Jeremy Clean sat in a sand chair on the Siasconset beach and, looking up from his notebook, watched his father surfcast. Mr. Clean, in bathing trunks, stood barefoot, ankledeep, sending the chrome lure in a hundred-yard arc over small waves whose tops were curled back by the offshore August breeze. It was one of the faultless days that come to Nantucket after a northeast storm. Mr. Clean was in his fourth season of surfcasting and no fish. But he preferred it to golf because it eliminated walking and the forced heartiness of sporting conversation. He reeled in, placed the rod butt in a sand spike, pulled on a pair of wrinkled khakis and sat on a beach towel. “Tired,” he said. “Fresh air poisoning.”
Jeremy put his notebook and pen aside, pushed his hair out of his eyes. He wore steel-rimmed glasses.
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