e was so
fine, in fact, that after breakfast he put off going home and wandered
over to Fisherman's Wharf. He sat with his feet dangling over the water
and watched a man fish. His line went out between two high-bowed
sampans, the San Carlos and the Woniya. He had short grizzled hair and
a round head with compact Asian features. He was sitting on his heels,
motionless. He could have been 55 or 75. A small cardboard box on the
ground next to him was neatly packed--a can of soda, a knife, a bag
that probably held his lunch. The sound of traffic on Ala Moana was
muted. The sun was full but not yet hot. The straight dark fishing line
met the end of its reflection wavering on the green harbor water. He
fished in silence for nearly an hour.

Joe finally stood up and stretched.

"Three days now, not biting," the man said.

"You get 'em, huh," Joe said and watched him turn back toward his line.
He would never give up. The image of his bony head, his quiet eyes on
the water, stayed with Joe.

He wrote it down when he got home, and in the morning, after he ate a
bowl of cereal, he crossed out words and added a few, holding the
fisherman in front of him. While he was imagining the fisherman, the
aging bus boy appeared with his cart. Alphonse jumped off his fork
lift. Whistling Ed Swaney walked over, sweating. Jade Willow Lady
turned toward him from the grill. The bottle saint kneeled. They
watched him with interest and concern. My teachers, he realized with a
rush of feeling. My teachers. All this time and I didn't know.

He heard a noise at the door.

"Never mind, Batman. I'll get it." But no one was there, not even a
baby in a basket. The morning air was vibrant. Doves called. His
teachers and so many before him had done their best.

He bent his head.

"Aloha," Joe Burke said and took his stand beside them.

Every Story is a Love Story

1

A red MG came racketing around the corner. It passed, stopped, and
reversed, one front fender swinging freely.

"Where you going?" The driver had wild eyes and a two day growth.

"Woodstock."

"Get in, get in." Patrick lowered himself into the small seat, holding
his AWOL bag on his lap. "Whisky in the JAR," the driver sang to
himself shifting through gears. "Musharingumgoogee . . . WAK for the
Daddy-O . . . " He turned and shouted over the engine, "Where you
coming from?"

"Wiesbaden."

"Germany?"

"Yes," Patrick shouted back.

"WAK for the Daddy