The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay by Tim Junkin

shouted. “This here’s Roy Martin and Pal Tyler. Clay Wakeman and Byron Steele.”
    Everyone nodded.
    â€œTrap’s a mite large, there,” Byron commented.
    â€œYeah. We got a bit greedy, there,” Barker answered. “Now we’re paying the price. Use your boat as my trap skiff, Clay. It’ll be awkward big, but it’s too rough for a smaller boat out here. Take Earl and Roy with you. We’re shorthanded, boys. Net’s overfull. Got to give extra today.”
    Barker threw Byron a line, and they pulled the boats close enough together so that the two men could leap from their top rail over to Clay’s boat. Byron gave them each a hand, pulling Earl clear just as a wave pushed the boats apart.
    â€œHey, I appreciate you boys helpin’ out,” Barker shouted as he backed his boat away. “No shit.”
    Clay followed the line of stakes that ran neatly across the current line, and he could see the funnel nets leading into the trap he was heading for, some thirty-odd poles curving around in a tight circle. It would take some skill to haul in this weather, he thought.
    As he neared the trap pocket, he could see the net was full. Even in the gray chop, silver fingers flickered under the surface. The menhaden, known as alewives in the Bay, catapulted over themselves, cartwheeling across the slate troughs. Definitely some big-eyed herring down there and maybe a shad underneath, Clay thought.
    Barker tried to maneuver his haul boat up tight against the southwest edge of the pocket, but a large swell pushed him off.Only after his second attempt were he and Pal Tyler able to tie it fore and aft to the downwind stakes. Once Clay’s crew released the trap net from the upwind stakes and, by heaving and bunching it, worked the bottom of the net toward the surface, concentrating the fish, Barker and Pal would work the motorized brailing net and dip the fish into their hold.
    Clay began to work his bateau around the trap net as his crew looped lines to the stakes to hold fast long enough to release the top sections of the net and shake the shimmering fish into a tighter bunch toward the haul boat, gathering and tying hunks of the net inside the bateau in the process. At the same time, they had to keep the bateau from being washed into the pound. The rain made everything more treacherous. They worked slowly as Clay guided the boat down along the trap. With the crew leaning out and into the stakes, a rogue wave could crush an arm, or worse. The men yelled to heave in unison as Clay steadied the tiller. They snapped and bunched the net, concentrating the fish into the decreasing net area, and pushed off as Clay moved slowly along its windward edge. He backed and centered, working the throttle and tiller, anticipating the swells and breaks, sensing the pull of the current. “Wave!” he yelled when he knew he couldn’t keep his position, and the boat was thrown into the stakes, bending the poles and straining the lines, and the men had to give back some slack in the net. If pushed too far, the men would have to let go, and the fish could all be lost.
    He worked his crew around the pocket slowly. They regained much of the lost slack. But their progress gradually slowed and seemed to stop. Earl began cursing, then yelling. Clay hardly heard anything except the whine of the wind on the water, but he knew that the net was heavy. They couldn’t move the fish any farther. The haul boat was still too far away and had to stay downwind of the pound. He knew they would never be able to reset the net. Byron suddenly slipped on the wet deck and crashed down, cursing,losing his share of the net. Roy swiped for it, catching an edge in his fingers. Barker was yelling then too from the haul boat and gesturing, and then Clay saw him suddenly in and under the water, fighting his way to the boiling surface and swimming around the net and for the bateau. Clay knew how cold the water was. A