display.
â Mother Natureâs pissed âbout somethinâ,â he said in a fake southern drawl, and Chase went to fasten his non-existent seatbelt. Instead, he clutched his camera tighter.
A nearly blinding sheet of rain cut their pace in half as Limp switched the wipers to their fastest setting. The mileage rolled to 299,985 as he craned forward to see the right turn that would take them due west, through the little towns marked Venton and Monie, and directly into the buffeting storm.
Chase kept quiet and let him drive, partly because the rain was so loud. Heâd found that sometimes you needed to take a break from talking to Limp.
The clouds continued to lower over the little blue Accord, deep puddles yanking hard at its narrow tires. Giant plumes of water splashed up over the hood from brand new rivers rushing across the pavement. They hit 299,990 and lightning cracked directly overhead. Green leaves tore from swaying limbs, a few plastering themselves to the windshield before the wipers broke their veiny grip. Limp leaned forward and smeared fog from his vision.
â Itâs like drivinâ a submarine!â he shouted. âIâm âbout gonna have you send up the periscope and have a look around to see what ocean weâre lost in.â
They defied the wind into Dames Quarter at 299,994, then 95, 96, and 97. Chase had read about this unwelcoming plot of land once known as The Damned Quartersâa stretch of whipping marsh grasses possibly hiding the buried loot of eighteenth century pirates whoâd pillaged trade ships en route to Baltimore.
Passing through Chance, they saw whitecaps dancing in the harbor below the Deal Island Bridge. The small car rocked from the exposure as they crept up and over the long, narrow span onto the three-mile island nestled against Tangier Sound. A sign announced that this spot was home to annual skipjack races each Labor Day.
Enormous rusting crab pots were stacked against ancient wood shacks, as violent waves slapped the bulkhead, erupting in milky foam that was whisked away on the wind like tumbling birds.
Limpâs odometer came to a rest at 299,999 and probably nine-tenths. All six numbers had rolled upward and were impossible to read if you hadnât been keeping track. He frowned down at them as they sat in the public boat launch, empty except for two pickups and trailers of boaters possibly caught in the storm.
They sat, not talking, listening to the wind and rain, watching a loose roof section of one of the crab shacks rise and fall, as if the building were finally able to talk. Maybe Limp was thinking about trying for the Cold Duck in the back hatch, if the bottle really existed.
Chase would come back to this spot twenty times over the next two months to shoot kids flying kites in the ever-present breeze. Heâd return to photograph the oyster yawls returning, silhouetted against the setting sun and to capture images of the tourists who came for a glimpse at a life completely different from their own. The heart of Deal Island was being lost to time, though. The once thousand-strong fleet of skipjacks that had worked these waters was down to the last couple dozen, Limp had explained. Many rested at the bottom of the bay, some rotted in shallow guts off the feeding rivers and coves. Others were cut to pieces and nailed into the seafood shacks that sold the freshest soft shell crabs anywhere. The watermen who Chase stopped to photograph were eager to tell their stories. Maybe they saw it as an opportunity to keep their way of life from dying out.
The sky over the boat launch was brightening. The rage had gone out of the rain, leaving just a steady drumbeat on the metal roof. Limp sat sideways against the driver door and looked across at Chase, who again tightened his grip on the camera in his lap when Limp seemed about to speak. Their breath and body heat had fogged the windows the way loversâ did and Chase knew Limp
â Mother Natureâs pissed âbout somethinâ,â he said in a fake southern drawl, and Chase went to fasten his non-existent seatbelt. Instead, he clutched his camera tighter.
A nearly blinding sheet of rain cut their pace in half as Limp switched the wipers to their fastest setting. The mileage rolled to 299,985 as he craned forward to see the right turn that would take them due west, through the little towns marked Venton and Monie, and directly into the buffeting storm.
Chase kept quiet and let him drive, partly because the rain was so loud. Heâd found that sometimes you needed to take a break from talking to Limp.
The clouds continued to lower over the little blue Accord, deep puddles yanking hard at its narrow tires. Giant plumes of water splashed up over the hood from brand new rivers rushing across the pavement. They hit 299,990 and lightning cracked directly overhead. Green leaves tore from swaying limbs, a few plastering themselves to the windshield before the wipers broke their veiny grip. Limp leaned forward and smeared fog from his vision.
â Itâs like drivinâ a submarine!â he shouted. âIâm âbout gonna have you send up the periscope and have a look around to see what ocean weâre lost in.â
They defied the wind into Dames Quarter at 299,994, then 95, 96, and 97. Chase had read about this unwelcoming plot of land once known as The Damned Quartersâa stretch of whipping marsh grasses possibly hiding the buried loot of eighteenth century pirates whoâd pillaged trade ships en route to Baltimore.
Passing through Chance, they saw whitecaps dancing in the harbor below the Deal Island Bridge. The small car rocked from the exposure as they crept up and over the long, narrow span onto the three-mile island nestled against Tangier Sound. A sign announced that this spot was home to annual skipjack races each Labor Day.
Enormous rusting crab pots were stacked against ancient wood shacks, as violent waves slapped the bulkhead, erupting in milky foam that was whisked away on the wind like tumbling birds.
Limpâs odometer came to a rest at 299,999 and probably nine-tenths. All six numbers had rolled upward and were impossible to read if you hadnât been keeping track. He frowned down at them as they sat in the public boat launch, empty except for two pickups and trailers of boaters possibly caught in the storm.
They sat, not talking, listening to the wind and rain, watching a loose roof section of one of the crab shacks rise and fall, as if the building were finally able to talk. Maybe Limp was thinking about trying for the Cold Duck in the back hatch, if the bottle really existed.
Chase would come back to this spot twenty times over the next two months to shoot kids flying kites in the ever-present breeze. Heâd return to photograph the oyster yawls returning, silhouetted against the setting sun and to capture images of the tourists who came for a glimpse at a life completely different from their own. The heart of Deal Island was being lost to time, though. The once thousand-strong fleet of skipjacks that had worked these waters was down to the last couple dozen, Limp had explained. Many rested at the bottom of the bay, some rotted in shallow guts off the feeding rivers and coves. Others were cut to pieces and nailed into the seafood shacks that sold the freshest soft shell crabs anywhere. The watermen who Chase stopped to photograph were eager to tell their stories. Maybe they saw it as an opportunity to keep their way of life from dying out.
The sky over the boat launch was brightening. The rage had gone out of the rain, leaving just a steady drumbeat on the metal roof. Limp sat sideways against the driver door and looked across at Chase, who again tightened his grip on the camera in his lap when Limp seemed about to speak. Their breath and body heat had fogged the windows the way loversâ did and Chase knew Limp
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