The Breeze Magazine of the Lowcountry JUNE 2020

Ben’s thoughts were broken when his father pulled the
throttle back and the high whine of the engine muted
a bit. “The fish should be running to the grass soon,”
his father hollered. “Position the anchor so we are not
caught between the wind and the tide.”
Something Ben had shared with his father, over the
years, was a love of fishing. Perhaps, Ben thought, as he
coiled the anchor line and readied his throw, more than
the fishing was simply being out on the water. When on
the water fishing one is, in a sense, both on an adventure
and in solitude. There is a freedom and a distance from
whatever is on shore. Ben knew, in his own heart, that
he coveted time on the water to think and if adventure
presented itself, to partake. He mused that his father
must favor the same things too. Ben heaved the anchor
and held onto the weathered line until he felt it catch.
“Let’s hope they are hungry for pollywogs tonight,” Ben
said. “I was hoping for some live shrimp, but all I got in
the net were these and some finger mullet.”
His father baited a line and heaved it into a clearing in
the grass. “You float right in front of the grass. I will cast
back into the grass. That way, we should have them
covered.”
Ben watched his father as he baited his own hook. He’d
watched him stand on that bow for years. Same stance,
same posture. He even could hear him muttering the
same superstitious phrases under his breath.
“What’s it been, thirty years we have been doing this?”
Ben spoke softly as he made his own cast.
“Longer than that,” his father replied. “I got this boat in
’81. We’d go out to South Beach for blues and Spanish
with Karl that same summer. That’s closer to forty years
big guy.”
Ben kept a close eye on his bobber. “Karl,” Ben said,
“what a guy. You remember those big ole boats he’d
bring down here from the Chesapeake? How long has he
been gone now?”
Ben’s father suddenly snapped his pole back.
“You got a bite?” Ben inquired excitedly.
“No, no,” replied his dad, “probably just the grass or a
crab.”
Ben’s father stepped off the bow and reached for
another pollywog. “Five years,” he said. “You remember
that time we all went bone fishing down in Islamorada?”
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