hung there, inches above the rolling river that afternoon. But after what could have been no more than two minutes, he popped back up and settled into his seat.
Lets give her a yank, he said, pull cord in hand. I nodded and scurried back to my spot in the bottom of the boat and grabbed onto each side.
One pull. Nothing. The wind howled in response.
Two pulls. A shudder, nothing more. Thunder crashed again above us.
Three pulls. The motor started, smooth and slick.
We continued on. Walls of water arced along the rivers surface, splashing down across the bow, drenching us. With each moment that we chugged along, the shore drew closer but the wind, that relentless wind, continued to batter, seeming to push us two feet back for every foot closer we came to the beach.
When we finally did reach shore, Pop slid us right up onto the sand. Even above the wind and surf, I caught the long sigh that left his lungs.
It was only then that the rain began to fall, as if a faucet somewhere had suddenly opened. I remember standing there on the beach, the three of us trembling and laughing at the same time, as the rain fell in buckets, thunder splintered overhead, and the wind bent the trees, folding them nearly in half.
I remember it just like it was yesterday.
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I grab a chunk of soggy drywall and toss it to the side like a Frisbee. A strand of pink insulation flies through the air with it, becoming caught in the breeze.
Anything worth saving? Campell asks.
I shake my head and kick a pile of cracked timber that at one time had held up these walls. Again Im amazed by the sheer power of the storm. Not looking like it.
Campbell says nothing, turns, and walks toward the waters edge. She stands there, sneakered toes just on the rim of the wet sand and arms folded across her chest, staring out across the water. I watch her a moment before turning in the opposite direction, my back to the water now, to look off toward the far horizon.
My throat feels tight as tears well in my eyes.
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By the third or fourth summer, the john boat gave way to an honest to God fiberglass fishing boat with padded seats and an anchor tucked away in the bow. Pop bought it from Joe Woods in the place right across from ours for $400. I never saw him so happy as when he pushed that boat on its trailer into our yard.
The first morning Pop slid that boat into the water was damp and chilly. I remember it being early, so early that a foggy mist still clung to the top of the water. Pop fired that boat up and opened the throttle, sending the three of us shooting downriver and pushing that chill down deep into my bones. I pulled my arms under my lifejacket and shivered as we skimmed across the waves. Familiar landmarks flew past.
Joe said theres an old oyster bed over here, Pop said, killing the engine. We were a mile from anywhere I recognized. Drop that anchor, kid. Lets see if hes right. He pulled a Pall Mall from his pocket and lit it, shielding the flame from the morning breeze. The tip glowed orange as he pulled the smoke into his lungs.
I scurried to the bow, the air feeling warmer and heavier than it had a moment ago, pulled the anchor from under the seat, and tossed it overboard. It hit the water with a gurgle and plunged to the bottom.
Pop tossed his baited hook into the water, jigged it twice, and let out a long, hard sigh. Aint no fish here. Not that I should be surprised with you two lying in bed all goddamned day. Dont even know why Im wasting my time.
According to Pop wed always just missed the best fishing or were at the very least, a half hour late. It was inevitable, no matter how early we got on the water.
Lets pull up, move over yonder, he said. Thats where theyre gonna be. Just toward that point.
So I pulled the anchor from the bottom, my arms straining against the weight, the rope digging into my palms. When I got it to the top, two chunks of black, sandy mud clung to each fluke. I dipped the anchor into the water twice, watching the mud scatter with the current as Pop fired up the boat. We puttered about a hundred yards toward shore before he cut it again.
Drop it here, kid. This is the damn spot.
Pop flipped his line back into the water, jigged it twice just like before, and muttered something under his breath. Thin tendrils of smoke leaked from the corners of his mouth and seeped from each nostril. Damn, he said.
I had my hands on the anchor rope before he gave the order. We moved another hundred yards and the process repeated. Over and over we did this until my arms ached and my hands burned from the stiff rope. Meanwhile, the chill evaporated from the air and the sun began to pound down on us.
Then, after what must have been a dozen moves, Pop got a bite.
There she is, he yelled as he set the hook. Damn bluefish.
Pop cranked the fish in, his hand a blur as he spun the reel. I grabbed my own rod and dropped my line in. No sooner had it hit the bottom did I get a bite so strong it nearly jerked the rod from my hands. For two hours it was like that, pulling fish in as fast as we could bait the hooks.
Pop was pretty full of himself that night, sitting at the dinner table, head high, back straight. He had been too obstinate to give up that morning and to be honest, he couldnt have been prouder about it. I think that was probably Pop in a nutshell.
That boat sat in our garage for a long time before this storm rolled through. I hadnt even put it in the water in years. Pop was the only one stubborn enough to find those fishing holes, and with him gone, I just hadnt known where to start.
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Whos this, Dad? Ty asks. He is holding what looks like a framed black and white picture.
I walk over and take the frame from his hand. Its an old photograph, so old it looks to be tinted brown in the sunlight. Water has seeped in behind the glass, but I recognize it immediately.
Thats your granddaddy and his parents, I say, running my fingertips across a crack that snakes down the middle of the glass. I havent seen this in twenty years. Whered you find it?
Ty points to an overturned bureau. The drawers are spilled across the ground and a half dozen framed pictures like the one in my hand lay strewn about. I squat and begin the sort through them as my heart pounds.
Come over here, babe, I say to Campbell. My voice cracks. Check these out.
My wife and son watch over my shoulder as I sift through the pile. Behind us, the sun sits perched just above the rivers surface, as if threatening to slip below the horizon at any moment and drench my family in darkness.
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The day Pop tried to teach me to water ski was the day I almost lost my left hand.
It was hot and dry that afternoon, with the sun baking the sand until it burned our bare feet. I remember being excited and nervous as I bobbed there in my life vest just below the waves, ski tips pointed toward the sky. I had seen skiers gliding across the river dozens of times, dashing back and forth across the horizon. I imagined what it would be like to be them, feeling the spray in my face, the rush of the wind as I cut through it. I gripped the handle ever tighter.
Itll be just like somebody pulling you upright from a chair, Pop had told me that morning. Skis in front of you, let the boat do the work. Once youre up, the rest is cake.
Id nodded, wondering at the time if anything could be simpler. Now, I wasnt so confident.
Ready? Mom asked from the boat. She sat beside Pop, facing toward the back so she could watch me while he drove.
Hit it! I shouted.
Pop gunned it. As the boat shot away from me, I watched the loops of the rope unfurl, disappearing one by one as the boat took up the slack. I braced and tightened my grip, ready to feel the rope yank me from the water when it pulled taut.
It was then that I noticed the loop around my wrist. I stared at it a moment, the drone of the boat suddenly little more than a background noise. Something about it didnt seem right. My brain clamored to figure out what it was, desperate for the answer as the slack vanished.
Then before
I could react, the rope snapped tight with a twang, cinching the loop around my wrist in a knot. The force jerked me sideways, pulling me facedown into the river and dragging me forward. I screamed and gulped brackish water as I torpedoed forward, being dragged by my bare wrist. My skis tore from my feet. I twisted and reached forward with my other hand, fighting the drag of the flowing water, and tried in vain free myself. Panic attacked me. The pain was sudden and immense.
Then, as simply as it had tightened, the rope slipped free, rolling me onto my back as it zipped off into the distance. I lay there a moment on top of the boats wake, limp and gasping for breath, the clouds above me spinning in my eyes. From somewhere far off I heard someone calling my name. I twisted again, planted my feet on the muddy ground and wrenched myself upright. I howled as my hand dropped below the waves and the water enveloped my raw skin. It felt as if it were on fire.
When I looked up, Mom and Pop were nearly to me. Pop cut the motor and let the boat drift. Moms face was draped with worry.
You alright, kid? What happened? Pop asked, flicking his cigarette into the water. Specs of foamy water spotted his glasses. He pulled them off and began to wipe them on his shirt.
Yeah, I guess. I dont know. I think I broke my wrist. The urge to cry was nearly overwhelming. I fought against it. If there was one thing I hated, it was crying in front of Pop.
Pop reached down and grabbed my wrist, turned it over once, twice, then let it dip back into the water. I winced.
Cowboy up,
A Summer Wind Page 2