Bogue Inlet
Once you get past the thunder of waves hitting shore, you notice the poles hanging over each side, tossed out, lures baited with hopeful shrimp. I didn’t know him, but my grandpa had brought me to this pier to learn to fish. The etiquette of these huge pieces of lumber over water is specific: look in all directions before you cast and before you try and pull anything in, never judge or cheer before you lay eyes on your reel’s pull, remain silent unless you have something imperative to say, but always congratulate a rod that is obviously heavy with victory.
After buying two day-passes in the pier’s stuffy store, we walked out into the early morning's sun and onto the first few feet of pier, before the line that indicates a need for shoes. I rarely wore shoes while at the beach, so I had only seen past this line on special occasions.
I followed him like he had followed McArthur as he picked a bench just past the wave breaks. It was just like all the other benches on the pier - just big enough for two people to not touch while sitting and covered with carved initials, declarations of love, and reminders that “Jason was here.” We could see the foam at the top of the waves from behind. We heard the oscillation that never reached a peak and the waves that chose to break, white spewing over the green water that chased it.
My rod was smaller and black except for the white line and silver hook. My grandpa handed it over. With the potential it held, I grasped it tight like a bride holding her bouquet, and listened with full attention in each direction. “The bottom is your grip,” my grandpa explained, the waves knocking the pier one after another. I kept my focus on him, fighting the possible seasickness this land-bound structure could bring. I kept my eyes on the cork handle on his man-sized rod. “Hang the reel over the side, pull this, toss and release,” he explained more with demonstration than words.
I responded with, “Kay,” imitating his movements with my smaller weapon, pulling the line with my pointer finger, clicking the release, finding my target in the water, flicking my wrist, and tossing the line underhanded, shooting it out like a BB gunning. The lure flew, and I heard a distinctive plunk, saw a flutter in the water. I smiled, congratulating myself for success on my first try, but my grandpa’s eyes remained on the water, occasionally shifting his weight from his right side to his left and then back again. I sat when he sat, imitating his posture but anxious for a pull on my line. I looked right and left at the other lines in the water. My eyes kept moving until I felt a subtle tug on my line, the rod dipping a bit with a small click on the reel.
“It’s the current,” my grandpa said, his eyes never leaving the water ahead of him.
I passed the time counting the white caps while waiting for my rod to dip. I looked towards the sand dunes and counted the beach accesses until I found the one leading to the path to my parent’s place. One leads to the pier. Two is the extended deck where they hold church services on Sunday mornings. Three is the trailer park packed with RVs, tents, single and double-wides. Four is the lime green house that must be owned by Yankees. Five. I know five.
That morning my mother had said abruptly, “You are going fishing with Pop.” It always seemed odd to me that she called him Pop while his own son called him Mr. Bright. This fact left me unsure of how to address him once we were face to face. He had looked at me for a moment and then gruffed, “You’ve grown.” I smiled and shook my head in agreement, unsure of what else to do and of last time I had seen him. My mom jabbered on while he and I just stood there. Even though he was taller, he somehow seemed smaller. Next to her slender body, he looked more like Winnie the Pooh than a boogey man.
He shifted his weight again on the bench. I noticed the orange booey that marked the No Swimming, No Surfing line and counted the guys on boards, ignoring the warnings as they were perched on their boards closer to the pier than the orange warning indicated. From the height of the pier, they were only the size of goldfish in a bowl. One, five, ten in the water and three more hesitating on the water’s edge, boards in hand. I wondered how they avoided getting caught in the lines from the pier.
My grandpa only looked down. His eyes stayed where the lure had landed with that momentary ripple. Before we could throw a second cast, the pier’s silence was interrupted by the high-pitched squeals of a girl standing next to a young, ball-capped guy pulling hard on his reel. Its uncomfortable bend was almost breaking it in half. I could tell something wasn’t right with the scene: they were breaking too many rules. My grandpa remained silent but his neutral mouth went into a straight line of dissatisfaction. “We caught something! We caught something!” the girl yelled.
I peered over the wide wooden rail and saw a sea turtle, so big I could not have fit my eleven year old arms all the way around it, with two silver fish attached to its shell. The turtle looked like a prehistoric creature that could have been next to a triceratops or brontosaurus in one of the books in my school’s library. The grey fish, much smaller and shining bright in the sun on top of the dull shell, had attached their mouths to something growing on the turtle’s shell. The turtle’s stubby limbs were struggling to paddle down as the ball-capped guy pulled up on his reel. Anxiety overwhelmed me.
My grandpa walked away from me with no obvious purpose. His hands, splotched by years of sun exposure and scarred with experience, reached for the line of their pole. The sea turtle hadn’t left the water as my grandpa pulled a well-used knife from his pocket and cut the line without hesitation. “We don’t pull them in,” he muttered, walking away. The guy and girl stood, unsure of what had happened. My gaze remained on my grandfather’s hands returning the knife to his pants pocket as he returned to our bench and his original posture.
I couldn’t stop thinking of what would have moved him to not only touch but cut another man’s line. I couldn’t stop thinking about “The Old Man and the Sea” which I had read but not fully understood. I sat staring down at the water below and didn’t notice as my rod started to get away from me. The line click, click, clicked. Rather than looking at my rod, I looked at my grandfather. “Pull him in,” he instructed. He showed me how to lower the rod, pull up, and reel in. Lower the rod, pull up, and reel in, I repeated until I had pulled in a shiny, silver fish from the sea below.
We had started out early, and I eventually started to feel a burn that crossed my cheeks and nose by the time he said, “Time now.” I reeled in my line, carefully tucked my hook under one of the line loops on the rod. He grabbed the red and white cooler. We left the pier, on the path to return to my parents, and I stood a little taller, keeping up with his pace.
After buying two day-passes in the pier’s stuffy store, we walked out into the early morning's sun and onto the first few feet of pier, before the line that indicates a need for shoes. I rarely wore shoes while at the beach, so I had only seen past this line on special occasions.
I followed him like he had followed McArthur as he picked a bench just past the wave breaks. It was just like all the other benches on the pier - just big enough for two people to not touch while sitting and covered with carved initials, declarations of love, and reminders that “Jason was here.” We could see the foam at the top of the waves from behind. We heard the oscillation that never reached a peak and the waves that chose to break, white spewing over the green water that chased it.
My rod was smaller and black except for the white line and silver hook. My grandpa handed it over. With the potential it held, I grasped it tight like a bride holding her bouquet, and listened with full attention in each direction. “The bottom is your grip,” my grandpa explained, the waves knocking the pier one after another. I kept my focus on him, fighting the possible seasickness this land-bound structure could bring. I kept my eyes on the cork handle on his man-sized rod. “Hang the reel over the side, pull this, toss and release,” he explained more with demonstration than words.
I responded with, “Kay,” imitating his movements with my smaller weapon, pulling the line with my pointer finger, clicking the release, finding my target in the water, flicking my wrist, and tossing the line underhanded, shooting it out like a BB gunning. The lure flew, and I heard a distinctive plunk, saw a flutter in the water. I smiled, congratulating myself for success on my first try, but my grandpa’s eyes remained on the water, occasionally shifting his weight from his right side to his left and then back again. I sat when he sat, imitating his posture but anxious for a pull on my line. I looked right and left at the other lines in the water. My eyes kept moving until I felt a subtle tug on my line, the rod dipping a bit with a small click on the reel.
“It’s the current,” my grandpa said, his eyes never leaving the water ahead of him.
I passed the time counting the white caps while waiting for my rod to dip. I looked towards the sand dunes and counted the beach accesses until I found the one leading to the path to my parent’s place. One leads to the pier. Two is the extended deck where they hold church services on Sunday mornings. Three is the trailer park packed with RVs, tents, single and double-wides. Four is the lime green house that must be owned by Yankees. Five. I know five.
That morning my mother had said abruptly, “You are going fishing with Pop.” It always seemed odd to me that she called him Pop while his own son called him Mr. Bright. This fact left me unsure of how to address him once we were face to face. He had looked at me for a moment and then gruffed, “You’ve grown.” I smiled and shook my head in agreement, unsure of what else to do and of last time I had seen him. My mom jabbered on while he and I just stood there. Even though he was taller, he somehow seemed smaller. Next to her slender body, he looked more like Winnie the Pooh than a boogey man.
He shifted his weight again on the bench. I noticed the orange booey that marked the No Swimming, No Surfing line and counted the guys on boards, ignoring the warnings as they were perched on their boards closer to the pier than the orange warning indicated. From the height of the pier, they were only the size of goldfish in a bowl. One, five, ten in the water and three more hesitating on the water’s edge, boards in hand. I wondered how they avoided getting caught in the lines from the pier.
My grandpa only looked down. His eyes stayed where the lure had landed with that momentary ripple. Before we could throw a second cast, the pier’s silence was interrupted by the high-pitched squeals of a girl standing next to a young, ball-capped guy pulling hard on his reel. Its uncomfortable bend was almost breaking it in half. I could tell something wasn’t right with the scene: they were breaking too many rules. My grandpa remained silent but his neutral mouth went into a straight line of dissatisfaction. “We caught something! We caught something!” the girl yelled.
I peered over the wide wooden rail and saw a sea turtle, so big I could not have fit my eleven year old arms all the way around it, with two silver fish attached to its shell. The turtle looked like a prehistoric creature that could have been next to a triceratops or brontosaurus in one of the books in my school’s library. The grey fish, much smaller and shining bright in the sun on top of the dull shell, had attached their mouths to something growing on the turtle’s shell. The turtle’s stubby limbs were struggling to paddle down as the ball-capped guy pulled up on his reel. Anxiety overwhelmed me.
My grandpa walked away from me with no obvious purpose. His hands, splotched by years of sun exposure and scarred with experience, reached for the line of their pole. The sea turtle hadn’t left the water as my grandpa pulled a well-used knife from his pocket and cut the line without hesitation. “We don’t pull them in,” he muttered, walking away. The guy and girl stood, unsure of what had happened. My gaze remained on my grandfather’s hands returning the knife to his pants pocket as he returned to our bench and his original posture.
I couldn’t stop thinking of what would have moved him to not only touch but cut another man’s line. I couldn’t stop thinking about “The Old Man and the Sea” which I had read but not fully understood. I sat staring down at the water below and didn’t notice as my rod started to get away from me. The line click, click, clicked. Rather than looking at my rod, I looked at my grandfather. “Pull him in,” he instructed. He showed me how to lower the rod, pull up, and reel in. Lower the rod, pull up, and reel in, I repeated until I had pulled in a shiny, silver fish from the sea below.
We had started out early, and I eventually started to feel a burn that crossed my cheeks and nose by the time he said, “Time now.” I reeled in my line, carefully tucked my hook under one of the line loops on the rod. He grabbed the red and white cooler. We left the pier, on the path to return to my parents, and I stood a little taller, keeping up with his pace.