Chapter 13
Two small skiffs were tied onto the northern Snow’s Cut wooden bridge-pier protector to stay stationary, while a wily pair of fishermen fished and wished away the night. The angling duo preferred this mooring method, as the current could be fairly strong during the tide changes; it could drag a mushroom anchor, and even a hinged-anvil type could become a sand-hopping plow.
However, this was a great place to sit, chill out, and catch fish. The variety of species was surprising in this man-made, river-to-sound channel between fresh and saltwater; intracoastally between Maine and Florida.
“Catch anything in the last hour?” A bearded Caucasian man on boat one asked a beach-hatted white guy on boat two.
“Hooked a nice flounder ten minutes ago. Where have you been, Ed?”
“I’ve been drinking beer, Walt. Taking care of im-po-tant biz-ness.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. Hey, you better sit back down; you may fall off your boat. I don’t want to call in a possible drowning.”
“I could swim the inlet right now, Walt. No problem. No problem, at all. Bring it on. I could swim to China.”
“Wrong ocean, Ed.”
“Ok, Morocco! I could be in Casablanca by noon.”
“How about I just take your word for it.”
They both were chuckling. Lines were reeled in and recast. They then went into a period of fisherman’s silence, when no words needed to be said. They both recalled fishing in the same spot one July night ten years ago.
Above them, vehicles passed to and fro over the Snow’s Cut Bridge. There were fewer and fewer vehicles as the night wore on, under such a thin crescent moon, which was viewable through the bridge’s railing, high above.
A lone seagull squawked, then flew away from the power line overhead. Below the surface, the fish seemed to be getting smarter; the fishermen stopped getting bites. They were about ready to call it a night.