On my way home from the library I saw a fisherman on Chestnut Street near the brightly colored Victorian houses by the railroad tracks, at least half a mile from the ocean. He was on a skateboard, moving quite briskly through the busy intersection. In his right hand he carried a fine long fishing pole, with the handle of an optimistic 5-gallon white plastic bucket looped over his arm. With his left hand he held a cell phone to his ear. "No, I haven't caught anything yet, " he said. And as quickly as that, he vanished in a clatter down the long shaded street.
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