He learned to crab before he learned to walk. Always told that story: him and his dad coming all the way back from Green Turtle in full gale on that skiff—him only ten and his pop drunk as a lobsterman’s payday.
Today the air was sinking fast, dropping clouds low on eastern skies.
“I’ll be home by high tide,” he’d said. But tide had come and gone, leaving a line of seagrass high on the beach dotted with strange-eyed fish.
“I was born on the water,” he always said.
He was going to die on it too, she realized.
This has been an edition of the Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. To read more stories or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button: