#hand-line

    Antone stirs. Curled up under a corner of canvas in a broken-down shed on a short wharf damaged in the Portland Gale, Rained during the night. Dawn breaks bright, clean, clear. Sunlight pierces the wall, shining-in between brittle cedar shingles, pouring through empty nail holes. Hits him squarely in the eye, Another day. (more…)

    It was like the reel for an old-fashioned kite-string. A hand line looked like a small ladder with only two rungs. Side pieces held two six inch dowel rungs about a foot apart wound with thirty fathoms of tarred linen cord. A sash-weight hung from the line. A tubular ingot of cast-iron weighing nine pounds. A two foot wire-leader ran to a three-inch long Mustadhook. From this shapely and…