Lydia's Island #4
The bay was flat calm and orange with sunrise. Teddy Jameson parked his truck at the pier in a row of other trucks like it. All the trucks were in some state of disrepair, rust holes patched with two by fours, wires hanging out of taillight sockets. They resembled their owners, Teddy thought. Sitting on the same stools at Charlie's every day, practically touching but not facing each other.
Looked like most of the boats were out already. Teddy didn't live close enough to the pier to be the first to go out, so he preferred to be last. He bought some pickled herring and bait bags from Jim Graff, next to the harbormaster's office, and then stuck his wallet in the truck's glove box. No sense in taking it out on the water with him. He didn't need money out there.
He took his red plastic cooler and thermos down the walkway to the dock, where his skiff was tied. It had rained the night before, so some dirty water sloshed around in the bottom of the boat. He didn't bother to bail it. A little water never hurt anybody. He got out his oars and rowed to the Lydia Lee, which glowed bright red in the early-morning light. He had painted it red because of the dress his wife wore when they first met. Course, he never told anyone that. Sounded too hokey. He met Lydia at a town hall dance when they were sixteen, in 1952. Teddy lived about an hour away, a new transplant from Massachusetts. Mass-hole, the other kids at his school called him. His cousin knew a girl in Philhardt's Landing, and Teddy had come down to the dance with him. Lydia had on a red gingham dress, and she stood against the wall, frowning. Her frown made him want to laugh. It was always clear what Lydia was thinking, even then, and he liked that about her.
He was careful not to bump the skiff against the Lydia Lee. He'd repainted her last winter, and the paint job was holding up pretty well so far. He pulled around to the back and transferred his lunch, bait box and thermos from one boat to the other, then got in. He led the skiff around the big boat to the mooring buoy and tied up. This part was harder without a second pair of hands, but he managed. Teddy knew his wife was right, that he was too soft when it came to his son. But he didn't mind being by himself. Besides stupid little things, it wasn't much harder.
He planned to check his farthest traps today. Teddy was a little more experimental than the other fishermen in the harbor. He kept detailed notes about what worked and what didn't, depending on the time of year. So far, the traps on the outer edge of the bay weren't yielding much, but he hoped they would soon. He and Lydia and their grandchildren had spent a lot of time out on the island this summer, and Teddy knew his wife would like to move out there year-round. That was okay with him, if it made her happy. If he could find some good fishing right around the island, he could fish from the skiff and save some money on gas for the big boat.
A red metal bell buoy rocked and clanged in the Lydia Lee's wake. As he motored out to the edge of the bay, towards the twin islands, he thought, as he often did, of Lydia's brother Ben. Ben had died last April. Heart attack. One minute he was at the supper table, talking to his son, Harrison, and the next he was on the floor, gasping for breath. They couldn't get him to the mainland in time to save his life. Teddy hadn't been there, but he was still haunted by the image of Harrison gunning the motor of his father's fishing boat while his father, maybe dying, maybe dead, leaned against his mother in the back.
Teddy got out to the farthest traps, about a hundred feet from Lydia's Island, and cut the motor. Gulls caught up to him and screeched as he pulled the first trap, which was empty. He checked the bait, decided it was okay, and dropped the trap again. He motored slowly to the next one, his wake rising white behind him.
The trees on the island were mostly evergreens, but there were a few fall colors mixed in. The sun was up now and the water was a pale, reflective blue. It was going to be hot for November, one of those last Indian summer days before the world started shutting down for winter. Teddy guessed he'd better get on Cole about finding a job for the winter. They couldn't let him stay on at the house forever without bringing in any money. He thought of his son's eyes, light blue like Lydia's. Some would say they were cold eyes, but Teddy knew better. His son was a good man. He just hadn't found his place in the world.
Looked like most of the boats were out already. Teddy didn't live close enough to the pier to be the first to go out, so he preferred to be last. He bought some pickled herring and bait bags from Jim Graff, next to the harbormaster's office, and then stuck his wallet in the truck's glove box. No sense in taking it out on the water with him. He didn't need money out there.
He took his red plastic cooler and thermos down the walkway to the dock, where his skiff was tied. It had rained the night before, so some dirty water sloshed around in the bottom of the boat. He didn't bother to bail it. A little water never hurt anybody. He got out his oars and rowed to the Lydia Lee, which glowed bright red in the early-morning light. He had painted it red because of the dress his wife wore when they first met. Course, he never told anyone that. Sounded too hokey. He met Lydia at a town hall dance when they were sixteen, in 1952. Teddy lived about an hour away, a new transplant from Massachusetts. Mass-hole, the other kids at his school called him. His cousin knew a girl in Philhardt's Landing, and Teddy had come down to the dance with him. Lydia had on a red gingham dress, and she stood against the wall, frowning. Her frown made him want to laugh. It was always clear what Lydia was thinking, even then, and he liked that about her.
He was careful not to bump the skiff against the Lydia Lee. He'd repainted her last winter, and the paint job was holding up pretty well so far. He pulled around to the back and transferred his lunch, bait box and thermos from one boat to the other, then got in. He led the skiff around the big boat to the mooring buoy and tied up. This part was harder without a second pair of hands, but he managed. Teddy knew his wife was right, that he was too soft when it came to his son. But he didn't mind being by himself. Besides stupid little things, it wasn't much harder.
He planned to check his farthest traps today. Teddy was a little more experimental than the other fishermen in the harbor. He kept detailed notes about what worked and what didn't, depending on the time of year. So far, the traps on the outer edge of the bay weren't yielding much, but he hoped they would soon. He and Lydia and their grandchildren had spent a lot of time out on the island this summer, and Teddy knew his wife would like to move out there year-round. That was okay with him, if it made her happy. If he could find some good fishing right around the island, he could fish from the skiff and save some money on gas for the big boat.
A red metal bell buoy rocked and clanged in the Lydia Lee's wake. As he motored out to the edge of the bay, towards the twin islands, he thought, as he often did, of Lydia's brother Ben. Ben had died last April. Heart attack. One minute he was at the supper table, talking to his son, Harrison, and the next he was on the floor, gasping for breath. They couldn't get him to the mainland in time to save his life. Teddy hadn't been there, but he was still haunted by the image of Harrison gunning the motor of his father's fishing boat while his father, maybe dying, maybe dead, leaned against his mother in the back.
Teddy got out to the farthest traps, about a hundred feet from Lydia's Island, and cut the motor. Gulls caught up to him and screeched as he pulled the first trap, which was empty. He checked the bait, decided it was okay, and dropped the trap again. He motored slowly to the next one, his wake rising white behind him.
The trees on the island were mostly evergreens, but there were a few fall colors mixed in. The sun was up now and the water was a pale, reflective blue. It was going to be hot for November, one of those last Indian summer days before the world started shutting down for winter. Teddy guessed he'd better get on Cole about finding a job for the winter. They couldn't let him stay on at the house forever without bringing in any money. He thought of his son's eyes, light blue like Lydia's. Some would say they were cold eyes, but Teddy knew better. His son was a good man. He just hadn't found his place in the world.
posted by Elizabeth Thorpe at 1:58 AM
6 Comments:
Is this a new beginning?
no, just extra. or something.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
I love this. Feels true. Teddy is so much like my grandfather (still alive,) and all of his fishing buddies who are now long dead. They crabbed, and fished for salmon on the mouth of the Columbia. I've 'fed the fish' out there many times with him. Great work.
Thanks, Jim. I feel less qualified to write about Teddy because I don't know how heavy the tools are and I can't exactly remember the sound of a lobster buoy hitting against a boat. I can't picture myself with him as easily. And I respect fishermen too much to be wrong. But I'm experimenting.
Glad to see a new entry over at Beyond Telling!
I like it too Just piggybacking on what JCD said, I like the ritual of it all. Like its almost church for him out there.
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