a summer’s rest
By Taylor Smith Riley
We have to time it just right, as the tide has stretched out to its lowest point and is starting to crawl back in. My
grandmother expertly threads the string through the fish’s mouth and drives the stake in the sand below ankle-deep water
and tosses the bait a few yards out to the deeper, more intimidating water. As she finishes her preparation I look around me.
There is the constant drone of the cars crossing the drawbridge toward the beach, cars full of children, beach umbrellas,
shovels and pails, picnics. There are boats traveling along the Intracoastal Waterway. Small boats zip by with water-skiers
behind them, teenagers showing off for their friends. Barges with cargo chug north, filled with building supplies for the
future. How small and insignificant we seem huddled here on the murky bank of the water’s edge.
My grandmother says it’s time to check the lines. This involves inching out toward the bait, a light finger on the line, the net
tight in the other hand. I want to pull the bait to me, in knee-deep water where I am surefooted. My grandmother encourages
me, ‘Be brave, go farther than you think you can, I promise you those crabs are more scared of you than you are of them!’
Well, I know that to be false, but I want to conquer this fear of the unknown. The deeper the water, the more creatures
for my bare legs to blindly touch, but I press on. I am more buoyant as I progress. I slide silently to the point I can tell the
bait is lying directly ahead on the water’s floor. I pull up the weighted object slower than I think is humanly possible. I
anxiously try to determine if I am pulling up the fish head alone or if it has attracted company. A fishing boat races by, and
the resulting wake rocks my confidence, the line is almost pulled out of my grasp but I steady it and keep pulling. The water
is so navy blue I see nothing but a faint shadow as something rises close to the surface. A deep breath and a novice splashing
scoop of the net underneath and hallelujah! Two enormous, angry blue crabs, fighting and spitting and pinching their way
into my net! I turn to my grandmother a few yards away checking the other lines, triumphant in my victory, half terrified and
half disbelieving, but wholly proud and accomplished. My grandmother looks up from the bucket and whoops, ‘Great job!
Come quick, add them to the bucket, I have just brought in two dozen myself!’ — Taylor Smith Riley
Summer Rest Road, July 1980
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