new picker,” I say, prompting his memory. “When Billy made him swim that huge rock over to that other skiff.”
“Yeah, I remember. Poor kid nearly drowned in that raging moon tide that was bailing out between the islands.” Gene hesitates, then says, “Listen, a lot of guys make their pickers do all kinds of crap like that, you know, to see if they have the stuff to make it out here on the bay.”
“Yeah, but why didn’t you ever initiate me?” I ask.
“Never believed in it. There’s plenty of danger in this business already. The way I see it, a guy’s initiated just about every day out here.” A shadow crosses Gene’s face. He stops digging and takes a long drink from the water bottle. “You’ve already got your own rock to swim, Jake,” he says softly.
I know he’s right.
“Let’s pull up and try south of here,” Gene says. I’m glad we’re moving. He starts up the engine, and we head a about a half mile to the east and drop anchor.
When it’s slow like this, I like to play a game with the shells. I find a target in the water, like a stick or some foam, and toss one half of a quahog shell into the air to see if it will settle like a Frisbee on the target. It’s cool when it just floats there. Gene tries his luck at it too, and it becomes a contest to see who can get the best flight.
“That’s a ten — that’s a perfect ten. You gotta agree with me, Jake,” Gene says, pleading with me after his last toss.
“No ten. It was okay, but check this out,” I say as I toss one into the quickening breeze, and the shell pauses for a moment in the wind as if suspended. “Now
that’s
the bomb,” I say as the shell finally hits the water with a loud
ploooop.
“All right, here we go.” Gene sends a large shell into the air. Suddenly, like a boomerang, the shell comes flying back, and we both duck as it smashes into the console.
“What the hell was that?”
“The wind just shifted,” Gene says, looking up to the sky, trying to gauge what’s what. “We gotta pull up and get off this anchor.
Ready up!
” I scramble over and help pull the heavy rake from the bottom, but it seems stuck and the boat is twisting. Gene and I are working to free the rake while the pole is rising straight above our heads.
“Back away, Jake. Get to the bow!” he barks loudly as he takes the whole load himself. The pole is being carried by the wind in the opposite direction, and Gene is straining. The breeze suddenly picks up from the southeast, and now the pole’s all twisted. I’m looking up at the handle with the Styrofoam buoy starting to wiggle back and forth, and all of a sudden there is a sickening
crack
. The second section of aluminum pole splinters right in the middle.
It seems to hang in midair for a split second.
I’m trying to warn Gene, but my lips are stuck together, and I can’t get any words out as the two sections of pole drop straight down onto Gene’s shoulder like a javelin. Gene crumples to the deck of the boat, and I’m on top of him immediately. Blood is draining from his shoulder, and he’s already woozy and doesn’t know where he is. We are at the back of the pack of boats, and the other guys don’t see or hear any of this. They are probably all too busy dealing with this crazy wind.
I rip the shirt off my back and stuff it into the hole in his shoulder. It immediately turns red. I pull the knife from my pocket and cut the shirt into long strips. I wrap Gene at the base of his neck, and tie it up underneath his opposite arm. He’s bleeding straight through. I quickly pull up the anchor and start the engine.
“We got work to do; you get that rake; don’t leave the rake, it’s full . . . the sky’s blue,” Gene says, looking up from the deck, his legs all twisted in weird angles. I’m sure he’s going to bleed out if I don’t get him to the hospital.
“What do I do? What do I do?” I scream at him with my hands in his blood, pressing down on his shoulder. He’s
“Yeah, I remember. Poor kid nearly drowned in that raging moon tide that was bailing out between the islands.” Gene hesitates, then says, “Listen, a lot of guys make their pickers do all kinds of crap like that, you know, to see if they have the stuff to make it out here on the bay.”
“Yeah, but why didn’t you ever initiate me?” I ask.
“Never believed in it. There’s plenty of danger in this business already. The way I see it, a guy’s initiated just about every day out here.” A shadow crosses Gene’s face. He stops digging and takes a long drink from the water bottle. “You’ve already got your own rock to swim, Jake,” he says softly.
I know he’s right.
“Let’s pull up and try south of here,” Gene says. I’m glad we’re moving. He starts up the engine, and we head a about a half mile to the east and drop anchor.
When it’s slow like this, I like to play a game with the shells. I find a target in the water, like a stick or some foam, and toss one half of a quahog shell into the air to see if it will settle like a Frisbee on the target. It’s cool when it just floats there. Gene tries his luck at it too, and it becomes a contest to see who can get the best flight.
“That’s a ten — that’s a perfect ten. You gotta agree with me, Jake,” Gene says, pleading with me after his last toss.
“No ten. It was okay, but check this out,” I say as I toss one into the quickening breeze, and the shell pauses for a moment in the wind as if suspended. “Now
that’s
the bomb,” I say as the shell finally hits the water with a loud
ploooop.
“All right, here we go.” Gene sends a large shell into the air. Suddenly, like a boomerang, the shell comes flying back, and we both duck as it smashes into the console.
“What the hell was that?”
“The wind just shifted,” Gene says, looking up to the sky, trying to gauge what’s what. “We gotta pull up and get off this anchor.
Ready up!
” I scramble over and help pull the heavy rake from the bottom, but it seems stuck and the boat is twisting. Gene and I are working to free the rake while the pole is rising straight above our heads.
“Back away, Jake. Get to the bow!” he barks loudly as he takes the whole load himself. The pole is being carried by the wind in the opposite direction, and Gene is straining. The breeze suddenly picks up from the southeast, and now the pole’s all twisted. I’m looking up at the handle with the Styrofoam buoy starting to wiggle back and forth, and all of a sudden there is a sickening
crack
. The second section of aluminum pole splinters right in the middle.
It seems to hang in midair for a split second.
I’m trying to warn Gene, but my lips are stuck together, and I can’t get any words out as the two sections of pole drop straight down onto Gene’s shoulder like a javelin. Gene crumples to the deck of the boat, and I’m on top of him immediately. Blood is draining from his shoulder, and he’s already woozy and doesn’t know where he is. We are at the back of the pack of boats, and the other guys don’t see or hear any of this. They are probably all too busy dealing with this crazy wind.
I rip the shirt off my back and stuff it into the hole in his shoulder. It immediately turns red. I pull the knife from my pocket and cut the shirt into long strips. I wrap Gene at the base of his neck, and tie it up underneath his opposite arm. He’s bleeding straight through. I quickly pull up the anchor and start the engine.
“We got work to do; you get that rake; don’t leave the rake, it’s full . . . the sky’s blue,” Gene says, looking up from the deck, his legs all twisted in weird angles. I’m sure he’s going to bleed out if I don’t get him to the hospital.
“What do I do? What do I do?” I scream at him with my hands in his blood, pressing down on his shoulder. He’s
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