They reached the ocean as the pale pink of first light stained the purple water. The gulls sat silent in a line high on the rigging, resting as they enjoyed the free ride before breakfast. Carolina and Bud slipped outdoors to watch and listen to the world as it slowly awakened. Bud wrapped his arm around her as they stood on the deck and sipped their coffee. The Milky Way was still a faint haze in the sky beside a ghostly moon.
These were the moments Carolina loved most, being in Bud’s arms when the ocean was quiet and full of promise and the outriggers were folded toward the sky like hands held in prayer to the new day. She felt that such moments strengthened their union in a sacred bond more powerful than a spoken vow.
A mile or so out, she saw the dark outlines of several other shrimp boats. Their serene appearance was misleading, for she knew the crews were scrambling, poised to drop nets and begin trawling. Bud gently squeezed her shoulders, signaling it was time for them to get to work. He went to the pilothouse to slow the boat while she readied the nets. It was a time to hustle with lines, ropes, and pulleys. He hurried back to the winch and shouted directions, which she promptly followed. They worked in synchronization, neither needing to fill the silence with empty chatter. Out here their relationship was strictly that of captain and striker. When the red sun burst above the horizon, she heard the growl of the winch as the drum rolled out cable and lowered the nets into the sea.
Bud protected Carolina from the more dangerous jobs, as much as he was able. Anyone who made a living on or near the water knew the hazards of drums turning and ropes tangling. He wouldn’t let Carolina work the winch or climb out on the rigging. If they pulled in a good-size shark, he’d handle the fish.
The sun’s light was blanketing the ocean by the time the outriggers’ nets were dragging the sea floor. The engine thrummed loudly at dragging speed. Carolina felt the tug and pull as the nets spread out below the surface. She took this time to head down to the galley to cook up a hearty breakfast of shrimp and grits. Bud always had an enthusiastic appetite and praised her fast-developing cooking skills, assuring her Pee Dee’s gravy couldn’t hold a candle to hers.
After breakfast, they went back to work. Bud checked the try net, a small sampling net that could be quickly hauled up to reveal what the big nets were catching and indicate whether they should stay or move elsewhere. If the sample was scant, Bud’s face would pinch and he’d shake his head with disgust and mutter under his breath. Carolina had learned to be silent at such moments and patiently wait as they moved on to another area. She held her breath, looking out at the sea that had turned from dark purple to a steely gray that mirrored the rising sun. When she looked again at Bud, he was grinning and gave her the thumbs-up.
Carolina pulled off her sweater and donned a pair of rubber gloves, adrenaline pumping in her veins. Bud was in constant motion. He was a master at his job, using instinct as much as experience. He’d been shrimping since he could walk, and his movements were so familiar they were ingrained—watching the sea, pulling in the nets, running to the wheelhouse to adjust their speed, always with an eye on the winch.
The winch wailed again as it pulled up the main net. She tensed as the wood plank doors emerged, the cable clanging loudly amid a cacophony of screaming gulls. They formed a white cloud above the net as it slowly emerged, dripping, from the sea. The frenzied birds dove for any spare bits of shrimp or fish that might tumble from the bag, while below bottlenose dolphins arced and dipped alongside the boat, eager for the feast sure to come.
She trained her gaze on the hovering net while Bud maneuvered it over the deck. In a swift movement, he lurched to grab hold of one green webbed bag with a hook and wrestled it into position. Then, with a powerful tug at the drawstring, the net burst open and a bounty of glistening sea creatures slid out, hitting the deck with a shimmering splash. Carolina jumped to grab the small silver shovel and dove in as Bud opened the other net. It was hard work culling through the mound, hard to see so many gasping fish die. Crabs scuttled across the deck to hide under anything in their path and, if lucky, out of the scupper holes back into the ocean. She wished she could stop working long enough to throw the drum, spot, juvenile sharks, squid, urchins, rays, and others back into the sea. Bud often talked about designing a net that would somehow filter out the bycatch, but that was a pipe dream. Time was critical, so she bent to the task, doing her job of tossing the shrimp into baskets.
The gloves protected her hands as she picked through the squirming mess, but the shrimp were prickly and cut through the rubber, leaking juice that stung her tender flesh. Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t have a free hand to wipe them away, so she gritted her teeth and let them flow. Bud came to sit beside her and help cull through the enormous pile. His hands were roughened and moved quickly. She wasn’t nearly as fast as him—or Pee Dee or Bobby. It took more than two hours to sort out the shrimp. When they were done, they washed the grime from the shrimp, iced them, and finally stored them below deck.
Then it all began again. Bud returned to the winch to lower the nets back into the sea. Meanwhile, Carolina shoveled the trash fish overboard to a grateful horde of dolphins and birds. Finally, she scrubbed the decks with a broom. It was hard work, grueling at times, but she loved the freedom of wearing anything she wanted, of being independent, and of getting away with Bud on their boat, alone on the great open sea. On a good day, she had to admit, it was romantic. This was a sentiment shared by most women who worked on the water. But the work was hard, there was no denying it.
While the nets dragged, Carolina could take a welcome break. Sometimes she grabbed a book and read for a while, but today the sea was calm, so she indulged in a favorite pastime. Her arms and legs felt weak from exertion, but she grasped the rungs of the ladder and, with her face to the sun, climbed up to the rigging. When she reached the height of the birds she stopped, clinging to the rigging like a gull. From her perch she could gaze far out over the ocean.
It was nearing eleven in the morning, and the blazing sun had bleached the ocean to a pastel blue. She loved to hear the sounds of the seabirds around her and to watch the pelicans fly in formation like bombardiers on patrol. Below, she spotted three dolphins racing alongside the boat, keeping pace. From time to time, one leaped above the water as if in play. She laughed aloud, delighting at the glistening silver body and the sheer joy of a spectacle that never grew old.
The borders of sky and sea blended into one silvery blue palette that went on to infinity. The vista was so vast it made her troubles seem tiny. She found that oddly freeing, and breathed fresh air deep into her lungs. She loved being out here on the open water. Loved being with Bud. How could she ever give this up? she wondered. No matter how exhausted she was when she began her climb up to her perch, she was always revived by the time she came down.
There were two more good hauls before Bud called it a day. Carolina’s arms hung loose at her sides and her back was aching. She couldn’t wait to shower. The sun had begun its westward slide by the time they plowed through the endless maze of marsh grass and snaking water, riding the incoming tide home.
Back at the dock, their last job was to unload their catch at the fish house. Some boats stayed out longer if they were catching shrimp, but Bud could see how exhausted Carolina was. They dropped anchor offshore for the night.
The light faded slowly, changing the water of the creek into stained glass. As was their habit, they ate dinner together under the moon and stars, listening to the night music of waves lapping against wood. Some nights they drank beer and talked about the house repairs and news of family and friends, or had deep philosophical conversations, but tonight Carolina was exhausted and went below to their cabin.
She showered with her favorite lavender soap, scrubbing off the slime and dirt of the day, and let the hot water sluice down her aching muscles. The thirsty towel felt heavy in her weak arms. Her hands stung from the pricks of the shrimp horns. She let the towel drop, holding them out before her. Her palms were chapped
, scraped, and raw, and they hurt like the devil. Feeling tears sting her eyes, she curled up on the bed, bringing the blanket around her shoulders. From out in the galley, she heard the high whistle of the teakettle and the cupboards opening and closing.
Bud stepped gingerly into the room balancing a steaming cup of tea. She caught the scent of chamomile and honey, and had a sudden yearning for it.
“I thought you might like something warm to drink.”
She pulled herself up to sit, murmuring, “Thank you.” After arranging the pillows behind her, she reached out for the creamy mug. “This is so nice.”
Bud paused, noticing her hands.
“Don’t look at them,” she said, self-consciously pulling her hands back. “They’re ugly.”
His brows furrowed with concern. “To me, they’re beautiful.”
“They’re not. They’re as red as lobsters.”
Bud set the tea down on the shelf and lay down beside her. He gently tugged her hands toward him to study them, then raised them to his lips. He kissed one palm, then the other. Then he slid his arms around her and they settled back against the pillows.
“You smell good,” he told her.
“I smell like fish.”
“That’s what I said. You smell good.” He turned to peer into her face. “Are you feeling okay? You’re not coming down with something?”
“No, I don’t think so. But, oh, Bud, I’m so tired,” she said, yawning wide. “My hands hurt, my back hurts, my eyes hurt. Everything hurts.”
He tightened his arms around her. His muscles felt like iron straps when he squeezed. “Aw, babe, I hate to see you hurting. This life can be brutal. You didn’t grow up on a boat like I did.” He snorted. “Hardly. I warned you,” he said gently, and she didn’t hear any teasing or scolding in the tone.
They’d talked about the dangers of being a deckhand, about the long hours and harsh conditions. For her, it was a whole new way of life. But Carolina had wanted it. She still did.
“I just have to toughen up. I’ll be okay.”
“You know,” he began with a slight hesitation, “there’s no shame in quitting. Every year we see some newcomer take it up, then quit before the end of the season. They think anyone with a boat can be a shrimper. They think what we do is easy. I wish it were.”
“Well, I know it’s not easy,” she quipped.
“Especially not for a woman.”
He looked down, and Carolina stole the moment to study his face, to gauge the sudden seriousness of his tone. His face, so tan and weathered from a summer in the sun, was taciturn. When he looked up, his blue irises shone against the white.
“Hell, most of the guys can’t believe you’re even giving it a try. They tease me about it.”
“The women tease me,” she confessed. “Mrs. Macon told me she didn’t think it was decent to be out on the boats, acting like a man.”
Bud snorted. “Mrs. Macon, that ol’ busybody.”
“I don’t care what she says. I don’t care what anybody thinks, except you.”
“You know what I think. I’m proud of you. But, Carolina, it’s up to you. Pee Dee is ready and willing to come back as my striker. Sure, the money we’re saving with you working is good. But we can afford for you to quit and have babies if you want. Or you can go back to teaching. You can even be shore skipper and manage the boat’s business from dry land. A lot of shrimpers’ wives do that. But for you to work on the boat as crew, I have to depend on you. It’s got to be your life. A commitment. Otherwise, it’s too damn much work, more than it’s worth, if you ask me. You have to love it, because it’ll take all you got.”
“I know you love it.” Her voice was soft.
“I do. But I love you more. Carolina, I won’t stop loving you if you decide to quit.”
She sighed heavily and rested her head on his shoulder. His shirt smelled of fish and sweat, a male smell that was all Bud. “Who’s talking about quitting? Like I said, I’m just tired.”
Bud bent to kiss her. “You should be. It was a tough day. You worked hard. You’re the best deckhand I’ve ever had.”
“Sure….
“I guess I’m not good at telling you this, but it’s great having you with me. We make a good team, you know? I know what you’re thinking just by the look on your face. You cook a damn sight better than Pee Dee ever could. And I sure as hell can’t hug or kiss Bobby when I get the urge.” He chuckled. “And I’m tired of hearing about his women.”
She laughed softly, thinking of those sudden hugs and kisses that came when the work was at its roughest and she was ready to quit. They gave her strength and the work meaning, and reminded her of why she was doing this. Sometimes something so little could keep a woman going.
“Seriously, Carolina, whether you stay on the boat with me or decide to stay on shore, it won’t make a whit of difference how I feel about you. You know that, don’t you? What we have is forever.”
She looked into his eyes and saw the ocean. She’d married a man more at home on the sea than on land, and she knew if she wanted to be part of his life, she’d have to join him.
“I remember telling you at the start that I wanted to go out on the boat with you every day instead of being left behind on shore. I know it’s a tough life, and I wouldn’t advise many women to go into it, at least not without knowing what to expect.” Her lips twisted into a smug grin. “But I’m not most women. I thought you knew that by now.” She dropped her smile and placed her hand on his chest, over his heart.
“I might be new at this, and you’ve been more than a patient teacher. I don’t mean to whine and complain. Bud, I do love this life,” she told him, and meant every syllable. “I love working with you, being with you every day and every night. I may be hurting now, but I’d die if you left me behind on the dock.”
A myriad of emotions flickered across his face as he stared at her. He raised his hand to stroke her damp hair from her face. His calluses felt rough against her tender skin. Slowly, gently, he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. Then he lifted away the blanket and his eyes slowly, possessively swept across the curves of her nakedness. Rising above her, Bud bent to kiss her sore muscles, taking his time as her body loosened beneath his lips.
The day ended as it had begun. As so many had before it. She fell asleep to the sound of fish jumping in the racing current that filled the creeks, the sounds, and the estuaries, overflowing the mudflats, rocking the boat gently on the rising tide.
September 21, 2008
Mount Pleasant
Carolina felt a gentle shake.
“Mrs. Morrison? The Novocain should have taken hold by now,” Dr. Assey said. “Are you ready?”
Carolina blinked heavily, dragging herself back from her memories. Dr. Assey sat on the stool beside her while his assistant carefully laid out tools on the small metal tray over her chest. The dentist’s movements were sure and steady. She could smell the antiseptic on his hands, hear the crispness of his white coat when he moved. As he probed the decayed tooth, Carolina couldn’t help but compare those halcyon early days of her marriage to the lassitude she and Bud shared today.
She’d spent six years working side by side with Bud aboard the Miss Ann. Oh, she’d felt such passion then. It was as quicksilver as the sea—easy, stormy, serene, turbulent. But her love was constant. Deep and unfathomable.
When had it started to change? In the twilight stage of painlessness, Carolina could consider this question without the usual upheaval of emotions that sparked either fury or heartbreak. She could probe and pick, rather like the dentist was doing with her tooth, to seek out the roots of decay.
She’d have to say that it began with the Miss Carolina.
Bud had always wanted to build a fiberglass boat. It was a relatively new concept in McClellanville in the seventies. The guys had read about them in the trade magazines and seen a few in Florida, but no one had anything but a wood hull that fell victim to the worms. Bud’s was the first—and Carolin
a knew him well enough to realize that was part of its charm. He was a proud man. This boat would be his, not a hand-me-down.
For two years, he’d spent every spare moment and all of the off-seasons in the abandoned horse arena owned by his friend in Georgetown. The trawler was built hanging upside down inside the facility. She used to joke that she was jealous of that boat, but in hindsight she saw plainly that the building of the boat marked the beginning of his long hours away from her. Her husband spent more time stroking the frame of the hull than he did his wife.
She couldn’t deny she was proud of the boat. All the days, months, years of backbreaking work, stinging hands, sunburned skin, pinching pennies came to fruition when Bud arrived with their new trawler in McClellanville. Carolina had stood on the dock with friends and family, cheering at the first sight of the beautiful boat. Her voice silenced in her throat when she saw, boldly emblazoned in berry red on the hull of his dream, the name Miss Carolina.
Bud had honored her in the seaman’s tradition. It was a validation of her hard work, her support, and his love. She’d blushed and told everyone he ought not to have done it. Inside her heart, however, she was beaming with pride.
Then Carolina became pregnant. Not that she didn’t want a baby. She and Bud were both overjoyed at the news. But it marked the end of her shrimping days. She’d tried to continue, but early in the pregnancy she’d slipped on deck, and it scared her. Carolina remembered the day she’d stood on the dock, one hand over her swelling belly and the other lifted in a wave as she watched the Miss Carolina carry Bud away down Jeremy Creek with Pee Dee as his crew.
Her heart had broken that day because Carolina knew she was watching her dream of living on the water sail away with him.
Last Light over Carolina Page 11
