A Charleston Fish Story….

It was a perfect June morning, even by Charleston’s standards.  The air was crisp and salty, and the constant sea breezes fanned away the summer humidity.  Blue sky surrounded the oldest city in the South as it began to stir.  Spanish moss dangled from the trees and swayed in the warming mist.   With their blossoms, bright and white, bursting open like birthday candles on the cake of an aging antebellum gentleman, magnolia trees shaded the rising sun peeking in our bedroom window.  This was my first Saturday without clinic duties since beginning my one month internship at the Storm Eye Institute and we would make precious use of this day together.

Toni and I had answered the ad reluctantly.  We were fortunate to have been selected for a month away from medical school in Chapel Hill to determine whether ophthalmology would be the right career choice for me.  We were excited to celebrate our first wedding anniversary in a place where Southern romance blossoms, and to visit the beach where my parents had lived when I was born.  But all we could afford was a bedroom in an aging widow’s home.  The ad had read  “Near Charleston harbor. One bedroom, double bed, bathroom privileges.  Nice neighborhood.  $75/week.”  Well, the price was right.

So here we were, lying in a too small, too soft bed in old Ms. Windmere’s spare bedroom, waiting to hear her flush the toilet so one of us could go.  She was nice enough, as pleasant as one can be, I suppose, when entering into a contract with strangers who are going to live in your home for a month.  “Windy” was skeptical at first about my roommate, not wanting to condone extramarital relations under her roof, even if it were for her profit.  “You’re pretty young.  Are you really married?  My dear departed Mr. Windmere would have wanted me to ask that.” she probed delicately.  To reassure her, and to keep Mr. Windy from rolling over in his grave, I made sure she saw our wedding bands.  “One year.” I answered, wondering if she would next want to see our IDs.  “But we’ll be quiet.”

With the introductions done and the deal completed, our first two weeks went smoothly.  Windy pretty much stayed out of our way, and we gave her plenty of space.  I worked days, studied nights, and Toni commuted some.  When we had time together, we walked the streets of Charleston.  We strolled through markets, peering hungrily into restaurants we could not afford to enjoy, compelled to appreciate lighter fare and any free entertainment we could find.   Some days we admired the architecture of mansions on the Battery, and other days we learned about the region’s history of slavery.  We toured old museums and churches, with their timeworn graveyards inviting us to speculate on what life was like back then for these early Americans.

But today was special.  We were going to Mount Pleasant, where I was born, and its beach, Sullivan’s Island, to go fishing.  Dad had told a story several times about a June Saturday morning twenty-five years ago when he and Mom had headed to Sullivan’s Island for a day at the beach.  Mom rested on a blanket, with six month old me in a crib, and an umbrella overhead, camped safely in the sand while Dad stood knee deep in the surf, clutching his fishing rod, with pride and anticipation, waiting on that first bite.  To his left and to his right, at a polite distance, were two other fishermen, each wet and bored and more than a little frustrated at the lack of action.  “Any bites?” Dad hollered at them.  “Been here all morning.  Not a nibble.” they each replied.  

Suddenly Dad’s rod jerked and curved dramatically forward, and to the shock of his fellow fishermen, Dad reeled in two good-sized bluefish, one on each of the hooks he had baited carefully with fresh frozen shrimp.  Mom cheered as Dad proudly returned to the camp, put his catch in a bucket of water, rebaited his hooks, and sauntered back to the surf to cast out again.  Boom!  The rod jerked again, this time Dad fighting the pull into the sea by the creatures struggling on his line, finally reeling the catch in.  Two more!  Mom cheered!  The fishermen groaned.  More fish for the bucket.  More bait.  Hurrying back to his spot this time and trying not to look at the pathetic anglers now watching him, Dad cast out again.  Bang!  Reeling in faster now, two more bluefish grin back at him from his hooks.  Mom cheered!  The embarassed fishermen looked away.  Fish in the bucket.  More bait.  Cast again.  Snap!  More fish.  Mom cheered!  The fishermen quit.  And Dad continued to catch fish until he could do it no more.  

At least, that’s the story.

So, Toni and I loaded the car with our essential gear.  Cooler.  Check.  Towels.  Check.  Sunscreen.  Check.  Blanket and umbrella.  Check.  Baby.  Not yet.  Fresh frozen shrimp for bait.  Definitely check.  Bucket for catch.  Probably too optimistic, but Check.  And Dad had let me borrow his surf fishing rod for this trip, the same one he had used 25 years ago.  Double Check.  We drove to the street near where Mom and Dad had enjoyed their beach day so many years ago, parked the car and set out.  We followed the precise directions they gave us to a specific spot on that beach, between two homes that we were not even sure existed anymore, and thirty paces east of the Beach Entry sign, just past a large sand dune.  We set up camp there.

While Toni rested on a blanket with umbrella overhead, camped safely in the sand, I set out exactly as instructed, directly out from that point into the sea and stood knee deep in the surf, clumsily clutching Dad’s fishing rod, with hope, faith and very little skepticism, waiting on that first bite.  To my astonishment, to my left and to my right, at a polite distance, were two other fishermen, each wet and bored and more than a little frustrated at the lack of action.  “Any bites?” I hollered at them as I felt inclined to do.  “Been here all morning.  Not a nibble.” they each replied, obviously lacking any sense of déjà vu. 

Suddenly Dad’s rod jerked and curved dramatically forward, and to the shock of my fellow fishermen and me, I reeled in two good-sized bluefish, one on each of the hooks I had baited ritually with fresh frozen shrimp.  Toni cheered as I proudly returned to the camp.  We were stunned. I put my catch in a bucket of water, rebaited my hooks, and sauntered eerily back to the surf to cast out again.  Boom!  The rod jerked again, this time I fought the pull into the sea by the creatures struggling on my line, finally reeling the catch in.  Two more!  Toni cheered!  The fishermen groaned.  More fish for the bucket.  More bait.  Hurrying back to this sacred and clandestine spot, this time giddy with the excitement of knowing a secret nobody else knows, and trying not to look at the pathetic, dumbfounded anglers now watching me, I cast out again.  Bang!  Reeling in faster now, two more bluefish grinned back at me from my hooks.  Toni cheered!  The embarassed fishermen looked away.  Fish in the bucket.  More bait.  Cast again.  Snap!  More fish.  Toni cheered!  The fishermen quit.  

And I continued to catch fish until I could do it no more.