Smelting

Written April 1969 while on leave before going to Vietnam, a strange time for me. Always in the back of my mind was the thought that I might be doing something for the last time, or seeing someone/something for the last time.

The broad Casco Bay narrows itself into one of its small coves bordered by gray, igneous cliffs, crowned with mantles of pine and moss. It is at the quiet end of this inlet, far from the surf and turbulent currents of the great ocean outside, where the sea is docile in the grip of the land, that a small brook chortles its errant way out of the dark woods, across the bucolic tranquility of an open meadow, through an island of aged pines, where, with a final chuckle, it trips over a small fall to lose its identity in the vastness which is the sea.
During that time of year when the earth renews itself, a traveler from the lonely deep returns to the place of its birth with those who came to life with him, intent on starting the cycle again. This is the smelt, who arrives in schools from the salty ocean to find a quiet fresh water stream and there to spawn.
These small green and silver fish, averaging about 8” in length, swim in with the tide during the hours of darkness, deposit their eggs and return to the depths from whence they came as the tide ebbs. To catch these fish, one requires a dip net, a flashlight and patience.
Bob and I set out on this one evening intent upon catching some of these fish, as they afford very good eating. The tide wasn’t due to be high until 11 PM, and the full moon gave promise of an extra flood. We parked our jeep in the field and hiked down into the grove of pines where the brook flows into the cove. All was quiet save for the laughter of the babbling of the brook as it flowed towards its own oblivion and the chorus of peepers.
The moonlight made the cliffs appear as pewter. By the moon we could see the cove open to the bay and the black line of the far shore. There were no lights and no human noise. No boat broke the calm of the silver glass.
Bob perched on a small overhanging rock and every few minutes the beam of his flashlight would play across the water, cutting the dark and making shiny reflections on the opposite cliff. We waited and watched for the arrival of the smelts.
At first there was nothing, only an occasional eel fingerling and the gleam of the mica on the bottom rocks. Then- one, then two and three green fish darted past the ray. We turned the light off and slowly dipped the net into the water, holding it as still as possible. The light went on again, and the water was alive with fish. I gave the net a quick scoop and hauled it dripping from the water into the harsh glare of the light. The twapping sound from the bottom of the net let us know we had caught a few, which we then emptied out into an awaiting pail. I placed the net slowly into the water again, and Bob shined the light over the spot where I had just trapped the smelt. Nothing; only a rock and some seaweed remained.
The beam of light shifted away searching for its elusive prey; the net awaited with hungry, open jaws. Bob spotted them! They had regrouped to run in again. I let the first go by and scooped the net again. A few more fish shared the fate of their ensnared companions.
And so it went on. The fish retreated, we waited, they ran again, and the hungry net struck.
The cold from the water pierced through my rubber boots and my hands were cold from the metal net handle, but I still braced excitedly each time Bob whispered, “Get ready.”
Finally the tide started to ebb, and the fish slowly disappeared. No longer do they run again after every scoop for they have returned to the deep, their task accomplished.
We gathered our equipment, a pail full of fish, which will never return, and headed off for the jeep and home, leaving the peepers to sing of the brook as it chortled away its identity into the retreating sea.