Jake, The Fisherman
Excerpts taken from
Sunrise On A Toxic Sea
By Al Martines
copyright 1985
Early morning fog still lay over the ocean like
stands of silver ribbon when Jake began fishing from
the Santa Monica Pier. He seemed a part of both the
fog and the sea, at 6-foot-4 a towering and
square-jawed man of 75 with thick white hair and a
tanned and weathered face.
"You've got to fish for the halibut," Jake was
saying, moving his pole in wide smooth circles. "They sure as heck ain't going to come to you."
There
was a gentle gruffness to his tone, a combination
peculiar to big men aware of their size, an old man
aware of the ironies.
"I've been fishing off this
pier since 1942," Jake said. "I know these fish." He
laughs loudly. "Nobody knows 'em like old Jake."
His full name is Jake Spitzer. He comes to the
pier three or four times a week early in the morning, before the crowds, almost always wearing a faded blue jump suit that accentuates his proportions. He
weighs 207 pounds and, age not withstanding, still
looks as though he could clean out a saloon full of
bullies without spilling a drop of beer.
When Jake isn't at the pier, he tends gardens. His
own and three others. "Life is to short to watch it
fade out of reach from a rocking chair. A rocking
chair is an open casket waiting to be filled,"
Jake says.
As I leave I turn to see Jake leaning over the rail talking with half-dozen fisherman. Waiting to see who would get the first bite. Morning was in full bloom. The fog was burning away. Santa Monica bay was glistened in the sunlight.