“You’re going to be introduced to a few bugs you have never seen before.” Dad pointed up at a spider web in the corner of the kitchen. “I decided to leave this one there so you could see it.” There was a water bug, dead now, caught in a spider web. It was one of those large bugs that were in the cockroach family but you did not get them from being dirty, they just coexisted with us, especially in a place where humidity was so ridiculously high. “They are harmless. Well, they fly when it’s a full moon, that’s pretty freaky.”
“When you wake up in the morning, shake out your boots.” He looked down at my Frye boots. “We do have scorpions down here. If one stings you, you probably won’t die.” Dad smiled. “But you’ll get pretty sick.” Man did I miss him! He was standing at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room in his cottage. He was heating up a wok with oil. In another bowl, mix a batter. I was about to experience his famous shark McNuggets.
Rick the shark hunter had given us a black tip shark when we went down to Woody’s boat basin earlier and met him on the dock. Rick filleted that shark on the dock so quickly, with such skill and precision. Nothing was wasted. Rick was about 5’6”. He wore a ragged old Lone Star cap, and his wrap-around sunglasses sat on the hat bill. He had smiling eyes and hair that was browning but sun-bleached and fell to his collarbone. He had lots of stories and was always so dramatic at telling them. He drove a 74 Plymouth Satellite, that was a cream color and just as loud as all the rest of the island cars. Most noteworthy about Rick was his shark tooth necklace. It had many rows of chains with many many shark teeth set into it.
I liked Rick. He was one of those friends you could feel fortunate to run into. He was dramatic about everything. He made you feel important, and made everything he said feel important. His wife Janice stopped down at the boat basin. After they headed back to the car. As she fired up the engine and stepped on the gas, Rick swore, “She is gonna tear that thing up” he exclaimed shaking his head. For some reason, I could not figure out what Janice had done to receive that reaction. I felt like he said this more for us in a primal male ritual and the Plymouth was never really in any danger.
Rick offered to take us out for a ride on the Orca. I figured a little trip around the marina, right? Perfect. Well, that is not how it went. Around here, you go for a ride on a boat, you go for a ride on a boat, like miles away from the island, by which I mean land.
As a child, I nearly drowned. I do not even have a memory of this event, but it has manifested itself as a strong aversion to vast amounts of water. With our 3 beers on the dashboard of the Orca, we sped southeast, passed the jetties, and out into the Gulf of Mexico. Port Aransas, which is on Mustang Island, shrank behind us by the second. Once we got out there, the swells were running like 4 feet, then 6 feet. And so it continued, 4, 6, 4, 6, 4, 6…..16, 18…..4! I knew I would be ok, but I was still terrified. After the 18-foot swell, the Orca seemed to sit midair until she plummeted downward to greet the 4-footer. Our 3 cans of beer took off like missiles and flew past our heads on their way out into the ocean while the boat nose-dived. I held on tight like I could be flung out into the gulf like those cans of beer, while Rick, ran all over the place on the upper parts of the Orca in bare feet like he was wearing magnetic feet that held him to the boat. It was remarkable. He moved with the boat that moved with the sea. It was amazing and for me incomprehensible. The erratic rhythm of the gulf continued to heave us up and then down at unpredictable intervals.
I was happy when Port Aransas grew into view again and we docked at Woody's. We thanked Rick for the tour and gratefully took our black tip shark home for dinner. We talked a little about the water on the way home. I had heard from Dad's cousin Dave that my Dad was not exactly crazy about the water. But my issue with was certainly much more severe. I could keep myself alive in a lake or a pool, but miles from land, my lack of water confidence would be my undoing.
As Dad made the shark, we talked and talked. He put on Billy Joel’s Glass Houses album. The shark McNuggets were fantastic. I loved how he cooked. There was a subliminal mad scientist feel to the things he did. I loved that. I listened to him talk. My eyes watched as he moved, tattoos that I had not seen for years that were so familiar to me, two of which I watched him get at Bob’s cabin in Strong, Maine back in July of 1979. It felt like we had been together for the last 4 years. It all felt like home.
In this little cottage, there was one bedroom. Dad had a queen-sized water bed in the bedroom and two sofas in the living room. The sofa against the front wall became my bed. The television was to stay on ALL OF THE TIME. Port Aransas is extremely humid with salt in said humidity. If you foolishly shut your television off, condensation would build on the circuit boards inside the television and should you turn it on before the condensation cleared, BOOM! No more TV. So, I slept with the TV on all night every night. It was 1984, so our TV was playing MTV 24 hours a day. It was fantastic.
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