THE FINEST HOURS: First Installment

By Peter Boettger

 

It was time for a breather.  The weeks and months in the wake of Floyd were the best and the worst.  Heartbreak and heroism, suffering and compassion, despicable acts of corruption, and love in action were side by side in an altogether human response to a devastating rebellion of nature.  To no small degree the damage was self inflicted.  The acrid smell, foul tasks of cleanup, and daunting challenge of reconstruction were difficult to bear.  Fatigue was rampant.  And yet it was a time of spiritual renewal, or what could have been the beginning of wisdom.

The man roused at o’ dark thirty with a familiar mix of excitement and apprehension about the day to come.  Have I forgotten anything?  Are we prepared for car trouble at night?  Would this be one of those glorious trips he had played out in his mind?  The boy, sleeping like only a child can, rolled over on first notice as if he had no intention of leaving his bed.  The father knew better.  After a second notice several minutes later, his son was stoic as he dressed in silence and made his way to the small station wagon, where another pillow awaited.  He was still awake as they left the driveway.  His questions were thoughtfully relevant, reflecting much experience for one so young.  What kind of tide would we have?  Which rod was brought for him?  Would we need waders?  The conversation was effortless, but never wasteful at this time of night.  Sleep returned easily as the heater warmed him.

Crossing the river into the swamps at Grimesland always evoked a sense of appreciation for rich local history.  It was a history that spoke volumes about the shame and tragedy of a nation, but somehow preserved the charming goodness of a land of such pleasant living.  This night, the father’s thoughts drifted back to an elderly black couple who had lived on the north side of the river.  Well into his 80s, the old black man was a retired educator, and had been the principal at a pre-integration grade school.  He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants, as he and his dainty wife trudged slowly back and forth between the rotting house and front yard, tossing ruined family pictures and heirlooms onto one of many piles that lined the street.  His expression was one of despair with dignity, of fear with faith.  The father hoped neither he nor the boy would ever forget it.

They traveled northwest into Martin County, where the ancient dune complex of the Suffolk scarp gave the landscape a pattern of alternating low hills and bottomlands.  For some time the father had felt he would like to own a small farm here.  They turned east along highway 64 below Jamesville, entering the heart of the Moratoc region, then deep into the inky darkness of the Alligator community. Mixed with romance, adventure, and mystery, these places along the Roanoke and Albemarle had always stirred primeval fears.  It was impossible to let one’s imagination sit still here, especially at night.  What would it have been like to ride this haunted countryside on horseback, prior to automobiles and electric lights?

A faint pre-dawn glow began to light the eastern sky as they left Mann’s Harbor on the bridge across Croatan Sound.  Several widely scattered lights hovered over the water in the distance, likely revealing the presence of small boat commercial fishermen pursuing their independence in solitude.  So far, so good, but no time to waste.   At Whalebone Junction the horizon was hot pink, outlined in menthol blue.   Now is the witching hour for big fall specks in the surf.  It was time to wake the boy.  A little gentle prodding and a few wake-up calls in slightly raised voice were sufficient.  After awakening he seemed satisfied with his surroundings.   

It had been many years since the father had done this trip, with only limited success in the past, but enough to stick with what he thought he knew.  They say that deep holes form on the north side of the oceanic fishing piers of the Outer Banks.  One such hole at Kitty Hawk Pier had always been known for good trout action.  Prime time on the beach was approaching fast and would be over soon.  Kitty Hawk was still a long way to go.  The sign for Nags Head Pier at mile post 12 came into view on the right.  Why not here?  Time for a decision.  So the commitment was made to the public beach access just north of the pier.  Upon making the turn into the short street, his confidence was immediately lifted by the presence of several other parked vehicles, particularly the ones sporting tackle shop bumper stickers and rusted wheel wells.  A public bathroom stood at the top of the boardwalk leading over the dune line, its salt treated lumber faded to rustic driftwood gray.  This was true reassurance at the most basic level.

There was a state historic sign commemorating the wreck of the Huron on at the foot of the boardwalk.  Ninety-eight lives were lost here.  The Huron’s bones were said to be lying about 200 yards off the beach, now a popular recreational diving site.  Oddly, learning of the tragedy did not sadden him at all.  In fact, his only reaction was a brief vision of what productive fish habitat the Huron might be at this point.

The boy and his father walked up on the boardwalk to survey the beach and were greeted by the azure expanse and golden hues of the autumn seashore.  A few men were scattered up and down the beach, standing in the wash.  Baits were being cast and worked back in various rhythmic twitches, with rod tips held high.  The surf was formed in the classic contours of a sandbar running parallel to the beach 30-40 yards beyond the wash, creating a trough between it and the beach.  A large area of comparatively calm, dark water indicated a break in the bar and deeper water.  It was here that larger predators could enter the trough and feed on trapped baitfish.  It was also in this vicinity that the fishermen concentrated their efforts. 

For the moment, it was all business.  The two companions walked briskly back to the car for their gear.  This day called for minimalism and they were glad for it.   A rod apiece, a 5 gallon bucket containing two sand spikes along with a couple sodas, honey buns, and some tackle were all that was needed.  A man directly in front of them was playing a fish as they hiked onto the beach.

To be continued…