Think Less, Rock More

(Photograph courtesy of the Rockmore Website)

I've made visits to Salem during the last two weekends. Yes, I'd love to claim that my object was to ponder the writings of Nathaniel Hawthorne while touring the House of Seven Gables, or to reflect upon the hysteria presided over by his ancester, Judge Hawthorn, who ordered the executions of dozens of innocent townspeople for their alleged witchcraft.

However, to be perfectly honest, I was merely continuing my quest for complete summertime indolence. My destination, therefore, was the Rockmore Restaurant, a barge afloat in Salem Harbor offering all the amenities to wile away a summer afternoon.

The Rockmore started as a launch driver's shack, but it became such a popular hangout for boaters that it was eventually expanded to include a kitchen, a bar, and a dining area. Crosby launches can bring more than thirty hungry, thirsty landlubbers at a time out for an afternoon or evening of music, food, drink, and general Buffeteering.

On our first visit, the Ladyfriend and I brought along two scurvy knaves who were temporarily in our custody: eight-year-old Conor and four-year-old Molly (we figure it is never too soon to expose them to culture). In addition to devouring the hamburgers, hot dogs, nachoes, and chicken fingers we ordered, the two scalawags enjoyed feeding the striped bass that live under the barge. These usually noble fish have here become as tame and aggressive as sea gulls, glutting themselves on offerings of fried clam strips and French fries, even snapping a fry out of your hand as you hold it at the surface. Some of the fish are more than two feet long.

Our second trip, intended as a pre-dinner cocktail hour, was cut short by the sudden advance of thunderstorms. We were aboard for the first squall; it was actually energizing to be out on the harbor as the wind whipped up and the rain pounded on the canvas overhead. One look to the west, however, convinced all of us, customers and crew, that it was time to head for land. We could see the cloud-to-ground lightning from 10 miles away.

Seeing the stripers in a feeding frenzy caused me to think about my late grandfather, George. He had spent his life as a fish cutter and then a fish salesman, and, in his retirement, he had pursued stripers tirelessly. He'd never managed to catch one, though. At the Rockmore, he could have hand-fed French fries to them. I don't think he would have approved.