The afternoon sun turned the saltwater inside the bait tank into a swirling mass of liquid gold.
Arthur carefully adjusted the oxygen line, his large, rough hands moving with surprisingly delicate care so he wouldn’t startle the minnows.
He was fifty-two, and his knee throbbed with a dull ache whenever a storm front pushed in from the Atlantic, but in this coastal shop, he felt entirely grounded.
“You’re using the light weights again, Artie,” Clara said from her high-backed wicker chair behind the counter.
At eighty-six, her voice was like weathered rope—coarse from the sea air, but unyielding.
Her eyes were clouded with age, but she could still accurately name any boat passing the harbor mouth just by the rhythmic chug of its diesel engine.
Arthur looked up, wiping his hands on a clean rag. “The tides are mellow today, Ma.
The charter crews said the striped bass are staying right in the shallow flats, so a heavy sinker will just bury the line in the mud.”
“The flats are for tourist boats, Artie,” Clara said, a faint, proud smile showing through her deep wrinkles.
“The big fish are running the deep channel along the north reef today. The moon is aligned with the shelf.
Your father always said if you don’t fish where the current splits, you’re just washing your hooks.”
“The north reef takes too much fuel to get to, Ma,” Arthur said softly, leaning his elbows on the glass counter.
“With the marina raising the slip fees this month, we have to watch every gallon.
I’m just trying to make sure we keep the doors open through the winter.”
Clara reached into her heavy canvas apron pocket and pulled out a solid brass, anchor-shaped keychain from 1968, holding it out so it caught the brilliant sun.
“We don’t live by the ledger, Artie. We live by the tide. Your father bought this pier with nothing but a broken dory and an old net.
Take the master key to the offshore locker. The heavy brass rigs are inside.”
Arthur took the vintage key, his eyes lighting up with sudden realization.
“Ma, this is the key to Dad’s old deep-sea gear.
I thought you sold those rigs when the commercial fleet moved down to the southern port.”
“I didn’t sell a thing,” Clara said, her eyes crinkling with deep affection.
“I oiled them every spring. I was just waiting for the day you forgot that your father’s boat didn’t just catch fish—it built a family.
Now, stop counting pennies, go load the heavy sinkers, and head for the reef. The tide is turning.”