The day began beautifully � warm, sunny, and full of promise. The sun glinted off the waters of the Gulf of Mexico like diamonds. I can�t tell exactly how old I was, as it was a normal thing in the summers of my youth to spend the days on the water in my Grandpa�s boat. I do remember, though, that the days always began beautifully.
The four of us � Grandma, Grandpa, my brother and I � were in Steinhatchee at my grandparents� fishing trailer. The words �fishing trailer� don�t even begin to accurately describe the place there. A singlewide 14x60-foot mobile home with a front porch and backyard deck and all the amenities of a site built home could hardly be called a shack. My grandma kept it looking new and fresh, while my grandpa kept the two acres of land well maintained. It was a beautiful place, and I loved to go there.
That particular morning, like so many others, we all woke up early; we were anxious to get out on the water. For my brother and I, it was our first weekend of the summer there, and we had both missed being there with Grandpa and Grandma. My grandpa was anxious because he had a strong feeling that the fish would be biting and that he would pull in a lot of trout that day. We all woke up before day had fully broken, and after we dressed and packed the coolers with sandwich meats, ice and sodas, we made our way to the dock where the boat was moored.
My brother and I had the duty of stowing the gear while Grandma waited to slather us with sunblock. Grandpa always taught us to carry our own weight when on the boat, so we took this duty as rightfully ours. Also, we really didn�t like getting slathered in sunblock. When everyone was settled, Grandpa started the motor, and we made out way down the black waters of the Steinhatchee River to the Gulf. When we reached the blue waters of the Gulf, the day broke though in bright red, orange, and yellow colors. Those colors and the water were as familiar to me as my best friend�s face, and the aroma of the sea was as sweet as Grandma�s perfume. I loved being on the water; it always felt like my home.
I sat back on the seat and watched Grandpa at the helm. In his khaki work pants and shirts with a ball cap on, he looked like a man of the sea. His bright blue eyes sparkled in the summer sun as a smile creased his weathered face. My brother was always right at his side asking the typical questions young boys ask about boats, but Grandpa never got irritated. He wanted us to learn about boating and fishing; he taught us at every opportunity.
The day continued to unfold as we rode the water from place to place looking for and � more often than not � finding fish. When it seemed a dry spell had hit and we didn�t catch any fish for a while, my brother and I would often get frustrated and irritated. Quietly from the other side of the boat we would hear: �Fishy fishy in the brook, come and bite my little hook.� Then we heard the splash of a fish being pulled in. Those sounds always rejuvenated our attempts to fish. My Grandpa was damn good, or at least that was the impression we got.
Around one o�clock (or sometime shortly after noon � keeping time is not a child�s priority when fishing with Grandpa on the ocean) the clouds started to gather, dimming the brightness of the sun. We fished a bit longer until the sky turned just this side of nasty. As the clouds got darker and the chop got rougher, we packed our gear back in, closed the live wells that teemed with fish, and headed inland.
I caught a chill as the temperature dropped and the wind buffeted my sunburned skin and ruffled my wet hair. I felt the first fat raindrops hit my head as we rounded the last buoy back into the river. After that, the rain came down in earnest, and pelted everyone on board. My grandpa stood at the boat wheel and got soaked to the bone; I know he loved it. He steered forcefully with a grin on his face as he drove the boat back to the dock. When we docked, my brother and grandmother and I grabbed what stuff we could and made our way back to the trailer, leaving Grandpa to moor the boat in the rain and get the fish from the live wells.
Back at the house, we all � Grandpa included � sat on the porch with its tin roof and watched the rain come down.
�Well Joyce, it was a good start this morning, don�t ya think? Too bad it had to rain; I was looking forward to some serious fishing.� My grandpa�s soft spoken, weathered voice reached above the din of the rain on the tin roof.
�Curly, its always a good day when we make it out there. Even when it rains.� My grandma answered him as she pushed the porch swing with her bare feet on the hard wood floor. Then, save for the rain falling on the tin roof, the porch was quiet.
I remember so many days like that, and as I grew up I hoped that if and when the time came for my grandpa to leave this world, he would be doing what he loved. One day in March of 1987, my grandma called me. I was in South Florida at the time, concentrating on school and grades and the like. I picked up the phone and heard the news. There would be no more days spent on the Gulf reeling in fish, no more salt spray in hair nor on my face, no more bright blue eyes sparkling with the joy of being on the water. The previous weekend, they � my grandma and grandpa � had been out on the water with friends when Grandpa suffered a massive heart attack. He died later that night, on the couch of his beloved fishing trailer.
After the phone call I walked out of my house that day, just sort of wandering. The clouds gathered again and I could smell the salt of the ocean. It began to rain gently, a soft rain � the kind that is peaceful and refreshing. I watched the world go all watery and felt the sting of salt on my face for the last time.