Seining the Bay
At times the waters were rough, muggy, grey and dark. At other times, the waters were peaceful, green like, warm and welcoming. Bon Secour Bay changed its costume daily, sometimes hourly. To dive off the bow of the cabin cruiser and to wave arms and legs beneath the salty surface was a feeling of summer freedom and exhurburation as the warm water of mid or late summer washed over our bodies and soul. Whether we had set anchor to fish or to enjoy supper on the boat or merely cruising for a while, a trip to the Bay was always cleansing and mysterious.
During many a Bay outings, the crew of summer cousins would suggest and then anticipate an afternoon of dropping the large, green, wooden doors that opened the net of seining. After a bit of cruising, one by one each summer cousin would suggest to Granddaddy, our captain, that the net had been under water long enough. Silently and patiently he would steady the wheel, refusing to give in to the inpatient voices and darting eyes of third generation.
When this eternity passed, we would all be jerked to attention and alert, as the boat's throttle found its neutral setting. The slack switch was flipped and the steel gray cables began the pulling process. The deep settled net tugged beneath the Bay's waters. Looking back, I am surprised we never lost a summer cousin sailor, for we all pushed and jockeyed for position across the boat's stern. We leaned over each other, looking, waiting, each one wanting to be the first to see the net's large bubble break the water's surface with its treasures from the deep.
Granddaddy would maticheously weave himself between the huddled bodies. Quickly he would secure the net as the wooden doors slammed aboard sending cool spray and sprinkles among the curious ship mates. The net was hoisted above the awaiting bucket, and like a party piñata dangling from above, would soon be untied, spilling the mysteries of the deep at the toes of the anxious and curious reapers.
The ritual of separating the net's catch measured the net's success; the large, medium, and small shrimp were quickly rescued from the predators in the bundle, and then separated according to size and usage. The angry blue crabs were carefully brought forth, all pinchers anxious for a sweet, young toe or finger. There were blowfish swollen and amazed at their capture. There were sunfish, ribbon fish, and an occasional eel. In those days ten pounds of shrimp was a reasonable expectation as were the number count of six to ten blue crabs. If time permitted, the ritual would be repeated another time or two. Often times, as all underwater creatures were being separated, the Nellee would find itself heading to safe harbor by spotlight, running lights, and the glow of the moon.
As the cruiser was secured in its boathouse, as the rods and buckets, nets and wet clothes were all carried up to the cabin, in the arms of the fatigued, the river cabin took over the second phase of the day of Bay seining.
The shrimp would be routinely deheaded, and the colorful blue crabs would soon be wearing a coast of red, after taking an unexpected plunge in a large metal pot of scalding water. Occasionally right before the reaching, pinching crabs would meet their boiling pot of demise, Granddaddy would fling the dirtied plastic bucket forcefully across the linoleum floor, sending the fighting crabs over and up against the many pairs of bare feet and the weary ship mates would begin a scramble for couch or chair security. The screams of glee yet fright interrupted the peaceful hum of the ceiling fan.
The cabin quiets itself as the summer cousins, the summer Bay pirates, one by one slide their tired bodies beneath the crisp, cool, clean cotton sheets. The lights go out. The river quiets itself. The July or August moon climbs higher into the starlit night. A lone mullet jumps and breaks the silence. Another summer day on the Bay becomes a drifting memory, mixed with sweet dreams.