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When Martin was young, his father would take him fishing, because that's what fathers were supposed to do.

He'd be woken before dawn with a poke on his shoulder.

throw on clothes and climb into the pick-up truck for the

drive from the panhandle town of Quincy down to Panama

City. His father would hire a 26-footer by the hour from a

working-class marina and chug south about ten miles into

the Gulf. The journey, from his dark bedroom to the spar-

kling fishing grounds would occur with scant exchange of

words. He would watch him pilot the boat, his bulky frame

tinged orange by the rising sun and wonder why even the

natural beauty of a warm morning boat ride on calm shim-

mering waters did not bring joy to the man's face. Eventu-

ally, his father would stub out a cigarette and say something

like, "Okay, let's get these lines baited up," then lapse into

sullen silence for hours at a time until a snapper or a wahoo

hit the tackle and orders had to be barked.

Crossing City Island Bridge and