Page 4 of Sea La Vie
“Another rough day out there?” Al hollers as I pull my fishing boat into its dock slip.
“Not the best, not the worst,” I shrug and toss him the rope. He ties it to the dock right as my corgi, Midge, dives off the deck and licks him in the face.
“Easy, girl,” he laughs. “What do you have for me today?” He peers out from behind coke bottle glasses, the lenses crusting over with dried saltwater, in search of today’s catch. “Any tuna?” His knobby hands rub together in anticipation.
“No tuna,” I frown. “But I did get a few redfish and sea bass. Any interest in those?”
Al runs the local fish market in town, supplying most of the Carolinas with fresh caught fish. Restaurants clamor at his deals, and typicallySea la Vie,my dad’s fishing vessel, is his top producer. This year has been quite the opposite, though.
Al frowns, and rubs his stubbly chin. “A-Fish-Ionadobrought in some redfish this morning, but tell you what, why don’t you bring those by later this evening and Miss Kat can fry ‘em upfor ya. Bring those brothers of yours, too. I haven’t seen ‘em in a while.”
I can barely suppress my anger thatA-Fish-Ionado’scaptain, Paul, has beaten me to Al again today. I take a few deep breaths and wipe the sweat that’s gathered on my forehead. Paul has been dad’s biggest competition for years, and it’s not just a friendly rivalry; I’ve heard them both say things to each other that I’m sure would classify as assault in most countries.
I toss my cooler onto the dock and climb out behind it. “Al, as much as I’d love that, Miss Kat frying up my catch doesn’t make us any money. You know that. If you don’t buy them, I’ll have to drive up the coast a ways and see if someone up there will.” I sigh and offer him a weak smile. Al means well and I appreciate the offer, but I need to sell some fish and get the family business out of the red.
I throw my sun-bleached blonde waves up into a ponytail and holler for Midge. She rounds the corner carrying a fish she no doubt stole from a neighbor's boat.
“Awh, don’t do that,” Al says softly. “I’ll take ‘em.” He picks up the cooler and carries it over to his pick up where he opens the lid and peers inside. He hands me a wad of cash and I tuck it safely into the pocket of my shorts, not even bothering to count it. I trust Al, and besides, something is better than nothing. “I bet your daddy sure does appreciate you doing this for him,” he says.
“Just trying to keep things moving,” I say blandly, brushing off his comment.
The corners of Al’s salt and pepper mustache turn down in a frown as he says, “Seriously, stop by sometime. All five of you, if you can get Archer out of the house. We’d love to have you for dinner.”
“Thanks, Al,” I say. “I'll mention it to them and see if dad is up for a trip.” I head over to my dad’s old rusty pick-up and climb inside, Midge hopping in beside me. She perches her front pawson the side of the door and sticks her head out, her fluffy rear wagging in time to the old country song playing softly through the static on the radio.
Maybe I would mention dinner to my brothers if they weren’t so busy themselves. Huck is the owner of Widow’s Wharf’s only diner, Shuckin’ Hucks. The place stays packed throughout the week given it’s the only restaurant in town, and I’ve even taken up waiting tables for him.
My other brother, Henry, has stayed busy working as a mechanic at Sid’s garage in town since the day he came home from USC. He’s also the daddy to the most precious three year old boy, Sam. Sam’s mom just so happens to be my best friend, Eden, who in turn despises my brother. It’s an awkward situation. Like me, both of my brothers have thrown themselves into their work, and I have a feeling it might have something to do with our mom’s absence since we were kids.
When I was young, our mom passed away from a boating accident while on the water with my dad. She was his first mate and great love. I remember that day vividly. One moment, I was playing with a summer friend on Pirate Island without a care in the world. The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the back of Al’s truck, my friend whispering for me to breathe while rubbing my back. His family left the next day and he couldn’t even come to the funeral.
On the day of the funeral, all four of us crammed into the crowded front row of our town's only church while we listened to Pastor Dave lay our momma to rest. It was the only Saturday morning I can remember my dad not being out on the water, until recently. I don’t remember much about that day, other than the smell of flowers mingling with the perfume from the ladies in the church, combining to give me a headache. I also remember how beautiful the flowers at the front of the church were. Therewere yellow sunflowers, pink tulips, and red dahlias—all my mother’s favorites—covering every surface on the altar.
Truthfully, I was in a haze that day, my body and my mind disconnected. My legs carried me through the day, but my mind was stuck replaying the morning over and over, trying to remember exactly what my last memories with her were—the last word she said to me, what she was wearing, when I had told her I loved her last. Looking back, those little snippets of memories all blend together in one big blur.
I’ve always been more of a daddy’s girl, but without my mom around, I was even more unlikely to let him out of my sight. We shared the same wild spirit, and before mom died, he’d tuck me in at night and tell me stories of all the sea monsters he’d battle. I would giggle, squeal, and beg for more, eating it up. He tried to continue the ritual after mom passed, but eventually it stopped altogether—he was too busy playing the role of both parents.
He began letting me spend the day with him out on the water, but only if the seas were calm and I promised to wear a lifejacket the entire time. That rule stood true until recently, when Dad had a heart attack on another particularly choppy day while out on the water. Thankfully, I was with him and able to get him back to shore quick enough for minimal damage to occur. He’s been on probation ever since and itching for the doctors to release him. He grumbles and mopes around the house, missing his boat and the water, but it doesn’t take much to notice his labored breathing and shuffled steps.
It’s okay though, because I don’t mind filling his role. Most days are calm—I’m able to set my lines and relax for a while with a new book from Mugs and Memos until something bites. Not every day is picturesque, though, and sometimes I get a glimpse into what it must've been like the day we lost mom.
The seas get angry, the sky darkens, and foamy, dark waves crash around and over the boat without warning. There’s anelectric charge in the air that you can feel in the very core of your being when the sea gets that tumultuous. You can watch the radar endlessly in the Outer Banks, but out on the water, the weather does what it wants, when it wants. On the days it decides to turn ugly, you have no choice but to ignore the heavy weight in the pit of your stomach, toughen up, and take what it gives you with your head held high, praying you make it back to the dock safe and sound. It is called Widow’s Wharf for a reason, after all. Only those who have lived here all their lives are brave enough to fish our waters, despite knowing all the legends and shipwrecks.
Most of the other captains around here turned up their noses when they realized I, not one of my brothers, was taking dad’s old boat out while he recovered. “The ocean is no place for a girl,” I remember dad’s rival, Paul, telling me when I was pulling out from the dock one time. When he wasn’t looking, I let Midge pee on his shiny twin motors—I felt a lot better after that.
Sure, the income isn’t stable, but I’m pretty used to that. Right now we are in the red for the season but it won’t always be like this—I hope. The thought of letting everything my parents worked so hard for fall through the cracks because of one lousy season keeps me up at night. This company has been in our family for generations and I can’t let it go under on my watch.
The radio changes to a commercial about a seafood restaurant in Morehead City, breaking me from my reverie. Midge yelps right at the same time I see it, causing me to slam on my brakes and slap the gear shift into park. Up ahead, the back end of a shiny gray sports car is jutting out into the road, the front stuck in the ditch. I jump out of the truck, forgetting I’ve taken my boat boots off already. Instead of rummaging around in the truck bed to find them, I decide time is probably precious right now.
“Hey!” I yell and begin jogging to the scene. “Hey! Are you okay?” A man wearing a pale blue button up and navy slackssits on the side of the road, cradling his head in his hands. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s a large man. With the way his arms bulge under his rolled up shirt, I’m surprised he was able to cram himself into the tiny sports car at all.
I can tell he’s not from around here immediately, and considering this is the Outer Banks’ smallestandsleepiest fishing town, accidentally stumbling upon this area doesn’t really happen. Ours is one of those towns that’s off the beaten path and most people don’t know exist, so who is this guy and what’s he doing here?
Most people here drive an old beater of a truck like me—if someone got a shiny new sports car, it would be all over the town's gossip mill faster than a minnow could swim a dipper. Don’t ask me how, but Lucillealwaysmanages to get the gossip before anyone else and isn’t afraid to splash it across the front page of the newspaper.
Take for instance, the time Mrs. Brooks slipped on an open can of peaches in the general store and broke her hip. It wasnota flattering angleandMrs. Brooks and Lucille are best friends. But in a town this sleepy, I guess you make do with what you’ve got.
If the car wasn’t indication enough, the clothes are a dead giveaway. The more I stare at the strange man, the more I can’t help but notice the way his shirt pulls taught across his shoulders, exposing thick, corded muscles.
