anchovies and each attached it to a rig that was weighted with something like a small lead cannonball. After that, we stood elbow to elbow for hours dragging lead spheres through the waters off Marin County without a hint of salmon.

Grumpy would be a kind way of describing our disposition. People were muttering comments about Capogrosso’s fish wisdom. Of course, the lawyers couldn’t say too much. We had to appear in front of him and were afraid that he’d hold a grudge. On the other hand, the cops, who had more than a few Irish coffees, began to let him have it. I could see Capogrosso stew and start to boil over. It wasn’t his fault that the fish weren’t biting but he planned the outing and made us all chip in so it was his brunt to bear, but suddenly there was a cry. “O’Toole’s got one; O’Toole’s got one!”

To be continued… be sure to look for the end of this story in the coming days.

“There is no kind of harassment that a man may not inflict on a woman with impunity in civilized societies.” Denis Diderot

Sexual harassment stories are sweeping across the land and wreaking havoc everywhere. Many well-known powerbrokers are quietly stepping down or running for the hills. As during the McCarthy’s Red Scare era, nobody feels safe… especially those shady characters who abused their influence to coerce vulnerable young people.

Sexual harassment is a form of crass ignorance reflecting a basic lack of education and good manners. It is vastly different from flirting.
Flirting is playful, understated, often amusing. Harassment, on the other hand, is heavy-handed, crude and threatening. If you cannot tell the difference between these two approaches, you are a neanderthal.

Women generally speaking like compliments; it makes them feel good about themselves. In the Spanish-speaking world, men often use original, creative, flirtatious compliments known as “piropos”. It tells a woman how cute, or beautiful she is.

“For you, I would climb to heaven by bicycle and descend without brakes.”

As long as it is lighthearted it is an acceptable form of flirtation; in Argentina, it is even considered an art form.

France used to be known as the land of “galanterie”.
“Gallantry is a set of flattering compliments addressed to women. Many people see it as a form of politeness and savoir-vivre, and it is also considered a means of seduction.”

In the 17^th century, some aristocratic French ladies created an imaginary map called “la Carte du Tendre” (the Map of Tendre). It showed would-be lovers how to behave and how to win a lady’s heart. Such a map is sorely missing today. Many men (and women) don’t have the slightest idea how to conduct themselves in a polite society.

While individuals guilty of sexual harassment should be rightly prosecuted, the root of the problem lies with education. Galanterie, the proper way to treat women, should be a mandatory subject taught in high school and beyond.

It is not enough to be proficient in athletics or cybernetics. Being a gentleman (chivalrous and courteous) is more gratifying in the long run than being a bigwig bully in any organization.

Alain