A Storm in the Making

Chapter 3--This Can't Be The Bermuda Triangle

Chapter Three

This Can’t Be the Bermuda Triangle

“Fear Death?—to feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face. . . No! Let me taste the whole of it, fare like. . .the heroes of old; Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears of pain, darkness and cold.”

I stared at the same lines of the poem, rereading it for the third time, yet I was still mystified as to the meaning behind the words of Robert Browning’s poem. Or rather, why had Robert Simmons chosen this particular book of poems to give me for my birthday? Something romantic seemed like it would have been more appropriate.

I felt the boat slow down, and closed the thin book of poems Robert had given me. Had Luke given him the hint that I considered poetry my one vice? Or, had Robert given me the poems with a hidden meaning of his own? Perhaps identifying with him being Robert Browning to my being Elizabeth Barrett?

Death is not something an eighteen-year-old want to think about very much, Mr. Simmons. Thank you very much for reminding me how vulnerable we humans truly are. I would prefer to think myself invincible; impervious to death.

I looked over at Uncle as he pulled the throttle all the way back and slipped the engine into neutral. Uncle and I had reached his latest hotspot, as he called it. A spot on the GPS where he had last found good shrimping below the waves. It was where we would begin shrimping tonight.

Uncle couldn’t leave the marina during the day, so we always shrimped at night. I didn’t mind, really. Besides it was cooler at night. Less boat traffic. I sure didn’t have any other night life holding me back—unless Robert Simmons changed all that in the near future. That would be nice.

“Ready?” Uncle asked rhetorically, not really expecting an answer. It was time to rig out the boat; as simple as that. No question about it. He gave me a tight smile, his brows beetled together in a scowl--a sure sign he was still aggravated with me. I had forgotten to fill Storm Runner’s fuel tank before leaving to do my community service.

Luke and Andrew had been able to leave the marina with The Nauti-Boys thirty minutes ahead of us because Uncle had been stuck cooling his heels while I fueled up.

Death was the last thing wanted to think about out here on the open ocean. I slipped down into the cabin to put the book of poems into my backpack with a shudder.

Coming back up into the fresh air, I pulled myself up onto the boat’s port rail, balancing there by holding onto a guiderail attached to the roof of Storm Runner’s cabin. I walked up the catwalk to the bow and undid the port line that held the boat’s folded metal outrigger fast to the boat’s side.

Uncle was doing the same on the starboard side of the boat. I let the port boom swing outward. Still gripping the line, I walked back down the catwalk, grabbed the roof of the cabin with both hands and swung back down to the deck and tied off my side of the boom with a sturdy half hitch to a cleat mounted onto the stern of the boat.

I used the lazy line to pull the tail bag close enough to grab. I tied it off with a series of shrimper’s knots. I had just tossed it back into the water when Luke’s disembodied voice blared out of the marine band radio.