BooksBarbecue
Back Low Country Save as PDF
Chapters (25)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. CHAPTER 1
  4. CHAPTER 2
  5. CHAPTER 3
  6. CHAPTER 4
  7. CHAPTER 5
  8. CHAPTER 6
  9. CHAPTER 7
  10. CHAPTER 8
  11. CHAPTER 9
  12. CHAPTER 10
  13. CHAPTER 11
  14. CHAPTER 12
  15. CHAPTER 13
  16. CHAPTER 14
  17. CHAPTER 15
  18. CHAPTER 16
  19. CHAPTER 17
  20. CHAPTER 18
  21. CHAPTER 19
  22. CHAPTER 20
  23. CHAPTER 21
  24. CHAPTER 22
  25. CHAPTER 23

At the end of the dock I found a length of crab line coiled on top of a piling. I threaded one end of the line through the lanyard hole in my pocketknife and then lowered it into the water at the dock’s edge. I measured the line in double arm’s lengths as I pulled it back up, and found the water to be about sixteen feet deep.

The tide was in now, I reflected as I looked out across the silent marsh and down the creek to where it disappeared at the bend. Bob was right, there would still be ten or more feet of water here, even at low tide. We should have no trouble getting Miss Rosalie safely to the dock. We would come up the creek on the next rising tide.

“Ready to go back,” I whispered to my comrades as I removed the line from my knife and clipped it back to my waistband.

“Let’s go,” murmured Parker. Danny Ray nodded his head and, turning silently, led us up the dock and back to the front of the cabin. We climbed into the car, and within a half hour we were back aboard Miss Rosalie.

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16

I LEANED MY HEAD OUT OF THE pilothouse door and called softly across the deck to Parker, who stood at the ready, “Cast off.”

Parker let loose the line he had been holding and waved his hand to signal we were free of the dock. He then pulled in the line and coiled it before walking to the bow and taking station there. I felt the falling tide take hold of the boat and watched closely as, inch by inch, we began to drift slowly away.

I waited until I saw a gap of three or four feet between the wooden dock and the side of the boat before slipping the transmission into forward. The prop dug into the water with a firm bite, and our backward drift stopped. Then, as the boat began to creep forward, I gave the wheel a slight roll to starboard and executed a wide sweeping turn in the channel, one that brought our bows about in a one-eighty and pointed us downstream.

I looked out the pilothouse again, this time to our rear, and could just make out the silhouette of Danny Ray following along in the sea skiff. The thick fog that lay in the marsh obscured the rest of the world from view, and within a matter of seconds, we, too, were hidden within its veiled embrace.

I felt, through the soles of my feet, the slow throb of the diesel engine as it pulsed belowdecks, but the sound it made was little louder than the gurgle of water that slipped past the stern. The night face of the creek was as placid as a millpond in summer, and in our solemn predawn march, we left barely a ripple to mark the history of our passage.