I swung wide out into the creek and coasted along for a bit, looking at the docks, Miss Rosalie, and the Bucket o’ Blood. This is a good place, I thought as I saw Tyrone come out on the club’s outside deck and check for anything amiss after the night. I gave him a wave when he looked up, which he returned with a scowl and a shake of the head, as if to say, Something is wrong with this picture; here I am at work and there you are larking about. But then, he gave me a short wave of the hand before returning inside.

Clear now of the no-wake zone, I shoved the throttle forward and headed downstream. Soon the creek met up with Bull River, and I turned toward Wassaw Sound and in the direction of the open Atlantic. But it was an island I was headed for today and not the ocean. A few miles farther on, I turned into the wide mouth of a side creek and slowed to half speed. I turned right at the next stream, a smaller one, and slowed now to just above idle.

Ahead, around the next bend, rose the bushy palmettos, stunted oaks, and taller sea pines of a small island—a hammock. I pushed the bow of the boat gently up on a sandy spot on the end of the island, just between the arms of two salt creeks. The tide would rise for about another forty-five minutes to an hour, so I should have no problem getting off again. I pitched the anchor up into some bushes and unloaded my cargo.

I had used this little island as a shooting range on several other occasions. It is about three acres in extent, shaped sort of like a tadpole, and oriented in such a way that no boats could get in behind, as there was nothing in that direction but open salt marsh. It was about as remote a place as one could find and still be in the geographical limits of Chatham County. I knew the sound of gunfire could be heard only by me and the other animals here on the island and in the nearby marsh.

I carried my stuff about twenty meters into the center of the island and looked around. Some brush had grown a bit since I was last here. And I was dismayed to find a pile of discarded trash and a stack of empty beer bottles. For the life of me I cannot comprehend why anyone would befoul such a beautiful and tranquil place. Oh well, I thought, trashy people have trashy ways. There’s just no other way to explain it.