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Since the old boat constitutes his sole inheritance, Clay starts out small. He recruits his oldest friend, Byron, a ...
Since the old boat constitutes his sole inheritance, Clay starts out small. He recruits his oldest friend, Byron, a traumatized Vietnam vet, to join him in a crabbing business. Just as they're breaking even, Hurricane Agnes roars in to ruin the salinity of the eastern Bay waters. Agnes forces them across the Bay to set their crab traps along the Virginia shoreline and to move in with Matt and Kate, Clay's uppercrust friends from college.
It's in these unfamiliar waters that their real troubles begin. Clay falls irrevocably in love with the spoken-for Kate; Byron's demons pursue him with even greater vengeance; and out in the Bay the partners stumble onto a drug running operation. Lines are drawn by the dealers. And, at the very end, in a riveting boat chase, Clay comes very close to losing the battle . . . forever.
Clay is the waterman of the title. He lives in a small town on the Chesapeake Bay and has returned from college, after his father's tragic death, to continue his fishing business. Through sheer momentum, Junkin's waterborne images eventually take the place of a strong story and become fascinating in their own right. Junkin, who worked as a waterman before becoming a lawyer and now a novelist, has a true, instinctual passion for the swampy waterways of the Chesapeake and the tough, canny people who spend their lives on it. But just as his characters start to take on a life of their own, he cranks up a lame subplot about drug dealers that brings everything to a halt.
Hurricane Agnes veered westerly overnight, picked up speed and force, and by Wednesday morning was threatening to hit the North Carolina coast. She boasted winds of over 150 miles per hour. Clay had listened to the reports all evening. He took a short nap after midnight but rose early to check the news. No change. Outside in the dark morning, the screen door was banging, and it had started to rain. He waited anxiously for a while and then decided to go after his pots. He dialed Laura-Dez's house, trying to find Byron, but got no answer. He called Mason's. Blackie answered the phone half asleep. Byron was not there either. Clay went outside several times and finally decided he wouldn't wait. It was just after four when he left for Pecks.
The morning was coal black, and the rain streamed through the headlights of his Chevrolet as he drove the back roads, bumping over the potholes in his hurry. As he traveled down the oyster shell drive, he noticed that cars were parked askew. The lights from the wharf were on, and the floodlights lit the dock and spotlighted several men working the boat lift. Jed Sparks was hollering to a man on a pleasure yacht to back out of the way. There were four or five boats, lights ablaze, backed up in a line in the creek, and general commotion everywhere.
Clay patted him on the shoulder. "Can you save me a spot for a lift about midday?" He had to speak loudly over the din.
Jed regarded him for a moment. "I dunno, Clay. I got forty-some pulls promised already. All good winter customers. Never make that, probably. I've turned down as many. Maybe the storm'll turn."
Clay understood. It would take as long to pull his three-thousand-dollar boat as it would to pull the thirty-thousand-dollar yachts already in line, and there wasn't time enough for everyone. The yard was already crowded and the confusion increasing.
"We get hit direct, this wharf gonna look like a junkyard anyway." Jed shrugged. "We only got so much cable." He looked at the sky and the water. "The river'll take what she wants. You know that better'n most." He eyed Clay. "Don't forget your daddy's diesel mooring."
Clay patted him once again on the back. "Don't worry. But if you see Byron, tell him I'll be unloading pots at Boone's Landing. Tell him to get his pickup there."
Jed grabbed his hand. "Careful out there. And good luck."
"Yes, sir. To you too." Clay turned and walked down to the Miss Sarah. He climbed aboard and felt her sturdiness. She started up on the first turn. He untied all of her lines from the pilings and stowed them aboard and eased out of the slip. He passed by the yachts, all backing and churning, trying to maintain their positions in the creek, and was out in the open river, aimed at the Benoni light, which marked the distant black horizon with the four-second beacon he knew so well.
In the streaming rain and with the steady drum of his engine, he worked his way out of the river, the wind sharp across his
Posted March 20, 2001
What a find. This book's a reverie, a rhythmic poem to the fragile and beautiful Chesapeake estuary. Its people harbor that invisible connection, that bond with their land and water, with the cycles of the natural world, and this rare sensibility permeates the writing, comes through quietly and elegantly. The story is not without flaws, though. Occassionally the writing moves slow, the plot meanders, and the author dares to flout his genre, to end the book with raw realism that leaves an uncomfortable aftertaste. Yet it's a fine story, (a distinctive first novel), about the power of passion, of personal history, the heat of youth, and it turns suspenseful and thrilling as it spirals toward its dark finish. For those who still cherish the natural world, who appreciate how it enriches the spirit and enobles lives, and who enjoy hearing a new and enchanting voice, this shouldn't be missed.
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Posted June 22, 2013