Arthur James (Jimmy) Hoe Jr. died Dec. 10, 2016.

A celebration of his life was held Saturday, May 13 at the Reading Room on the Edgartown waterfront. Jimmy had been employed as a bartender but mostly a quahaug and oyster shucker by the club for years. Following the packed and lively party full of old Jimmy stories and adventures about 25 of his family and friends accompanied his ashes out to channel marker number 7 near Cape Pogue Gut. Jimmy had scalloped commercially in Cape Pogue Pond when he lived in Edgartown back in the eighties. His remains were given to the water in a small boat bedecked with flowers that slowly passed beneath the waves on a raw and foggy afternoon.

The following poem was penned by Steve Ewing about Jimmy.

Arthur James

Jimmy always reminded me
of Peter O’Toole
charging through the desert
on a camel
Long lion mane
flowing
over his billowing Bedouin cloak
Bright eyes fixed
on some great vision
in the hot and sandy distance
Shucking knife clenched
between determined teeth

Or driving his MG
decked out in classic
Jimmy Style
Bow tie
Blue Blazer
Running off to some gala
to whittle little necks
or oysters
Or hanging off the streaming deck
of Banzai
with John
and the wild
wacky crew
Flying around the Island
skimming through
the Sounds
in their own

larger than life
take no prisoners profile

Island winters sported oilskins
his jaunty pork pie
sou’wester
tied fast beneath his chin
Out scalloping in his
wooden boat
Braving cold Cape Pogue
Jimmy got haulin gear
before most of us
in Edgartown
With tall pipe frames
warp lines dangling
to the winch
he really looked the part
Riding the crisp chop
in his glossy Monet Blue
Tiller in one hand
we’d wave our special
scalloping salute
as our skiffs passed
towing drags
He turned that
plywood slab
into a work of art
It always looked
purple
not blue
to me
what did I know

Arthur James Hoe Junior
could fill
a book
Bulging bags of tales
frantic adventures
close calls
Long and lean
he strode
through his time
leaving behind
a wild
and beaming
tattered trail
Of love
of lust
of flair
of color
of guts
of family
and gleaming smiles
and solid friends
And then he faced
his own fate
eyes wide
and still shucking

Now he’s made
his last run
in Ovid’s boat
out to the
Middle Ground

he’s drifting
in the rips
he’s catching fish
and it’s time
to let him go
So we take him out
in the moistening easterly
heading for the bracing
sandy arm
of old Cape Pogue