Gone Fishing On Boety Bay Near Andrews, South Carolina – Short Story

Mist wreathed the cypress knees of Boety Bay like ghostly scarves as Sam eased his old skiff across the glassy water. Dawn’s blush barely kissed the horizon, painting the gnarled oaks a dusky pink. An osprey screeched from its high perch, echoing in the stillness. Sam took a long, salty breath, feeling the familiar ache-tingle of anticipation in his weathered hands.

Boety Bay held his memories, tangled like the Spanish moss in the oaks. He’d learned to fish here with his Pa, the bobber dancing a waltz with his childhood laughter. Now, years etched on his face, Sam sought more than catfish and speckled trout. He sought solace, a whisper of his Pa’s voice in the rustle of reeds.

Casting his line, the lure sliced through the mist, landing with a plop near a lily pad. Silence returned, punctuated only by the symphony of frogs and crickets. Sam closed his eyes, letting the rhythm lull him into a reverie. He saw his Pa, tanned and lean, eyes crinkling at the corners as he reeled in a whopper bass.

“Easy does it, boy,” Pa’d chirp, his voice laced with the drawl of the Lowcountry. “Let the fight come to you. See how that old gator dances?”

Suddenly, the line sang, tugging taut. Sam’s eyes jolted open, adrenaline buzzing. He reeled, a rhythm born of muscle memory and generations of Boety Bay fishermen. The water erupted, a silver flash streaking towards the boat. A tarpon, its scales mirroring the dawn, leaped in an aerial ballet, shaking the water like a thrown shawl.

Sam battled, his arms burning, sweat stinging his eyes. The tarpon, a prehistoric warrior, fought with primal fury. Then, with a flash of emerald tail, it vanished into the deep. Sam slumped, heart pounding, a grin splitting his face. The catch had been fleeting, but the thrill, the echo of his Pa’s laughter in the roar of the fight, that was his treasure.

As the sun climbed higher, bathing the bay in a golden glow, Sam continued his dance with the water. He caught a string of catfish, their whiskers tickling his palm, a familiar tug on his heart. Then, with a final cast, he landed a bream, its scales shimmering like sapphires. He held it aloft, a silent salute to his Pa, before gently releasing it back to the bay.

As Sam steered his skiff back towards the dock, the mist had evaporated, replaced by a haze of heat and cicada song. He felt lighter, the ache in his chest replaced by a warmth that spread through him like sunlight. Boety Bay had held its promise, whispering stories of the past and weaving them into the tapestry of his present. He wasn’t just a man fishing, he was a son, a father, a keeper of memories, a vessel for the stories of Boety Bay, flowing from generation to generation, as timeless as the tide.