Islands of Our Past

Islands of Our Past

By

Guy K. Tibbetts

Copyright © 2014, Guy K. Tibbetts

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

A

The sand was cool between my toes. The sweet smell of the salty air lingered all around. Throwing the oars into my escape, I pushed her off the sand into the bay. She glided on the surface with little effort. I jumped in and placed the oars into her locks and pulled, pointing her towards my sanctuary.

In the predawn calm, the sound of the oars breaking the surface was interrupted only by the sound of mullet, scurrying along the surface, trying to avoid becoming breakfast. The orange glow of a new day was beginning to appear on the horizon, pointing the way. As the old disappeared behind my stern, the new got ever closer over my bow.

The outline of the beach and trees grew more defined with each stroke of the oars; the sun now clawing her way into view. It was going to be another hot morning which was always the case in the summer (at least until the afternoon sea breeze kicked in). Maybe it would come early today; but it never did. It was only a wishful thought. One which came to sudden halt as the bow crawled onto the sand of the beach.

I placed the oars inside, pulled her onto the beach, and, then, headed up the path to the other side, away from the sight of people. Walking under the pines great canopy, I came to my side of paradise and beheld a sight that struck me like nothing else could. The sun was now a glowing ball and my place had come back to life. The pelicans were diving into the schools of bait-filling their large pouches with food. So graceful when they dove, but up close on the beach they look so goofy. The seagulls were cleaning up the scraps- doing their part to make sure nothing was wasted. The wrens were my favorite. They waded around the flats looking for minnows and the like…so patient…so still. I was trying to learn that skill. The sun had only been up a few minutes and life had started anew.

I brought myself back from the beauty that was this place. It was the same every day. I couldn’t believe that people didn’t even know this was so near them. I looked around my humble abode- a fire pit, a table made out of an old plank, a chair (if you could call it that. It was just a branch of a tree bent in the shape of an L).My favorite thing of all, though, was my hammock. I made that from some old net I found on the beach it was simple for i had spent weeks clearing all the rocks and shells up from around the camp.There were small piles of rocks and shells along the paths  encircling the camp now i could walk around most of the island barefoot, what more could you ask for?

…Time to catch breakfast…

Grabbing my pole, I headed to the flats, stopping at the bait trap. I would leave it in the water every night.  I put in it in the deeper water on the south side of the island. Deeper water-I laughed- if you could call five feet deep. But to the rest of the island it was. I was hoping to pick up a few shrimp but mostly it caught small pin fish -good bait but shrimp was my bait of choice. The pins I would use later on the trout line. Not a bad night-ten shrimp and a dozen pins. I would have to put the shrimp in a separate pen or the pins would have them for lunch. Looked like I wouldn’t need the cast net this morning.

I took a couple of shrimp and slipped them into my pocket. Tickled like crazy until they settled down! I walked to my shoe tree to grab a pair of shoes, having been barefoot up till now. Couldn’t walk the flats without shoes. Those oyster beds and clam shells could do a number on the feet. I kept two pair of old converse there; changed up every other day to have a somewhat dry pair. Of course they never really dried and had a strange smell. What do you expect after a hot summer? Slipping them on and tying tight, I headed towards the point.

Looking out into a parallel world…not a breath of wind disturbing the surface…the mirror effect was amazing. The reflection of the great pines reached into the bay. Couldn’t tell the real from their reflections. Flocks of pelicans now had company on the surface; it was like watching them directly. The only blemish was the small waves caused by an unseen boat in the distance… on her way to the other side. Such a calm and beautiful scene. So much so, in fact, that this meant the fish would stay offshore.

My only hope this morning would be to find a stray trout or red. Wading out, up to my waist, I put a shrimp on and cast to the edge of the grass line. After a slow retrieval, with no bite, I cast again a few feet over. A few more casts with no takers and I walked a hundred feet down the point. A dozen more and I was beginning to think about clams for breakfast. Couldn’t spend much more time here…had things to do. While in my daydream I had a strike but, by not paying attention, I missed him. Last shrimp… hoping I hadn’t scared him away… I cast in the same spot and waited. It didn’t take long before I had hooked up to a nice trout. After a brief fight I had breakfast. Putting the fish on the stringer, I turned to wade back to shore. I noticed two black, beady eyes staring at me. I moved to my left while inching my way in. Those eyes just kept following my every move. I tried to go right, but they stayed fixed. Twenty feet apart and we stared at each other. Of course, he was actually staring at his breakfast on the end of my string.

Good morning Walter.

He let out a low squawk.

Walter - a Great American White Crane. He was over four foot tall and had a wing span of six feet. We paralleled each other all the way back. He was named after Walter Brennan, from The Real McCoys he had the same hitch in his giddy-up from the same bad left leg. He followed me to the camp, knowing the head and guts were coming his way.

I thought back to first day on the island when we had first met. I had been cast netting for finger mullet; had put a dozen in a bucket on the beach and gone back out to get some more. After a throw, I had caught a few more and turned to go back. That’s when I saw him, helping himself to the ones in the bucket. I yelled and he tried to hobble away. I felt bad. I walked to the bucket to put in the ones I had just caught, looked at him, and then threw him a few more. Our bond had been made.

A little late today, bub.

I had gotten into the habit of talking to him like a person. This became our morning thing for the whole summer. He had gotten so comfortable around here he just hung around all day. I was gonna have to be quick today… had a lot to do before dinner. I gutted the fish, cut the head off and gave Walter his breakfast. I put the fish on a spit and started the fire.

Finishing up breakfast, I threw Walter the leftovers.

Well Walter, Capn. Frank needs some clams. Need to get going before it’s too hot.

He just grabbed the fish and walked to the water’s edge.

He is getting spoiled, I think. Capn. Frank was the old man who owned the fish house up river. I had met him for the first time at the beginning of the summer. He was a man of the sea. His rough, weathered face told of the years on the water. You could always tell a man that had worked the water. Their face told their story. He was five foot eleven with a slender build and long, bony hands hardened by years of hard work. His long pointed nose was partially hidden under his long-billed hat which, I think, was as old as he was. His signature trait was the corn cob pipe that was always between his teeth. I could sit for hours and listen to his stories which always started with a big puff of smoke. He instilled his wisdom of the sea to whoever would listen. There wasn’t a better way to learn. He had called last night to place his order for clams and some fish for the weekend. Didn’t know why he would call me… there were so many older guys around. Maybe it was payback for listening to his stories. I’ll always remember his silhouette- that nose and that pipe, against the evening sky as he sat in his rocking chair at the end of the dock, with a puff of smoke drifting on the breeze… watching an end to another day.

I grabbed the clam rake that had seen better days. It was held together with baling wire and the teeth were worn out, but it worked. Taking the inner tube and burlap bags, I went down to the boat. I loaded up the stuff, grabbed the backpack, and took it back to camp. There I grabbed a pair of dry shoes. I left a gallon of fresh water in the boat. Always had to bring water. I usually used old cider jugs. I had a couple of cokes, too, but I would save them for later. No ice but a change from water.

Pushing the schiff into the water I was set for the trek to the great clam flat. It was a couple islands to the south. Rowing along this early there was no wind to battle. Gliding past the islands on my way I remembered it was time to do some scavenging. It was what made my humble abode.

Rounding the last point and pointed toward the flat I could see half a dozen treaders already plying their wares. Now there was a tough way to make a living. These clammed in barefoot feeling for the clams with their feet. They always worked in the heavy grass areas where a rake couldn’t go. You would think that, with all the oyster shells, they wouldn’t have had any feet left. But after years of this method their feet have built up calluses that are, at times, half an inch thick. When you saw them at the clam house they would have gashes on their feet that you would think for sure had to hurt; but it didn’t seem to bother them. But this was not the thing these guys worried most about. It was the hit as they called it.

The hit they referred to was by a stingray and sooner or later it happened to all. If you were lucky it just stuck you and the barb came out. You would only get a bad infection although, if unattended, it could give you blood poisoning. That’s the simple hit. The hard hit was when the barb stayed in the leg and it had to be cut out – usually meaning a trip to the doctor. It was very painful and took weeks to heal. Most times these guys were back out the next day for, as they’d say, I have a family to feed. You could always tell a treader by the scars on their legs. Yep, I’ll keep my shoes on.

Pulling up to