David Siskind | Sunday, 13 April 2025
We drove up the Connecticut coast to Narragansett and took the ferry to Block Island yesterday evening and woke up to a blustery day. Jackie and I were invited by my son-in-law’s grandpa, Pete, and his novia Beth, to stay in their upside-down cape cod on the NW corner of the island. They live here year-round with the rest of the hold-over population numbering about 1000. Beth works for the Fire and Rescue Services here. Both of their families were among the original European settlers who arrived in 1661. Jackie had been here once in late summer approximately 10 years ago and stayed in the Barrington Inn which, it turns out, was originally the home that Beth grew up in. It’s a small world, everybody knows everybody else. It’s not an easy place to find work and many of the year-round residents also struggle to find housing in the summer as visitors are willing to pay premium rents. My daughter and her husband just bought a 27’ sloop and will live in it during the high season.
It’s a beautiful, wind-swept, sparsely populated island ringed by rugged rocky beaches. Seven miles long and three miles wide, it’s smaller than Lake Tahoe. Once the stripers and blues move in it is a surfishers paradise but the currents and powerful surf are supposedly dangerous. Many fish at night for the biggest cow bass. From what I saw today, wading, especially at night, would take more guts than brains. My hosts don’t do a lot of surf fishing so when I return after Labor day I’ll be on my own. It looks like there would be fish everywhere but I’m sure that ain’t so. Captain Willi, who is an old chum of my hosts, used to be the harbor master here and now specializes in guiding flyfishers mostly casting big flies with sinking lines. He also owns a bait and tackle shop in town and I’m sure will be a good source of information. I’ll tap him before I visit.
It’s nearly nine o’clock and I’m feeling logy from a comforting dinner of shepherd's pie and babka. The wind is howling outside and the unique pink moon is somewhere up there hidden by a cloudy sky. Too bad. I can’t wait to come back.