Last Light over Carolina

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Carolina kissed his cheek, then turned and leaped across the water to land on her feet aboard the Miss Carolina. She wobbled but spread her arms and caught her balance. Taking a breath, she exhaled and raised her head. She’d made it. She straightened and took a look around.

  Pee Dee stood a few feet away, frozen to the spot. He was pale and rigid, staring fixedly. Carolina felt her blood drain and steeled herself. Then she followed Pee Dee’s line of vision and saw what he saw.

  “Oh, Bud….”

  Bud was slumped against the winch with his head on his arm. Her first thought was that he looked like he was taking a nap. The exposed skin at the back of his neck was sunburned. His shirttails stirred in the breeze, but that was the only discernible movement.

  Then she saw the blood. An ungodly amount of dried and fresh blood pooled on the deck beneath his body. She blanched. No one could lose that much blood and still be alive, she thought.

  Carolina stared at her husband and slipped into a surreal calm. She was good in emergencies. At the elementary school, she was always called if a child got hurt because she acted calmly, could make good decisions, and knew basic first aid. Carolina moved as though in slow motion to Bud’s side.

  “Bud?” she called to him.

  When he didn’t reply, Carolina knelt beside his body. Blood soaked through the knees of her jeans. She placed her palm on his shoulder and gently shook him.

  “Bud. Bud,” she called, louder this time.

  She reached up to his carotid artery, the last pulse you lose before you die. His skin felt clammy, but not cold. She was stunned to feel a pulse.

  “He’s alive!” she shouted, tears springing to her eyes. “Pee Dee, tell Josh to radio for a medevac team. We need a rescue helicopter.”

  Pee Dee still stood frozen, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open in shock.

  “Go!” she barked.

  Pee Dee jolted and ran to the railing, calling for Josh.

  Carolina tried to move Bud into her arms, and it was then she saw that his hand was completely caught in the winch. The skin below the tourniquet was the chalky color of clay. There would be no saving his hand, maybe not the arm.

  But Bud was alive! Her prayers were answered. Though he was critically hurt, possibly in shock, he was alive.

  “Pee Dee! Go get blankets. Lots of them!”

  Slowly, carefully, she eased his body back to rest against her chest, cradling him. She saw that his hand clutched his gold wedding band, which hung from a chain around his neck. This simple gesture brought tears to her eyes.

  Bud’s face was the color of porcelain, and she knew he was very near death. She brought her lips to his cheek.

  “Don’t you die on me,” she said to him, close to his ear. “Do you hear me? It’s Carolina. I’m here, Bud. Hold on, hear? We’re taking you home.”

  Then, to her astonishment, Bud slowly opened his eyes. She drew back, calling his name. His eyes were dilated and he seemed confused, as though he didn’t recognize her. Then his lips spread in a weak smile.

  “Carolina….” His voice cracked. It sounded like dried wheat.

  “I’m here, Bud. I’m here.”

  She turned to Pee Dee, who’d returned with the blankets. Together they spread them over Bud, one on top of the other. Pee Dee hovered anxiously.

  “Get some water,” she told him. Pee Dee hurried off, glad to have a job to do.

  The sky was darkening around them, and she knew each moment worked against them. There was so little she could do to help Bud. Her gaze scanned the deck as they rocked in the ocean, and she realized in a flash how terrible it must have been for Bud to be pinned for hours, unable to help himself, unable even to call for help.

  When Pee Dee returned with a cup, Carolina poured a small amount of the water into Bud’s mouth. He coughed a little, but sighed when he swallowed, seeming relieved.

  “They’re comin’, Bud. Don’t worry,” Pee Dee said.

  Bud raised his hand in a weak acknowledgment. Carolina grabbed it and held it tight. Again, he focused on her.

  “Carolina…”

  She looked into his eyes, holding his hand tight in hers. “I’m here.”

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  Carolina choked back a cry as tears flowed down her cheeks. “Forgive me.”

  He squeezed her hand. It was a faint movement, but she felt it to her core.

  “We’ll try again,” she said, believing the words.

  Bud felt himself drifting. Pee Dee scrambled to tie down equipment and pack away loose ropes, cable, and anything else that could be dangerous when blown by the hurricane-force wind of helicopter rotor blades. Josh was shouting instructions from aboard the Hope.

  Around him, the light was fading fast. Bud lay in his wife’s arms and looked at the sunset that exploded across the horizon. Translucent purpling clouds drifted against a backdrop of spellbinding oranges, reds, and yellows.

  But it was the great sun that demanded his attention. A diva, the sun was a fireball in a blazing orange-red sky. The great flaming orb took center stage, glorying in her resplendent beauty as she descended, slowly, delicately, soundlessly into the ocean. The sea welcomed her, absorbing her colors, reflecting her brilliance in its shimmering water. The sky and sea danced a duet of unsurpassed beauty and incomparable grace. It was a gift to behold. The coup de grâce before darkness fell.

  In his lifetime, Bud had seen countless sunrises and sunsets. On this day, he’d journeyed from first light to last light. It was the voyage of a lifetime. And this was the most beautiful sunset he’d ever seen.

  Bud closed his eyes, smiling.

  23

  May 2, 2009, Blessing of the Fleet

  On board the Miss Carolina

  The Blessing of the Fleet is an ancient ritual dating back to the Council of Nicea in AD 325, based on the belief that all people were called upon by God to be good to one another and responsible stewards of the earth. In return, God blessed them with their survival and a bountiful catch.

  The Blessing of the Fleet has continued in many coastal villages. In McClellanville, the ritual has gained momentum each year, blossoming into a popular seafood festival held on the first Saturday of May. It is a day so revered that townsfolk mark it on the calendar before birthdays. For weeks prior, the docks are lined with trawlers preparing for the event. Boats are scraped, cleaned, and given a fresh coat of paint. Engines are tuned, bolts tightened, rigging checked, and nets sewn.

  Every May, the town’s population of 500 swells to 15,000 as tourists swarm the narrow roads, parks, and docks to buy local art, sweetgrass baskets, and crafts, and to dance, drink, and eat. And was there ever good eating—shrimp kebabs, boiled shrimp, fried shrimp, shrimp salad, Frogmore stew, crab bisque, seafood chowder, and barbecue, all served under white tents. Most of all, folks come to watch the magnificent spectacle of boats festooned with colorful streamers and pennants in the grand parade down Jeremy Creek.

  Bud stood on the deck of the Miss Carolina and surveyed the milling crowd. The spring sun was high overhead and a stream of people and cars kept flowing in. At the dock, a long line of people jockeyed into position to climb aboard the vessels. These were prized seats, invitation only. Friends and family members who had moved away still felt the pull of the sea and returned to town for the parade. The trawlers were jammed full of revelers, young and old alike, ready to celebrate the opening of the shrimping season.

  Carolina welcomed each guest aboard the Miss Carolina with a hug and a wide smile. Her joy could not be contained and shone from her eyes under the brim of her broad straw hat. In her jean shorts and festival T-shirt, Bud thought she looked like the twenty-two-year-old girl he’d met long ago at a dance he now found difficult to recall. He only remembered Carolina.

  Bud rubbed his left elbow, where a phantom pain still sparked from time to time. In many ways, Carolina was that young gal from the dance again. Where had the years gone? he wondered. He didn’t feel older. He just recognized th
e mileage on his face when he looked in the mirror. It was like sailing absentmindedly on a calm sea and suddenly realizing how far offshore you’d traveled.

  When he’d left the hospital without his hand, he’d felt lost. Aimless. Used up. He’d even thought about selling the boat and looking for a land job. Carolina had refused to even consider selling the Miss Carolina. Now, she was back working on the boat that bore her name. She was his first mate, his right hand—or, as he liked to joke, now she was his right and left hands.

  Bud knew he was a lucky man. In the seven months since his accident, they’d found their way back to that time when they were first married and worked together. It had been a long, arduous winter, and there still were tough days ahead. He wasn’t naïve about that. They’d have to struggle to eke out a living. Fuel costs would always be a worry, and foreign shrimp would still be dumped in local markets. Those were the cruel facts of the industry.

  Bud’s gaze traveled beyond the crowd to the water glistening in a winding path through the marsh toward the great sea, and he felt a joy and contentment with life that only a man who had faced death could feel.

  When the helicopter had delivered him to the hospital, he was more dead than alive. There were folks who believed his survival was nothing short of a miracle. Bud didn’t see it that way. To his mind, that September day was just not his time.

  He knew the hour of his death was marked in some great book in heaven, and when that day came, he’d go along without complaint. After all, he’d been given a glimpse of what was to come and the kinds of questions he’d be asked before he was allowed through those pearly gates. As tough as that day on the ocean had been, as rotten as it was that he’d lost his left arm and hand, Bud knew that God had given him a rare insight. He was blessed with knowing that each day since the accident was a gift.

  Bud had never been a man of many words, and he didn’t like to talk about what he’d experienced as he lay dying. Sure, he’d told stories to the guys about how he’d tied the tourniquet using his teeth and how he’d planned to cut off his hand with his pocketknife. He was a southern male and had learned at his daddy’s knee how to embellish a good tale. But he’d never told anyone except Carolina of those otherworldly experiences that some might call profound and others might call crazy.

  So many scenes of his life had darted through his mind, so vivid and real that it was like living them all over again. Even now, when he looked back on past events, he saw them with greater clarity. One night after a few beers, Bud had told Pee Dee how he’d sat side by side with the spirit of his brother Bobby. Pee Dee had stared back, tears in his eyes, then shaken his head and muttered, “Well, I’ll be.” That was all he’d said, but Bud knew the story had brought him some comfort. Bud didn’t tell him how he’d have gone to the other side with Bobby, willingly, if it weren’t for Carolina.

  Carolina had saved him. Not only because she’d enlisted Josh and Pee Dee to find him in the ocean. Carolina had been the line that kept him tethered to the earth when he was so near to leaving it. He’d thought he wanted to stay because he was worried about paying bills and keeping up the boat and maintaining the house. He’d thought that he was bound by his duty as a man to provide for his family. Only in hindsight did he understand that he’d been wrong to think food on the table and a roof overhead were the only measures of a man. In the end, none of those earthly concerns mattered at all. He’d learned that a man had to guide his family with as steady a hand and heart as he did his boat. To give them, at the very least, the attention and love that came so easily for his ship. That’s what mattered.

  On that day, he’d heard the question: Was I loved, and did I love in return? He knew he loved—and he hoped for the rest.

  Life was short. Each sunrise could be his last. Bud only knew that he didn’t want to die regretting lost opportunities for love and forgiveness. Not that it was easy. He’d lost his arm at the elbow. The seven months of recovery had been hell. He was glad to have a pulse, but the pain of surgery and recovery were brutal. Without insurance, he could have been up the creek in debt.

  He’d never thought Carolina would sell White Gables.

  Carolina had put the house on the market while he was in the hospital, and it had sold quickly to a wealthy couple from Georgia looking for a historic coastal property. Carolina was comforted knowing that the new owners loved the old house and would be able to afford the upgrades and rehab that it needed. She had kept a few pieces of furniture that had special meaning to her and let Lizzy choose whatever pieces she wanted, too. The rest, she’d sold at an estate sale.

  Carolina said it was time to let the dead help the living.

  Carolina had given some of the money to pay for Bud’s prosthesis and to settle bills. Then she and Bud had bought a modest house in the village. She also gave Lizzy money for college. She’d told her daughter they’d all learned not to put off their dreams.

  Bud looked down at the sleek apparatus that emerged from the cuff of his cotton shirt. The guys at the dock called him Captain Hook. He thought it childish, but knew it made them feel better. All he knew was this thing made it possible for him to get back on the ocean. One arm or two, as long as there was a breath in him, Bud would be captain of the Miss Carolina.

  The unmistakable tones of bagpipes carried by the wind signaled the beginning of the procession for the blessing. The parish priests in flowing garments followed the bagpipes to the point of land that overlooked Jeremy Creek. Suddenly, the creek sprang to life with the sound of roaring engines. Around him, trawler after trawler churned the water as the crowd cheered. Bud fired his engine. Immediately, the smell of diesel fuel filled the small compartment and the Miss Carolina rocked beneath his feet. Carolina and Pee Dee leaped to untie the lines. Once she was freed, Bud guided the Miss Carolina away from the dock. His movements were still clumsy, but he got the job done.

  Carolina came to his side at the wheel and wrapped her arms around his waist. She looked up at him, and once again, in her eyes he found his redemption.

  “Look, your father’s waving at you to follow him,” she said, pointing toward the Cap’n and Bobby. Oz, ever the controller, wanted the Morrison boats to line up as a united front. Bud brought the Miss Carolina forward to take her place behind Oz’s trawler, then handed the wheel over to Carolina and went aft to signal to the Hope to follow. He smiled at the sight of the berry-red Morrison trim on the small, scrappy boat. It was official, now that Josh and Lizzy were remarried. Young Will waved back at him, smiling proudly beside his father.

  One by one the shrimp boats took their places in line as they slowly motored down the muddy waterway. Oz blared the horn of the Cap’n and Bobby. Behind him, Josh responded with a toot from the Hope. Bud looked at his wife, his brows raised. Carolina laughed and did the honors. The spectators lining the shore cheered as each boat honked its horn. Some vessels bore signs that read: EAT LOCAL SHRIMP! Music was blaring and folks were in a party mood. Men holding beer cans told jokes and laughed, baring burned shoulders and white bellies to the spring sun. Pretty girls wearing dark sunglasses and skimpy shirts waved, their flowing hair—red, yellow, brown—fluttering in the wind like the pennants on the rigging. Mothers with children in their arms smiled and waved American flags.

  As they approached the Point, the raucous group hushed in solemn anticipation. When the Miss Carolina drew up before the priests, Bud took Carolina’s hand. Nobody could hear the words of the priest onshore, but they understood the meaning behind the ceremony. Bud brought to mind the prayers he’d cried out to God when he was alone at sea, back when the wind had screamed and rattled the groaning riggings and the waves had crashed against the boat, swamping it with more water than he thought the vessel could carry.

  Fishing was an ancient tradition, thousands of years old. What was true for the fishermen in AD 325 was still true for them today. People were more alike than they were different. They were all drops in the same great sea. Bud knew others would lead better lives if they shared his
vantage point. But everyone was the captain of his own ship. That was something each person had to discover on his own time. Bud bowed his head as the Miss Carolina received her blessing.

  Looking up, Bud gazed out at the winding creek. The shrimp boats moved in a graceful line through the muddy water, their flags and streamers flapping in the wind. One by one, they rounded the curve and disappeared, heading out to sea. Bud felt his chest swell with hope and blew his horn triumphantly. His family and friends on board cheered loudly. Bud threw back his head and laughed. As Jimmy Buffett sang in one of Bud’s favorite songs, he was the son of a son of a sailor. He had his wife at his side, his friends close by, the open sea ahead….

  What more could a man want?