The kid had been working with him for the past month or so. The 18-year-old intern was required to fulfill 100 hours of field experience for his summer internship before he could be accepted into his degree program at the University of Maryland. What oysters had to do with computer science, the captain wasn’t entirely sure, but there were a lot of things the captain wasn’t entirely sure of. It wasn’t that the labor was any more vigorous than usual, but if Rick Spangler and the rest of the watermen at the Ruddy Duck Alehouse were to be believed, a goldmine of the shellfish variety was waiting to be dredged up from the bank of Tanner Creek, just off the coast of Point Lookout.
The kid showed up at a quarter to seven in the morning, and by that time the captain had already eaten breakfast and was struggling to move a rusted old dredge from the top of a sawhorse and into the back of his equally rusted red pickup truck.
“Nice of you to show up. Give me a hand with this thing.”
“Mornin’ captain.” The intern yawned. “I figured you’d still be groggy from last night. Heard from my dad that you were at the pub.”
“As a matter of fact, I was.”
At this moment, Maggie, the captain’s wife, stuck her head out the screen door.
“Hello there Aaron, dear.” She called out. “Do me a favor and make sure the captain comes home in one piece. I need him to put bread on the table.”
“Will do, Mrs. Morgan.”
She smiled and looked at Aaron.
“I love that name, Aaron… It’s a good, strong name… lots of history.”
“Thanks Mrs. Morgan. That’s why my parents gave it to me.”
Maggie retreated into the bungalow. Aaron raised an eyebrow at the captain, whose eyes glinted.
“Home in one piece?” Aaron repeated Maggie’s words. “That makes it sound as though you found some information last night.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” The captain exclaimed. “Now please, stop flirting with my wife and help me get this thing into the bed. We’re headed to the point.”
The two men loaded the dredge into the bed with one good heave and then took their respective places inside the cab. The captain turned the key in the ignition, and the two sat in silence for a minute, listening to the hum of the old Ford. As the truck warmed up, a mischievous grin appeared on Aaron’s complexion. He turned to his mentor.
“You know your name is hilarious, right?” He jeered.
“Shut up.” The captain shifted into first gear and steered the truck out of his driveway.
The two traveled down Piney Point Rd., and the captain could tell Aaron was fighting the urge to turn on the radio. The captain smiled and reluctantly pressed the power button. The voice of Hank Williams Jr. belted out of the stereo, and the two slowly began to nod their heads. By the time the chorus came around, they were both singing at full volume. As the song ended and the last twang of Hank’s guitar faded into static, Aaron laughed again and turned to face the captain.
“If I get stoned and sing all night long.” He echoed Hank Jr.’s lyrics. “But you’ve never been stoned in your life, right Captain?”
“That’s right.” The captain laughed. “And I’m sure you haven’t either, right?”
“Right.” Aaron laughed too. “But really Cap, where are we going? You haven’t even said yet.”
“Sure, I did. We’re headed to the point. Don’t you listen?”
“Point Lookout?”
“That’s it.” The captain’s eyes glinted again.
Aaron looked ahead for a moment.
“Who told you there’s oysters out there?” He raised an eyebrow. “Spangler?”
“Amongst others.”
“But haven’t we already been through there? Last time we went to the very end, and I seem to remember scraping bare bottom. Not even a bucket when all was done.”
“You were using nippers. And who said anything about going to the end?”
“You don’t mean… but… wow.. it’s so obvious!”
“Kid, today we’re pulling bushels!”
The two made their way through St. Mary’s City and towards the southernmost point of the county. The aged waterman’s eyes narrowed as they passed the old confederate cemetery at the corner of Scotland Beach and Point Lookout Rd, and the young intern eyed the stack of corned beef and cabbage sandwiches between them, which Maggie had put in Saran wrap for the captain’s lunch. The Civil War Memorial was loaded with bikers. The captain shook his head at the look on Aaron’s face, all too aware of what the memorial constituted.
“Perfect day for it.” Aaron said, looking up to acknowledge the weather.
The captain grunted again.
The captain had an understanding with the game warden and the head of the park office at Point Lookout. He was allowed free moorage for his ‘87 skipjack cruiser in exchange for reports on illicit activity in the area. The man at the gate took one look at the old red pickup truck before waving the captain and his intern through. The captain smiled as he drove past the guard’s booth, thinking about how his line of work had, at one point, been the most illicit activity in the area.
Reaching the ramp at around eight thirty, they found the captain’s skipjack rigged to his usual post.
“Let’s get the dredge into the cruiser.” the captain said, eying the bay.
“You got it.”
The two ran around behind the pickup truck and started shuffling the dredge across the dock to the skipjack. They laid it down at the end of the dock.
“Right,” said the captain, “let’s get it onboard.”
Aaron jumped aboard the skipjack, then pulled the boat toward the dock, securing it tightly with the rope it had already been tied with, but tighter.
“Perfect,” said the captain, “let’s do it.”
With a step down, Aaron brought the dredge aboard. The captain stepped after, and they laid the thing at the back of the boat, causing a considerable shift in weight distribution. The captain stood for a moment laughing at the dredge, and then staggered his way to the control cabin. He looked back at Aaron, who was still standing beside the dredge, waiting for a command.
“Take a seat son. Let’s get going.”
As Aaron untied the grounding rope, the captain turned the key in the ignition, but the boat didn’t start. He jimmied the key, but still, it didn’t start. Aaron walked over to the pit and leaned over the captain’s chair. He scratched his head as the captain tried a third time, still to no avail.
“Maybe I can check Google…” Aaron said, pulling out his cellphone, “usually there’s an easy solution to these things.”
The captain glared at him and turned the key again. The boat gave a satisfying lurch.
Aaron took a seat on deck. They pulled out of the marina, turning left from the boat ramp instead of their usual right into Lake Conroy. Cruising around the corner of Cornfield Harbor and past Fort Lincoln, the captain put on the gas and Aaron raised an eyebrow. This was usually where the two did their tonging, but the captain had no interest in staying. The old man dipped the brim of his ball cap and gripped the wheel with his left hand as he pushed the throttle down with his right. He maintained a 50-yard berth from the beach front, keeping his eye on his surroundings and his mind on the mission. Aaron waved to a few morning beachcombers at the Point Lookout Swimming Area as they cruised by, towards the lighthouse and the uppermost peninsula of Point Lookout.
The captain increased their distance from the beach at the lighthouse, pulling a 270-degree turn around the peninsula and accelerating past the point. There were crowds of people gathered around the lighthouse and fishing on the rocks. Most of them looked Latin American. Aaron waved again at the crowd, and many of them waved back. The majority seemed to be in good spirits. Children played in the tide pools while their parents stayed on the road, speaking about yesterday’s catch in rapid Spanish and heating up pupusas from the grills in the back of their vehicles.
Waves lapped at the side of the skipjack as the captain maintained his course, straight ahead until the lighthouse was the size of a penny in the skipjack’s peripheral. The families became farther and fewer as they drew nearer the fishing pier, but one sight drew Aaron’s eye to the base. About ten to fifteen blue containers were lined up some fifty feet back from the coastline. A group of men were standing behind them. As they got closer, Aaron could see that the men were dumping fishnets into the containers, half of which seemed to be already overflowing.
“What are they catching, captain?” Aaron shouted over the wind.
“Bluefish!” The captain yelled back.
Aaron wasn’t quite sure, but he thought he detected a hint of anger in the captain’s voice when he shouted. The young intern could guess why. The men, who looked like locals of the southern Maryland region, had filled up six or seven fifty-gallon containers with the bluefish from their netting practice, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Again, Aaron wasn’t exactly positive, but he didn’t think that the men’s netting process was entirely ethical, or legal for that matter. He turned around to see the immigrant families at the distant lighthouse using individual fishing rods to obtain their catch. He turned back to see the captain’s knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.
The captain steered around the pier without decreasing the boat’s acceleration. They cruised on past Point Lookout Rd, and the captain finally slowed the boat down as they reached the mouth of Tanner Creek. A catboat was floating around at the entrance to the creek, and as they got closer, the captain could make out the shape of a man aboard the boat. A loud bark resounded across the water, and the two noticed a border collie aboard the catboat, pawing at the waves. The captain slowed the boat down to a crawl and called out when they were within range.
“Hello there! Rick, that you?”
The man had his back facing them but turned around when he heard his name.
“Jamie boy!” A wide grin stretched across the weathered face of the waterman. Rick Spangler had been a member of the Watermen’s Association for longer than the captain.
“I wondered if I’d see you out here this morning.”
“They’re criminals Rick, the whole lot of ‘em!” The captain exclaimed as he killed the engine, and Rick’s face darkened.
“How many barrels?” Rick asked, and he looked warily down at his dog, who was panting unconcernedly.
“I counted six, and they’re overflowing. How many barrels did you count, Aaron?”
“Uhhh-“Aaron’s mind raced. “Yeah, six sounds about right.”
“Is that Aaron Brown? Heavens, I didn’t see you back there!” Rick’s face brightened a bit.
“Hey Rick, how’s it going?”
“Can’t complain. Bandit and I got up at the crack of dawn to see if the rumors were true about Tanner Creek here. Starving though. Was so excited to get out here I completely spaced on breakfast. You fellas wouldn’t happen to have any grub about that vessel, would you?”
“That all depends.” The captain chuckled. “Aaron, did you remember the sandwiches?”
“Way ahead of you captain.” Aaron reached in the storage container behind him and pulled out the wad of corned beef sandwiches. He had almost forgotten them back at the loading ramp, but while the captain was fumbling with the keys, he remembered what Maggie had said: Make sure the captain comes home in one piece. Aaron figured that a fed captain was likely a functioning captain. He tossed two sandwiches to the captain and kept one for himself. It was only slightly after ten, but he was hungry.
The captain tossed one of the sandwiches to Rick but held his own sandwich in his hand without unwrapping it. As Rick began devouring his food, the captain asked, “So are the rumors true?”
“Beg your pardon.” Rick said, his mouth full of corned beef.
“Tanner Creek. Are the rumors true… that it has the richest oyster bed in St. Mary’s County?”
Rick grinned again, then swallowed.
“Ahh. Yes, the rumors are true. Check this out.”
Rick opened a cooler next to him and tilted it so that the men in the other boat could see its contents. It was full to the brim with glove-sized oysters.
“Buried treasure!” The captain exclaimed.
“You said it!” Rick’s smile faltered slightly when he saw the dredge in the back of the captain’s skipjack. “But I thought you were only tonging this morning.”
“Oh well, the way they were talking last night… at the pub…” The captain looked slightly abashed, “I figured I’d try to get one good haul… Try to pay off me and Maggie’s mortgage.”
“Well,” Rick finished his sandwich. “Whatever you do, make sure to leave some for the rest of us.”
“Of course, Rick.”
“Don’t want to be like those cowards down at the pier.” Rick laughed, but his smile faltered.
“Of course not.”
“Well,” Rick looked up at the sky, which was starting to cloud over for the first time that morning, “On that note, I’d best be off.”
He tightened the sail to his boat.
“Give Maggie my best, will you? And tell her thanks for the sandwich.”
“Of course, I’ll do that.”
Rick’s smile returned, and he and Bandit sailed off in the direction of the lighthouse. The captain watched him go with an air of fondness, then shook his head back into focus as he looked down at the sandwich, still unwrapped in his hand. He tossed the sandwich to Aaron, who had just finished eating.
“Toss that back in the cupboard for me, will you?” The captain sharpened. “Let’s see if Rick’s buried treasure is as shiny as he says.”
“Aye aye captain.” Aaron said whimsically, and held onto the sides of the boat, which started with just one turn of the key this time.
The pair cruised into the creek at fifteen knots. An aura encapsulated the area. It seemed to Aaron that as soon as they passed through the mouth, they had been transported somewhere tropical. He would have used the word surreal, had he believed in such things.
The captain was looking down, trying to find the bottom of the tributary. A flash of something alerted him to the starboard side, and he steered to the right, drawing ever closer to the end of the stream. A glimmer became a field of underwater tulips, and the captain’s grin stretched ear to ear.
“Do you see that, son? Get the dredge ready.”
Aaron helped the captain lower the dredge into the water, and two and a half hours later, the men sat on either side of the skipjack, a trove of some 2,000 Eastern Oysters in the bins between them. Aaron looked up from the pile at the captain, who was licking his fingers, having just finished his corned beef and cabbage sandwich. The bank which they had been scraping at was about two thirds barren, but Aaron could see at least a dozen other banks packed to capacity with the silver mollusks. The captain had stayed true to his word. There were plenty of oysters for the rest of the watermen.
The sun was fully out again, and the captain whistled “Family Tradition” as he started the boat, steering the skipjack out of the mouth of the creek and into the Chesapeake Bay. Aaron had never seen the captain in such high spirits, and it seemed possible that this state of mind would last forever, but it was also likely that the poachers were still waiting for them at the fishing pier. Sure enough, as the cruiser sped up to the old pier, Aaron could see the coral blue barrels poking out from behind the wooden beams. The whistling had stopped, and Aaron could see the captain, statuesque in the pit of the skipjack.
As they approached the venal group, Aaron saw a new container behind the original blue ones. The blue containers were seemingly empty, and a twenty-foot-long green trailer dumpster behind the blue containers was leaking onto the pavement. As Aaron stared intently, he distinctly saw the tail of a dehydrated bluefish peak over the top of the ten-foot-tall dumpster. The poachers, it seemed, hadn’t had much luck selling their fish that day, and they had decided to throw them away.
The captain was steering the skipjack in the direction of the locals. By the looks of it, one of them had a hunting rifle sticking out of the cab of their GMC. From where Aaron was standing, it seemed they were all likely armed. As the captain’s eye began to twitch, Aaron realized his intent to confront the poachers. Once again remembering what Maggie had said, he raced to the control pit and put his hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“I promised Maggie I’d get you home in one piece.” Aaron said. “Leave it to the game warden to nail these bastards… eh captain?”
Upon hearing his wife’s name, the captain lessened his grip on the throttle. One of the locals stopped loading his net upon hearing the engine shift and instinctively placed his hand on his hip. He raised his shirt to reveal a .55 caliber Glock pistol.
“Let’s get the hell out of here captain.”
The captain heard the panic in Aaron’s voice. He backed the skipjack out of range of the poachers, then shifted into full throttle through the sanctuary until he reached the lighthouse. Only at the very end of Point Lookout did he begin to slow the boat down. The captain glanced back at Aaron, who was rubbing his forehead in angst, staring at the massive pile of oysters in front of him.
They reached the marina at dusk and unloaded the skipjack’s contents in semi-silence. The thought of seafood produced an unspoken feeling of nausea for both men. Aaron hopped in the passenger seat of the truck and waited for the captain to do one last sweep of the boat. The captain got into the cab, and the two drove away from the loading ramp. Still not feeling much like talking, the captain glanced over at Aaron, whose eyes were wide and whose face was as pale as the paint job on the skipjack cruiser. The captain looked ahead and smiled as he thought of the kid going off to school, studying to be a computer programmer, away from all the nonsense of the oyster industry.
The captain became immersed in thought as the two drove on. At one point Aaron asked if it would be alright to turn on the radio, and the captain grunted, hardly aware of what he was consenting to. The horizon line was salmon pink, and the skyline was opal blue, the same shade as the water of Tanner Creek. As they reached the crossing to St. George Island, something caught the captain’s eye in the brackish water next to the road. It looked like a crucifix, swimming nearly parallel to the road, distorted in the ripples. The captain bent his neck to look out the window and see the holy cross’ silhouette. Flying in stride with the truck was a mother Osprey struggling to keep up, a half-eaten bluefish flapping in her bill.