Real Life Gorgi Porgi, Book 4 by George Hodge by George Hodge - Read Online

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Real Life Gorgi Porgi, Book 4 - George Hodge

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time!

Disclaimer

While the story is biographical in nature - and, includes history, dates and other facts, circumstances, conditions and situations that might seem real, - it is staged in a fictitious island with fictitious characters.

Any resemblance to anyone living or dead; or, to any conversations or personal or known circumstances or conditions or situations is purely coincidental and is deeply regretted.

The publisher, author or the conduit are, therefore, not liable to any charges that any entity might wish to bring against them on any grounds.

Foreword

I consider it essential to provide a disclaimer right at the start of my novel which is set in an imaginary island in the Caribbean that I chose to call Angri-la.

Why Angri-la? Because it denotes the tensions and the hardships experienced, over the course of centuries, by those who settled, were born or lived there.

All characters, events and circumstances are fictional; and, are intended to bear absolutely no resemblance to any known person living or dead; or, to any event or any circumstance that might really have happened.

It might be perceived that, in some cases, there is, indeed, a resemblance; but, in each, it will be a mere matter of coincidence; for, I tried my best to paint personalities and scenarios to appear as being real.

Happy reading.

George Hodge

Chapter 1 - Fishing with Gran and Pa

I love fishing. Always did! Always will! It is in my DNA, that's what!

Gran, Pa's mother, loved to fish; and, it is quite possible that he used to accompany her when she would fish off the sea rocks; but, as far as the blue-eyed boy was concerned, I picture him as not ever wanting to get down and dirty; that is, to humble and humiliate himself by doing such a lowly thing, either as a hobby; as a way of helping to feed the family; or, to eke out a living for his family and himself.

Everything pointed to the real possibility that he was forced into making fishing his profession around the mid-1940s; but, having decided in his mind that he had no other real choice of adequately fending for his family, I had to conclude that he certainly developed a love for it; for, he stayed with it for over fifty years.

It was either fishing to feed and sustain his family; or, being faced with shame and embarrassment; for, basically, fishing was all that was left for him to do; for, by the mid-40s, he had gone through the gamut of other possible things.

These included working abroad which he had sworn he would never again; and, sailing which he had given up because it paid little or nothing; and, like working abroad, kept him away from his family for too long a time.

He had even given up on cultivating, except for the land around the house; so, it was either fishing or gambling or stealing; but, the nature of the man - so fashioned by his strict, religious upbringing - ruled out the last two.

He had never really ever mixed with the other children while growing up; for, the rude children in the village joked about his quiet, reclusive mother, Mary Maulin; and, envied him for his better lifestyle; because, his two sisters in America regularly sent home money, clothes, shoes and even foodstuff; so, he never had to do the chores they had to do; or, go barefoot or half naked or hungry at any time.

To make matters worse (as, he used to say), he was the only boy in the village who owned a bicycle; and, who could boast of having white man’s eyes!; and, his God-given handsome features only helped to segregate him all the more!

So, you can see and appreciate why he did not mix as a boy or young adult; and, also understand why he was not comfortable doing so after marrying; and, because of this and because of his closely monitored upbringing, why he did not know how to play any of the popular gambling games of the day - dice, draughts, dominoes or Bellot, the card game.

Likewise, his upbringing would never allow him to ever surrender to any urge to steal, even if it meant that his family would have to starve.

Now, I beg that you allow me to prove that my fishing DNA is not like cholesterol; for, as you know, our bodies have both the good and the bad types. Why I beg? Because while I intimated that Gran’s DNA was good, I might have impugned that Pa’s was innately bad; for, it does not seem that he inherited her DNA.

So, here goes my argument... Grandpa was a seaman with roots in Island Harbour, he being a descendant of shipwrecked Irish seafarers.

Island Harbour is one of the main Amerindian villages because of the existence of arable land, abundant water supply and fish in the inshore and ocean beyond.

When I was a little boy, Island Harbour was still the fishing capital of Angri-la. It still is today! So, my argument is that Grandpa could not escape being a true fisherman which, indeed, he became!

One time, while out fishing, his boat capsized; and, he survived; but, sustained a lot of cuts and bruises from being battered upon the reefs by crops of seas as he climbed to safety.

Grandpa was a regular on the bank fishing for groupers east of Scrub Island. As a very small boy, I would see him come home around mid afternoon with groupers that had heads as big as a man’s. He would sell as much as he could; and, corn the rest with sea salt; and, once dried out on the galvanise roofs, it was the indigenous salt fish that was cooked when the sea was too rough or the wind too high for the fishermen to go out.

So much for proving that I inherited my inherent love for fishing. Yet, how many things one inherits that are never developed? Someone or something has to stimulate you to activate the embryo that lies within - like a female human egg waiting for a determined, strong swimming sperm to fertilise it.

Gran was the one to bring to life in me my love for fishing, through putting into practice her very own for it! She would grab her fishing rod - a dead fibre tree pole - and head for Mini Bay to go to her favourite fishing place.

For bait, she would go to the nearby pond situated opposite my (elementary) school; and, catch a cupful of crabs. There was a method to it that made it very simple and effective. I actually learnt it from watching and observing Gran in action.

The crabs were most abundant along the edge of the pond, often in grassy areas. When the critters heard us human beings approach, they would all hurry to enter their holes. Gran and I would pick up the slow ones, grabbing them behind their two, big pink claws. To get those which had made it safely into their holes, Gran would simply mash the side of the hole with her foot; and, force the frightened buggers out. Scared and confused, they just stayed there to be grabbed. In no time at all, the enamel or pewter cup would be full.

How we managed to prevent them from escaping? We tied the open top with a piece of cloth, that's what!

Most of the fish to be caught off the sea rocks loved to bite on the live pond crabs. Impaled, they wiggled on the hook, catching the eye and attention of fish that, spontaneously, snapped at them.

Every true tradesman has a set of tools in his box, each for a specific task. (I hate to use this awful phrase; but, I will just so that you will feel my disgust when I hear politicians and others in high places say and often repeat it)... I said that to say this, the crabs were just one tool; so, at Mimi Bay, Gran would search for soldier crabs, their juicy tails being a delicacy loved