There's something fishy in the state of Rhode Island

Like most civilized humans, I had always thought Rhode Island's contributions to society consisted entirely of Providence College Basketball, Del's frozen lemonade, quahog recipes, and America's Cup races. Brown University, I am told, claims to be located in a sliver of Massachusetts that extends southward along the Blackstone River and encompasses College Hill.

Imagine my surprise when my brother-in-law called to propose a fishing expedition that would embark from a place called Snug Harbor, Rhode Island. The quarry would be mainly bluefish, but that the Captain of the Mako II would be monitoring the radio for tuna sightings.

We left the Boston area at three in the morning, leaving time to squeeze in breakfast at the marina restaurant before the Captain's non-negotiable departure time of 6:00. There were four in our car: the organizer, his brother, my father, and me. We would be meeting my uncle and his brother at the marina.

The marina restaurant was rustic, but the offerings were sumptuous. While three of us opted for lighter fair, three others couldn't resist the special--linguica and three eggs with home-fried potatoes and onions. After all, they reasoned, you get hungry out on the water. My uncle, perhaps evidencing his Italian heritage, even showed us the enormous Italian subs (sorry, grinders in RI) he and his brother had brought for lunch. We Irishers hid our thin bags of thinner tuna sandwiches (white tuna with mayo on white bread, of course). We were consumed with sandwich envy.

As we cleared the jetties leaving the harbor, the linguica boys popped open their first beers of the day. The Mako II sliced easily through the gently rolling swells, making 20 kt. toward the fishing grounds just east of Block Island. Great numbers of large bluefish (called choppers) had been shredding schools of pogies and sand lances, turning the sea surface to white froth for areas hundreds of yards across.

By 8:00, the first line was down. We were trolling umbrella rigs on wire line. Admittedly, this method of fishing lacks the artistry of casting dry flies forcutthroat trout, but we were not there to be artists. By 8:15, the first bluefish had been boated, and the linguica boys had finished their second beer.

For the next several hours, the fishing was intense. We rotated on the two rods, hauling in blue after blue. Occasionally we would land a beautiful green fish that the mate identified as squeteague. Grinding the hundreds of yards of heavy wire line eventually became exhausting, and it was then that we noticed that our manpower had been reduced by approximately--no, exactly--50%.

The linguica boys had abandoned the rotation. Their faces were squeteague green. One had gone below, while the other two were flanking the hatchway, gripping the superstructure and staring fixedly at the horizon. The linguica was having its day. The boys would fish no more.

By lunch time, the remaining three of us were completely fatigued. We had caught more than 70 bluefish, and we were in need of sustenance. However, when we opened the ice chest in the cabin, we found our already pathetic sandwiches floating in several inches of water. The mate was apologetic--he'd forgotten to remove the drain plug. Our consternation was relieved, however, when we saw my uncle weakly gesturing toward the canvas bag holding the huge Italian-subs-with-everything. "Take them," he gasped. "We can't even look at them."

Much of the afternoon was spent looking for tuna slicks; we did little additional fishing. We did get to nickname our 3 nauseous shipmates. I won't elaborate, but they became "the chummer," "the chucker," and "the cabin boy." The former two lurched for their car as soon as we reached land.

Bluefishing is not a catch-and-release proposition. In the interest of maintaining a full finger count, the mate clubs them as soon as they come aboard. He fillets them on the way in. As a result, we now found ourselves the owners of five huge bags of iced bluefish fillets. Today, they were a delicacy; tomorrow, they would be lobster bait. We all wanted to avoid the guilt of needless slaughter, so we determined to find a worthy use for our booty.

The solution was obvious: Newport. We crossed the bridges to and from Jamestown and headed for Thames Street, the center of Newport's restaurant district. Soon we were lugging the fishbags to the back door of the Pier, a venerable waterfront restaurant.We agreed to demand no less than fifty cents per pound, as if we really had any bargaining power. My brother-in-law, ever the entrepreneur, asked to see the head chef, who came to the door and began to examine and smell the fillets. "This is great stuff," he said. "I can run a catch-of-the-day special with this tonight. But I'm afraid I can't offer you more than a dollar a pound."

Before I could ruin our negotiating position by breaking into a spontaneous jig, my brother-in-law countered, "That won't do." I was shocked. He continued, "You'll have to throw in a couple of rounds at the bar."

"Done," smiled the chef. We shook hands all around. Excellent! I was a fishmonger.

We left The Pier a while later with a slight buzz and more than two hundred dollars. It was dinnertime--hours since we had eaten those serendipitous Italian subs. The cabin boy was still with us, and he hadn't eaten lunch at all.

We took stock of our condition. We were dirty and unshaven. We smelled. We had fish scales stuck to our clothes and skin. We were sun-blasted. We figured we would be welcome nowhere, so we had the option to go anywhere. I suggested LeForge.

LeForge is a small, elegant restaurant located on Bellevue Avenue (where the mansions are) next to the Tennis Hall of Fame. The restaurant is furnished with Victorian sofas and armchairs. Diners eat their delicate entrees from bone China set on graceful tea tables. I can only imagine the horror experienced by patrons and staff alike when our party burst through the door, settled into the refined surroundings, and began ordering. We were trying to pass for "local color." We failed.

It was a day that, even while experiencing it, I knew I'd always remember. It was the kind of day from which family legends are made.