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

wave broke over Barker, burying him in foam, but he came up spitting and cursing and with several powerful strokes reached one of the stakes against the bateau and somehow grappled his way on board, then immediately began hollering and heaving at the nets with Byron, Earl, and Roy. “Heave!” he yelled, and again “Heave!” They all yelled and pulled in unison, again, and then again, and Clay felt the give and with it fought around farther to the back as the men bunched more of the net together, pulling it inside the boat. He got nearer to the haul boat, near enough, he thought, and then he heard its dip net engine crank. Barker yelled “Hold!” and was over the side again, and Clay saw him in the water and then clambering over the gunnel of the haul boat. Clay worked to steady the boat and net and thought, Come on, boys, tie her right, and saw Byron and Earl lashing the pound net secure. The fish were thick in the water. He heard the dip net engine strain and crank, strain and crank, and letting his eyes leave the water, he saw Barker guiding the brailing handle of the large dip net as Pal Tyler tended the windlass and purse line. The net scooped down and, bulging with fish, came up and over the hold as Pal Tyler snapped the purse line, bright twisting alewives raining everywhere, two hundred pounds easy, Clay figured. Clay gave a sigh of relief. He watched them dip again and again until Barker, knee-deep in fish, was satisfied. On his signal, Earl quickly tied the bunched top net to the aft stake.
    â€œWe’re done,” Earl shouted, pushing off from the pole. “Thank God. We’ll reset it when she calms a bit.”
    Clay backed the bateau off. He looked at Barker Cull, who returned the stare. Barker was breathing hard and his face wasflushed. His eyes were riveted. River water and rain streamed over him.
    â€œAppreciate it, Clay,” he said in earnest, raising his arm.
    And then Barker started to shiver.
    â€œBetter get dried off,” Clay hollered back.
    Barker waved them off, though he headed into his cabin. Then he poked his head out again.
    â€œWashington Street Pub,” he shouted. “’Bout seven. On old Barker.” And then he disappeared.
    Once back at the farmhouse, Clay stood under the hot shower for what must have been half an hour, letting the jets breathe new warmth into his body. He toweled himself dry, threw on his jeans and sweatshirt, and walked down into the kitchen, where he heated a bowl of leftover oyster stew. Afterward he fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of being deep in the river, emerald dark and clear, and he could breathe its oxygen and flash through its liquid universe without fear. He saw Pappy floundering above him in the tumult near the riotous surface, and he couldn’t get the attention of the strange faces on the boat above to help his father, so he sounded an alarm, a bell, and rang it and rang it until he awoke to the ringing of the telephone on the table in the hall.
    He let it ring and it stopped. It was already dark through the living room windows. On the side table the clock’s fluorescent dials showed it was after seven. He was surprised Byron had not returned. He got up and turned on some lights. He splashed some cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and changed. From the refrigerator he grabbed a beer for the road.
    Outside, the night air was sharp and clean. The front had moved through. As he drove toward town, the moon followed him over the fields. He rolled the window down to feel the cold air and his own blood in the rush of the wind. He rode and felt alive. Hethought of Kate, her hair damp against his face, her lips brushing his neck, her body against his, dancing in the darkness as the light receded over the fields. He tried to push the image away, making a motion to turn on the radio, oblivious to the station, his face half out the window in the cold rush of the wind. Pulling back inside, he caught