Montauk fisherman. I love how he steadies himself on the rock, focused on the next bluefish he will snag. In the background I can hear a muffled Frank Sinatra belting out Summer Wind, the silver Lincoln Continental pulsating. My father sits inside, slapping time on his knees with the windows shut tight. I slip down the sandy trail, shells crunching underfoot, gulls screeching overhead. I look back to see him settled in the passenger seat, wearing a Ben Hogan bucket golf hat, big grin on his ruddy face. He sees me. I wave wildly and he blows me a big, fat kiss.