pie

pie's old, clapboard house was on the right hand side of the road on the way to the assateague ferry dock.  big, black pie ran the ferry - and was subject to bribes.  the ferry schedule said "departing at 7 a.m. - last pickup 5 p.m." but with a pint of whiskey and a "sammich" in the offing pie would collect you from the island - or take you to the island - at midnight if you wished.  to make things easy there was a pay phone on the assateague side with his number posted beside it.

often, on the little three car ferry, there were hikers or day campers.  just off the shore end of the dock was a low water filled dip.  we'd sit in the jeep allowing the walkers to go first and laugh like hell when the greenhead flies and mosquitos attacked them from their damp haven.  [one time a guy got bitten so many times he threw his gear all over the place - and sprinted for the beach just over the dune.]  we'd then drive through the wet spot, generally unscathed - the insects sated.  on the return trip, while waiting for the ferry, we'd clean the fish we'd caught and crab off the dock using the guts for bait.

the fishing was good all the way down to the virginia line - marked by a stout fence which kept the ponies in, or out, depending on your perspective - and three lonely houses, the only ones on the maryland side.  the surf was full of kingfish and sand perch.  in the fall the blues would show up and sometimes we'd catch an errant rockfish or puppy drum.  then disaster struck.  the federal government, in its infinite wisdom, built a bridge thereby opening the island up to all manner of riff raff.  the calm, empty peace of assateague was gone forever - and another of our refuges disappeared.

i never saw pie again.  the last time i went down the road past his house it had collapsed in on itself, a forlorn symbol of good times lost.