August 20, 2008• (0) Comments
Harbour Island’s Johnson Creek Tavern is the place to go when you want fried seafood. Fried shrimp, fried fish, fried oysters, fried scallops, fried hushpuppies, french fries and even fried pickles adorn a menu that satisfies kids of all ages.
Everybody knows how James Bond likes his martinis, but not even The New York Times understands why he digs them that way.
It is little-known but true that my brother was the first human being to ride a skateboard on the continent of Antarctica.
My friend Kenton is eager to fish together again soon and, regretting lost opportunities that might have been saved if we’d fished just one hour more, has sworn a vow of depression until we return to the Catskills.
What better way is there to celebrate the arrival of November than an hour on quiet water with a good cigar?
Long before my first fish had taken its fly, I’d considered the irony of my investment in fly-fishing.
Days passed in a welter of boxes, blankets, and labels, bubblewrap, some newsprint, much tape and sore muscles; in rapid order, choices were made, discards jettisoned, and goodbyes hastily arranged. And when moving day abruptly arrived and the shipper’s Bill of Lading presented for scrutiny, we slowed only to empty bank accounts and acknowledge toll booths.