My confusion remained. He spoke loudly and very slowly. “Fish - ing. Out . . . at . . . sea.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my horror. “Can I just watch?”
“Mandatory participation. The wharf’s just behind Lucille’s.” He straightened up and I put the car in reverse. “I’ll see you there at six.”
“Six a.m.? On a Saturday?”
“If we leaves it any later, the fish’ll all be gone.”
I wasn’t sure if he was joking, but I said I’d see him at six.
I spent the evening washing and straightening my hair and reviewing my wardrobe options. Practicality won and I laid out jeans and a sweater. It wasn’t a date, and besides, it was sure to be cold and wet.
It was still dark when I got up, but Lucille was banging around at the stove. “I made bacon,” she said. “You’ll get hungry out on the water.”
Clearly the all-points bulletin of my plans had circulated overnight in Little Cove.
She slid my breakfast onto a plate and was making for the table when she stopped cold. “What’s after happening to your hair?”
“Is it that bad?” I ran to the hall mirror. Curls had sprouted overnight.
“Just different,” Lucille said, her head of curlers appearing behind me in the mirror. How did she sleep with them in? Didn’t they hurt? We were like mismatched twins. I was trying to get rid of my curls and she was determined to make some. After breakfast, I ran upstairs and put my hair in a ponytail, shoving on a baseball cap for good measure.
“I’m glad you’re keeping Doug company fishing,” Lucille said. “Gerry won’t go with him.”
Before I could ask who Gerry was, Lucille was pushing me out the door so I wouldn’t be late. “Bring me back a big one now, girl,” she said.
The footpath behind her house led right down to the sea. It was growing lighter already. I could see the wharf, and beyond it, little fishing dories anchored about the bay. A few men were working on a larger boat that was moored about thirty yards out—splashes of yellow overalls against the blue boat. One of them waved and I waved back.
There was no sign of Doug so I sat down on the edge of the wharf to wait, dangling my feet over the edge. All around me were stacks of lobster traps, along with bits of old rope and empty plastic containers. I heard a chugging and a small yellow boat with red trim approached. As he got closer, Doug cut the engine and glided alongside the wharf.
“Here,” he said, tossing over a smaller version of the green bibbed overalls he was wearing. “These looks about your size.”
“Oh, I don’t need them.”
“You don’t want fish all over your jeans.” I looked at the blood, guts and other detritus scattered around the wharf. The man had a point. I wrestled my way into the overalls, pulling the straps over my coat, then accessorized with a bulky orange life jacket. My aggressively curly hair didn’t seem to matter much all of a sudden.
I eyed the boat. It looked tiny compared to the sleek motorboats that plied the cottage lake back home.
“Is it safe?”
“Built her myself.”
“And that’s meant to reassure me?”
“Stop stalling.”
I sat back down on the wharf edge and slid into the boat, grabbing the side as it pitched. “I got you,” said Doug.
His hand closed around my upper arm and he guided me to a wooden seat at the front. Then he started the engine and we cruised out of the bay, slowly at first, then gaining speed so that the colourful houses of Little Cove blurred into a rainbow that grew smaller and smaller, disappearing when we rounded a rocky bend in the shore. The waves were bigger now, but we hugged the coastline. Evergreen trees sprouted from rocks; I spotted a bald eagle high up on a branch.
Doug shouted something that I didn’t hear. He held up a thumb and I nodded, grabbing the side of the boat as it sped up suddenly. We were headed away from shore, out to the wider sea. After a few minutes, we slowed, then Doug cut the engine. The waves slapped hard against us, and the boat swayed like a drunk while I held my stomach and stared hard at the horizon. Eventually we gained a slower rhythm or maybe I got used to it. As far as I looked, in every direction, there was nothing but sea.
“Goes like the clapper when she wants, wha?” said Doug.
“Um, sure.”
He took a flask from his backpack and poured a hot chocolate, spilling none as he passed the plastic mug over. Then he poured more into a mug for himself.
“Does your family fish?” I asked.
His face changed briefly; his lips set in a thin line. Then with a slight shake of his head, his habitual smile returned. “Most everyone around here does,” he said. “It’s in our blood.”
A boat flew past, its occupants shouting across the waves at us, but their words were lost to the air.
“They weren’t wearing life jackets,” I said.
“Lots don’t.”
“Why not?”
He rubbed the side of his mug absently. “Habit, maybe. Plus, if you ends up out here in this water, miles from nowhere, maybe you’re better off drowning.”
We finished our drinks in silence. When I handed back my empty mug, I asked where the fishing rods were stored.
“Rods?” Doug’s voice rose theatrically, lightening the mood. “Sacrilege.”
He pulled a burlap bag towards him and removed two wooden bobbins strung with fishing line. A meaty hook sprang from the end of each line.
“Mind she don’t bite you,” he said. I gingerly took the nearest one, holding it away from my body.
“Unfurl your line and toss it over,” Doug said. “All of it. It’s right deep out here.”
He threw his hook overboard and began twisting the bobbin back and forth so the line spilled into the sea like water from a tap. My hand jerked clumsily as I copied his movements. But I was watching his line, not my own. Soon mine
