He was my friend

He handed me a half pint of Jack Daniels. That was his drink, strait up, no need for mixers. I prefered beer. Not just piss beer like Budweiser, but a good lager like Samual Adams (before they got big and it was still brewed in Boston). Hard liquer was not my thing, but he handed it to me as if we were tough guys in some western movie, so I took it from him, tilted my head back and tried to be a movie star. The thin warm liquid made it about half way down my throat before my esophogus closed shut. I gagged most of it right back up and it landed on the sand in front of me. Whatever didn't seep into the sand the tide quickly washed away. It was a beautiful 3 a.m. on the beach in New England . The sound of the slightly cool breeze and the sound of the waves crashing mixed in between each other as if protecting each other from being completely identified. We laughed over my inability to swallow even one swig. "I just can't stomach it dude" I said handing back his bottle. He took his bottle back and guzzled a good shot, then laughed again while I sucked down a beer to get rid of the taste. We were the only two on the beach. It was if it was our piece of Gods earth, as if he built it just for us. Our fishing poles dug in would bounce from time to time fooling us into checking our bait, but when stripers hit there is no question, and we knew that. It was almost just to go through the motions. Fishing can't be just all waiting. But thats just what we did most of the time....wait. The wait was half the fun. We talked, drank, smoked, smoked joints, drank, talked and smoked some more and drank some more. This was a sport we were well in shape for. We found this place together. Saquish was the name. It was almost an island except for the 4 mile road the led to it. Thats what Saquish was, a big sandy island only connected to mainland by a 100 yard wide, 4 mile long strip of beach with a road in the middle. At high tide it was perhaps only 50 yards wide. There were a hundred or so houses on Saquish, most of them cotteges. It was a piece of New England treasure. In order to go there you had to either live there or be on a guest list. there was a guard at the end of the 4 mile road that would check your I.D.
Steve met someone that introduced us to another man that was one of the few people to live there year round. We all quickly hit it off and next thing Steve and I were on the guest list and could fish there all we pleased. We fished there as often as we could. Sometimes reeling in striped bass, sometimes not, but everytime we inhaled the Saquish air we savoured it. Breathing in that air was like breathing life itself. Having Saquish rights was something Steve and I cherished. We cherished fishing itself. We grew up together Steve and I. Many things changed over time. The only thing that never changed in our lives was our shared love for fishing.
This pericular night we caught only one small striper, too small to keep. It was very dark, no moon at all. Sight was limited, but the other senses were so occupied they were crowded. As it got light, it showed to be an overcast day. We made it. It was if the daybreak gave us our mission completed sign. We said we were going to pull an overnighter and now we did. We packed our gear and left.
This trip was not unlike many others. Not much excitement. Although occasionally we had beautiful fish to show or a crazy story to tell. For just now I will keep them to myself. Perhaps to share later. Steve was my freind, I guess my best friend for some time. We were like brothers growing up. I called his mother "Ma". I slept at his house more than mine in the summer. There isn't a lake or a beach on the south shore we haven't fished. We had days of reeling in huge bluefish one after another out at Rays Point from a 28 foot sportfisher, getting burned by the noon sun and not even knowing it. We had days of standing in the rain beside a small pond we never fished before with no more than a nibble, but we had to try it out.
One time he called me at 10:30 at night. He was 15, I was 16.

"I know where there is a Quad" he said with excitement.

"What do you mean, you know where there is a Quad?" I asked

"I'll get my mothers car, and pick you up" Steve rushed

"Umm.......alright, I'll get ready" I agreed,

Within minutes he was in the driveway with his mothers car and off we went. We drove about 25 minutes to some dirt road in the middle of nowhere in Plymouth. Sure enough, about 50 yards in the woods there was a four wheeler, but it had 4 flat tires. We stuffed the Quad in the trunk. We had no rope or ties and it barely fit half way in. the other half hung over the back bumper. Here we were driving a stolen Quad hanging by a thread out of the back of his mothers car that he was driving with no license. We made it back and really enjoyed that quad over the next few years.
The night before I left for the Air force, Steve and I had one last horrah on that quad. We got good and drunk and rather than drive it down the sand pits like usual, we drove the quad all over town right down the middle of every street all through the night. Steve drove and I hung on for life. We drove down to a fancy neighborhood in Duxbury, and did donuts on the front lawn of the nicest house we could find. One house he kept ripping up their lawn so long a man started to come out side and chase us. While he was screaming at us (and I am sure his wife was calling the police) Steve ran over a newly planted bush in the middle of the front yard. The bush pulled right out of the ground and got wedged under the quad. So now we're dragging this guys bush around his front yard and the bush is literally tearing up all the grass in the front yard. In the Mean time we were laughing so hard we could barely hold on while this guy chased us around his own front yard.

I have a hundered stories of trouble that Steve and I caused. We won't be making anymore. Steve died last week and I just found out this morning. I haven't seen him in a couple of years. It came time for me to straighten out. Steve still had some unfinished buisiness I guess. He left behind a baby that I never met. In fact I just found out about the baby today as well. Perhaps I will get to see the baby tomorrow at the wake. Funny how I haven't seen him in so long yet I am still hurting like it was yesterday. Steve was only 33 years old. He was my friend. At one time he was my very best friend. technically we are even blood brothers. I never took that oath with anyone else. Yeah we were just kids sticking a needle in our hands, but he was my brother. I will miss you Steve. May God bless you and keep you.