Authors Note (real fast)

Hello readers! Thank you for taking your time to read this short story. I did this for my creative writing class and thought perhaps I should share it with you all. Now, please do not hesitate to critique it! I am fairly new at this and would love feedback (of any kind). Please enjoy...

I was fifteen or sixteen, seeing how I wasn't concerned with my age at that time, and it was Summer. Most kids my age would be hanging out with friends at the beach, enjoying the waves and water. I, on the other hand, was on the water in a whole different way

My grandfather came to wake me up in the spare room of his house where I was staying. Although I lived right across the street, I stayed at his house because I was a heavy sleeper and unable to hear an alarm clock; that and because my twin was a light sleeper and hated her slumber to be interrupted.

The smell of coffee was the first thing to assault my senses before my eyes were even opened. Then the smell of the old house meanders in beneath the coffee smell. By the time my eyes adjusted, I noticed it was still dark outside. I couldn't even hear the birds singing, announcing the arrival of the sun yet. My grandfather's warm hand resting on my leg tells me what had awoken me. After a quick pat, he silently walks out of the room to allow me to get dressed. My heart is pounding in my chest and butterflies in my stomach. Finally, working on the water, like many other people in my family before me have done. I am living my heritage. Although its summer, before the sun can lend its warmth, it's quite cold in the predawn. I hurriedly get dressed in many layers, knowing later, it's bound to get hot. My brand new white fishing boots, or as my (can I dare say it now?) fellow fishermen call "Stumpy Point bedroom shoes", stood almost blindingly against my bed, waiting to fulfill their purpose.

The bedroom I emerge out of exits into the kitchen. A painting I attempted earlier in the year rests above the door. Cut marks along the door-frame tell the story of my mom and her siblings heights as they grew up and in what year. My finger lightly brushes against it, trying to absorb the memory the wood has stored.

My eyes find my Pop leaning against the kitchen counter in front of the sink, his tall and muscular build seem to take up the room. A faded Red Apple traveling coffee mug clutched in his big hand, the steam rising like several lit cigarettes lying in an ashtray waiting to be puffed on, the other hand is resting lightly on his bicep. The light from a little lamp set above the kitchen sink casts a halo around his mostly bald head. A soft lopsided smile rests upon his weathered face, highlighting the laugh lines and squint lines, deepened by the perpetual tan this man keeps year-round. An image I hold fast to, years to come.

"Good morning!" he says in a soft timbre as not to wake my grandmother. My eyes wide open in anticipation of the exciting day ahead, I walk over and give him a hug and return the greeting.

"Bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning I see", a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. I swear this was his favorite saying, he said it every morning I stayed; perhaps because he was slightly jealous of my youth, and not have to "wake up" like adults do. I scarfed down a simple breakfast of grits, my stomach protesting slightly because of the excitement.

Almost as if rehearsed, each of us grabbing lunches, and some bottled waters, we start to head out the door. As we swing open the wooden door and Pop puts on his beat-up ball cap, I hear my grandmother call out "have a great day and be careful!", guess we weren't as quiet as I had thought.

We toss the cooler into the back of an old '84 Ford Ranger. This little truck has been through it all, and it shows. She was flooded during the March Storm of 93', she has been through my brother and I learning to drive stick shift on her, and she has been run hard. It's a work truck, with its navy blue paint peeling off, you're not supposed to care what it looks like, if its gets you from point A to point B. Inside was just as bad as the outside. You'll find a mixture of soda bottles, chains, rope, and the small toolbox sitting in the back of the cab. All in all, I loved this truck.

It took all of five minutes to reach the boat. Stumpy Point isn't very large. 300 people on a four mile stretch of road that wraps around a bay. At the end, was the opening into the bay and where other fishermen like us, docked their boats. There were no grocery stores, no gas stations, and no stoplights. All those things were a good twenty miles away and in between, nothing but woods and marsh.

After we parked the truck at the turn-around, I gazed around. An old boat lay upon its side, up on land, The Buzzy. My granddad "retired" her after my uncle was killed by lightning while fishing on it about ten years back. He left it there, I'm guessing, to let the storms and floods take her away. My Pop's dock was just a few feet away and just like Pop, it was weathered. Boards were missing, some weren't even nailed down, and I thought for sure I would be swimming in the dark canal if I stepped on it. We grabbed the orange oil skins off the post and proceeded to put them on. Me, fumbling a bit with uncertainty, and him, smoothly. They were still slightly damp from the dew that clung and somewhat smelly from fish and sea grass.

The skiff that we were to embark our journey upon on, was small and open. If I had to guess, I would say it's around fourteen feet in length, with an outboard motor that I was perpetually confused on how to drive (opposite of the way you want to go), it had nowhere to sit except for a small cooler that was kept on board just for that purpose and it was fiberglass, with no paint as a barrier to keep it from getting in your skin. It would have been a terribly uncomfortable day if your arm was to rub on it.

As we were loading our belongings onto the little skiff, the sky was highlighted a bright pink. Pop must've been watching me "Red skies at night, sailors delight, red skies in the morning, sailors take warning. Looks like it's going to be a good day for us" he mentions as he continues into the skiff. "Time to go".

I step onto the boat carefully, it rocks slightly under my weight. I then settle unto cooler in front of Pop, out legs touching because of the small cooler, and Pop wasn't a small man either. Empty fish totes sat up near the bow, ready to be filled with our haul. The quietness of the morning eased my nerves as we were about to be underway. With a couple of powerful tugs, the motor was started, the lines pulled in, yes it was time to go.

The noise of the motor made it almost impossible to talk. Stumpy Point Bay was slick calm, mirroring the sky that was now coloring to purples, dark pinks, and darkened blues announcing that the sun was about to make an appearance. I could still see the North Star and was amazed by the fact the Pop knew right where to go. Although, he should, since he's the one that laid the gill nets down, but I was lost looking at the water, and trying to find "landmarks" that showed me where we were.

After a thirty-minute trip across the bay, the motor noise started to subside, we were slowing down, we were getting close. Pop simultaneously cut off the engine, grabbed the long hook, used for catching buoy's, and scooped up the buoy to put into the boat. A buoy sat at each end of the net, as well as anchors to keep it in place, and numerous little buoy's in the middle, to keep the net aloft. Here we started our day.

I was told to grab the top line, he grabbed the bottom line and together we start pulling slowly. Before we even get started, I can hear them. The Croakers are making sounds like loud frogs. I look over to Pop and smile, knowing it must be a good haul. Hand over hand we slowly make our way down the net, picking out flounders and Croakers with a fish pick hook, which looks like a hoof pick for horses, only sharper. We sling jellyfish tentacles off our oilskins and off our gloves. Occasionally, Pop would lean down to smell a fish. Apparently good fish don't have a smell, bad fish do. The bad fish were thrown back into the water, as well as the ones that had their stomach eaten out by the crabs and the ones that were too small to keep. Most of the fish were alive and tossed into the buckets where they thrashed and flipped, and opened their mouths, trying to take in water. The flounders that had flipped over to show their white sides looked funny, as they had no eyes on that side, and if you looked at it just right, they looked to be smiling. Not many words were exchanged, as I was enraptured with what was going to come upon our boat after the next hand.

The sun was fully up, clothes were shed near the motor as not to get fish smell on them. The waves were starting to get bigger and sweat was pouring. It was turning out to be a bit more miserable than I imagined. We came up to the last net of the day which was further into the Pamlico Sound than in the bay. The wind at least was blowing, I thought to myself. Apparently, it was against the current. Pop had instructed me to take over maneuvering of the boat just until he could grab the buoy. He lines the boat up with the buoy, but the current (which I was unaware of) and the waves pushed the skiff on top of the buoy. "Why aren't you paying attention! Don't you know the line could end up in the motor! We're on top of the buoy, get us off'n it! Aren't you hearing me! Dammit you little shit!" Pop raged. I sat dumbfounded with the vibrations of the motor rolling up my arm, that was what must've caused my arm not to move when my sweet Pop, the man I looked up to, was speaking to me this way. No not speaking, yelling. I tried to push the lever away to get the boat maneuvered right when my brain finally caught up to what I was hearing, but I wasn't fast enough. He yanked the lever away from me and did it himself. Frankly, I was almost in tears. "What the fuck just happened?" I whispered to myself. After getting the lines onboard, I stand near the bow and once again work the top rope. His anger makes him work with quick, jerky movements, poor fish. I try to ignore what had happened and stay quiet, peering into the dark water with detachment, no longer curious about what might come aboard. This day just became more miserable.
This last net of the day never felt longer. 3,000 feet to go, with an angry bear on board. Each pull was one closer to being on land. We had caught numerous skates in this net, each one Pop picked out, landed in the back of the boat. He had a personal vendetta against skates and rays, as one had barbed him between his fingers on his left hand, causing them to be numb for the rest of his life. This is also the day I learned how close sharks were to where we swam in the summers. We pulled in a couple small reef sharks (that's what my Pop called them, and I wasn't going to question him at this point). They ended up in the same place as the skates. I assume it was to weed out the competition for fish. Finally, the boxes were full, the net clean till tomorrow, and back to the dock to end our day. With every wave, the bottom of the boat would come up just a bit, like something from the sea was trying to come through. Our extra passengers bounced right along as well and shifted more to the back. I chose to stand at the bow on the way back, imagining dolphins were bow riding with me. I didn't even risk a glance towards the back. Soon enough, the canal was in sight. He stopped the boat right where the marsh met the Sound, and started unloading our "guests" by hurling the skates like Frisbee's and chunking the sharks. I glance back and say "why are you throwing them in the marsh?" Still hurling and chucking he replies "Marsh rats have to eat too". No freaking idea what a marsh rat was, but wasn't going to push the issue further. After getting the boat docked, the lines secure, and our haul unloaded into the back of the truck, he looks at me over the back of the truck, smiles, then says, "we had a great day right, sunshine?" You could've hit me with a truck. My jaw went slack, my eyes went wide, and he laughs. LAUGHS! Is he even serious right now? Did he not feel the awkwardness or how he hurt my feelings out there? "Baby" he says to me "what happens out there is work. Work is work. You're not there to play around. Once we get on land, work is over. Let what happened out there, go." He moves to get into the truck and I consider his words as I hop in the passenger side. Our work for the day is over.

I lasted three whole weeks before I called it quits that summer. That man was a beast on the water, but from the stories I've heard over the years, he had to be. Him and his brother one time got caught in a monster hurricane and lived to tell the tale. Then the time my uncle was killed by lightning. I think he felt guilt over that for a long time, as it was his boat and somehow it made him feel responsible. All in all, to this day, I consider those words he told me on my first day working with him and try emulate that in everyday life. If I had a bad day, I try not to drag it with me home.

My Pop died suddenly at O'Neal's Seafood, talking to the owner, shooting the shit like fishermen do, a month after my high school graduation. He died of a sudden cardiac arrest. There was no chance to say good bye, or thank him for the life lessons he bestowed upon me. I hope that he knew, before he left this world, how much I loved him and took his lessons to heart.