In the world of television news, ideas become cliché almost as quickly as they take form. My name’s Anthony Park and I’m a reporter for station in Boston. About a month before this all began the head of the news bureau had seen There’s a Story Everywhere and thought it was a great idea. You’ve seen it, or a flavor of it, I’m sure; a reporter stands before a map of his viewing area, someone throws a dart at it, and the reporter goes to wherever the dart hits and digs up a story. It reminded me of George C. Scott’s television show of the 50’s called Naked City, and I mentioned this while panning the idea. My boss decided I was the perfect guy for it.

So here I was, on my third such adventure, only this time I looked forward to it. The dart had punched a hole in Nantucket Island, which happened to be about my favorite place on earth. Backed by twenty years of digging out news wherever it was, I had no doubt I could find something here that would make people smile, cry, or at least entertain them for the three and a half minute time slot.

My cameraman, my producer and I stood on the bow of the ferry as it pulled into the island’s harbor feeling great. October’s brisk sea air and plentiful hot coffee will make anyone feel better about life. Below us, on the docks, was the usual gathering for the off-season here; cars and people queued up to board the boat, and a dozen or so people who awaited one or more of its current passengers. Todd was getting some lead-in shots of the boats at their moorings and Carol had finally stopped suggesting ideas for the story-line, which was a good thing. I’d stopped listening a minute or so earlier, my attention fixed on a blonde woman just thirty feet away on the pier. She wasn’t the kind of blonde whose looks stopped traffic. I don’t much like the high-maintenance types. It was her countenance that got my attention. She had that walk that lacked any trace of self-consciousness; brisk and certain, but with an airy tenor to it that promised, if nothing else, a wonderful dinner companion, or would have were I alone. She walked up to a man possibly twice her age who was standing with a clutch of flowers and waiting at a small distance from the rest of the gathering. In his own way, he was just as striking. His sheepskin coat, tan trousers, wide brimmed hat, and Dingo boots made him look like a displaced Montana cowhand. She wrapped her arms around him and he settled his arm about her shoulders keeping her warm as they both waited.

Carol awakened me with a tug at my sleeve that told me it was time to get down to our car. Because we were one of the last aboard, we were also about the last to drive off the ferry and onto the island. I directed Carol towards the inn where I’d reserved our rooms, and while we were on the way I saw them again. The blonde was giving a peck on the cheek, and the flowers were in her hands now. There was no one else with them as they parted.

Once we were installed in our rooms, I gave Todd and Carol directions to a wonderful restaurant I knew of, insisting that I’d find this story on my own. After all, they were both from the mid-west and this was their first trip to Nantucket, while I’d been a regular visitor here since childhood.

Like all tourist towns, Nantucket has its own places where the locals go to do business. One of these was Carter’s Pub, down near the waterfront, but off the beaten path. I went in and immediately renewed my acquaintance with Sid DeMalia, the Runyonesque bartender. After a beer and some small conversation that allowed me to tell him why I was here, Sid leaned on the bar and said, "I think I got your story for ya."

Everywhere a reporter goes, there’s always someone who has a story for him. On the other hand, his size alone makes Sid one of those guys you listen to, so I took another sip and said, "I’m waiting."

Sid leaned forward like a conspirator and said, "His name is Tiller Gormley. Runs his own lobster boat. From April through November he leaves the harbor at the crack of dawn and he’s always back on time to meet the ferry. They’ve been trying to find his spot out there for years. He gets these huge goddamn lobsters, but never a boat- load. He makes around two-hundred a day from his catch. He could make three times that, except for his habit of meeting the ferry."

I took another sip and measured what I was about to say. It doesn’t do to upset the Sids in this world. "I think I need something a little more, you know, tear-jerking or something."

Sid gave me the exact same patient smile my director does now and then when I miss the point. He patted the back of my arm and said, "You should trust me more, Tony." I swear that he sounded just like Sheldon Leonard in a movie from the thirties. "He’s walkin’ through the door right now with his daughter."

I almost didn’t have to look around. Somehow I knew who it would be. She still walked as though this was right where she belonged and that there was nothing on earth she couldn’t handle. His clothes had changed. Now he wore a heavy, worn leather jacket that had salt stains on it and a pair of faded jeans you knew had started out deep blue a month or two ago. He was thick-set and sported a graying mustache that still reminded you of a cowboy in spite of his knit sailor’s cap. While I noticed all this, what struck me most were his hands; they were worn from years of stern use, and very, very large. This was a working man’s man.

I was about to go introduce myself when Sid pinned my arm to the bar. "They don’t take to being bothered during dinner," he assured me. "You wait, and I’ll introduce you."

I have to admit that I was convincing myself that Tiller Gormley would somehow be my story: I had to meet his daughter somehow.

"Give me a hint, Sid. What’s his big story?"

Sid would have none of it. "All I’ll tell you is that it ain’t got nothin’ to do with his daughter. That, and if you don’t think this is what you’re after, then you ain’t much of a reporter after all."

I accepted the next beer that Sid shoved in front of me and nursed it for just over an hour, glancing over about every minute or so to the table where the Gormleys ate. Finally, Sid patted me on the shoulder and nodded, and I followed him over to the corner. As we arrived, Tiller Gormley got to his feet and shook Sid’s hand as Sid began, "Tiller, Cynthia, I’d like you to meet…"

Tiller looked at me and beamed. "Anthony Park," he said before Sid could. "Watch you all the time." When he shook my hand with both of his I felt intimidated; those hands were two chunks of flexible granite. "What brings you to the island?" he asked. "Doing one of those story-everywhere segments? I like them."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I am," I replied, easing my hand from between the stones and extending it to his daughter.

I saw him give Sid a distrustful glance as he said, "This is my daughter, Cynthia."

"I know him too, so you can go, Sid," she said without ever looking at him. "Sit down, Mr. Park," she insisted. I’d never imagined that anyone could simply dismiss Sid, who walked off without a word.

"And what do you do?" I asked Cynthia.

Tiller immediately tapped my arm and said, "I don’t think you’re here for my daughter’s story, are you?"

Before I could answer, Cynthia said, "Geeze, dad, will you ease up? He’s been sitting at the bar for over an hour waiting and looking over every ten seconds or so. He wants your story, maybe, but I think he was looking at me most of the time, weren’t you?"

There was no way I could lie to that face, even if it immediately caused her father to pound me into dirt. I nodded. "Yes… Yes, I was." In my mind I acknowledged that I was doomed, about to be squished between two chunks of angry, flexible granite.

"Great," she smiled. "Get dad’s story and I’ll join you in the morning. You are going to do some filming in the morning, aren’t you?"

As my heart started sinking, Tiller Gormley said, "There’s not much of a story to being a lobsterman."

Cynthia stood and I did too. "Dad, he’s not here for a story about a lobster-potter. Tell him the real story. If you don’t I will." As she shook my hand she smiled brightly and said, "Don’t look so dismayed, Anthony. I’m attracted to you too. We’ll talk about that while dad is out potting, unless you’re going with him." Then she looked at my hand, turning it over and finally said, "Not a good idea. Stay off the boat and meet me here for breakfast."

As you can imagine, my mind was reeling. All it could come up with was, "What?"

Tiller chuckled and said, "She’s been looking for the right guy for about ten years now, Mr. Park. She’s just being a bit more standoffish than normal."

Once again I decided to sound like a moron. "Huh?"

"You could be the guy," Cynthia said. Then she looked at her father and said, "Tell him the truth, pop, or I’ll do it, and you don’t want that." With that, she strode out of the room like a conqueror, which now seemed altogether fitting.