| The Kodachrome Lobsterman of Montauk by Michael Domino Copyright © 2006 by Michael Domino |
They take off their sunglasses and lay them on
the bar the so that their eyes can adjust to the
dark. They have just come in from the water and
look cold, their hands rough from pulling up
lobster pots from the depths of the icy Atlantic
Ocean.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” I say to the
bartender, motioning to the man seated to my
right. “I’ll take a bowl of steamers.” I’m hungry. I’d
come to The Dock to eat freshly caught Montauk
seafood, brought in right off the boats.
“Those aren’t steamers,” he says, pouring a
drink into a short glass, straight booze over ice,
then taking it to someone at the other busy end
of the bar.
The four lobstermen are still positioning
the bar the so that their eyes can adjust to the
dark. They have just come in from the water and
look cold, their hands rough from pulling up
lobster pots from the depths of the icy Atlantic
Ocean.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” I say to the
bartender, motioning to the man seated to my
right. “I’ll take a bowl of steamers.” I’m hungry. I’d
come to The Dock to eat freshly caught Montauk
seafood, brought in right off the boats.
“Those aren’t steamers,” he says, pouring a
drink into a short glass, straight booze over ice,
then taking it to someone at the other busy end
of the bar.
The four lobstermen are still positioning
The place is simply called The Dock. It’s a fisherman’s bar and restaurant in Montauk, at the end of New York
State’s Long Island.
I’m minding my own business at The Dock’s bar, two stools from the end, near the front door that just then
swings open with a snap and sends sun rays cutting through the subdued darkness, making everybody turn
and squint.
The door-swingers are lobstermen, their faces windburned and reddened by the salty sea and the sun.
State’s Long Island.
I’m minding my own business at The Dock’s bar, two stools from the end, near the front door that just then
swings open with a snap and sends sun rays cutting through the subdued darkness, making everybody turn
and squint.
The door-swingers are lobstermen, their faces windburned and reddened by the salty sea and the sun.
themselves around the curve of the old oak bar and making their presence known to the other fishermen and
tradesmen at the bar and around the front, where a few men are seated and eating hearty food and drinking
draft beer from frosted mugs. Late-afternoon shadows splay out across the uncovered tables and scruffy
wood floor.
It’s clear that I’m no lobsterman, fisherman, or Montauk local. The bartender treats me just like the out-of-
towner that I am, polite enough to make me feel like a paying customer but brief enough to make me feel like
just a passing stranger to his world. That’s all right with me. I’m just whiling away time on a nice sunny April
Sunday, not looking to make any new friends. I’d just come out for a few hours to take pictures of boats and
the water and whatever else might catch my eye—get some fresh air, clear my head, have a change of
scenery.
tradesmen at the bar and around the front, where a few men are seated and eating hearty food and drinking
draft beer from frosted mugs. Late-afternoon shadows splay out across the uncovered tables and scruffy
wood floor.
It’s clear that I’m no lobsterman, fisherman, or Montauk local. The bartender treats me just like the out-of-
towner that I am, polite enough to make me feel like a paying customer but brief enough to make me feel like
just a passing stranger to his world. That’s all right with me. I’m just whiling away time on a nice sunny April
Sunday, not looking to make any new friends. I’d just come out for a few hours to take pictures of boats and
the water and whatever else might catch my eye—get some fresh air, clear my head, have a change of
scenery.