#TeachersWrite Day One

Day One Lesson/Prompt

Galilee (Point Judith), Rhode Island Description Take 1 
(Excerpt from story I'm working on entitled The Letter)

From the steering wheel of Cal’s lobster boat, nautical dawn has allowed us to faintly see the stone wall entrance to Point Judith. Cal promises that going past the Coast Guard base right near the docks is easier than what we just did.  As we quietly glide past their hub, a wave of relief begins to rush through my veins as I realize that we are almost home free.  It may have been nerve wrecking at the moment the barrels dropped, but now it feels like I made it worse than it was.  A thousand dollars for this instead of three days at sea and not seeing my wife is a good deal to me. 

            Just past the little white shack of the Coast Guard base, Cal bears left towards the Great Salt Pond.  Before twilight is over, we have to quickly off load the barrels and store them in the grey shack.  From the start of the main wall where visitors wave to the passing boats, these shanties are one after another.  They go around the corner as far as the eye can see.  Many of them are grey from the weathering of the salt air.  We approach one that has a crack in one small pane in the window to the left of the door.  A burly man exits the door and goes on to the dock.  Cal approaches the dock as I grab the rope at the bow and toss it up to the burly man on the dock.  He wraps and ties it around the post while I run to the stern.  I grab the rope, jump up, and tie it up.  Cal cuts the engine and goes towards the hidden barrels.  The burly man puts the ramp down into the boat.  We go back in and begin to roll the barrels up the ramp and into the shack. 

            We continue on for fifteen minutes with no one speaking.  Everyone moves as if it is a dance that we have been doing for years.  Cal brings the last barrel into the shack as I put the ramp back on the dock and start up the engine.  Cal releases the ropes and hops in and takes his position at the helm.  We head over to Champlin’s restaurant to drop off the few pots of lobsters we collected.  The money they pay us is a drop in the bucket compared to the payday we already received.  I can see it bulging from Cal’s pocket of blue Dickies. 

Hear Details

• swishing of minimum wake waves entering port
• low hum of practically idling diesel engine
• absence of seagulls noises 
• rolling sound of blue plastic barrels on metal ramp
• creaks in the old dock as barrels and people move along it

Smell Details

• salt water
• diesel gas
• old fish gut smells wafting from nearby boats and boat deck
• sweat mixed with salt on cotton clothes

Taste Details

• salt water mist on lips
• gas fumes from slight wind blowing them into face/mouth

Feel Details

• steady movement of boat gliding through flat calm bay water
• smooth plastic of barrel
• pounding of heart in chest
• salt water on skin 
• stiffness of clothes due to the salt water

Galilee (Point Judith), Rhode Island Description Take 2 

        From the sea-misted metal steering wheel of Cal’s lobster boat, nautical dawn allows us to faintly see the white spray of seawater crashing against the stone wall entrance to Galilee. Cal promises that going past the little white shack of the Coast Guard base right near the docks is easier than what we just did.  As we quietly glide through the smooth bay water and past their hub, a wave of relief begins to rush through my veins as I realize that we are almost home free.  It may have been a nerve-racking experience at the moment the barrels dropped into the boat, but now it feels like I made it feel worse than it was.  A thousand dollars for a few early morning hours instead of living at sea for three days and not seeing my new bride is a better deal to me. 

         With the low hum of the engine, we pass the Coast Guard base.  Cal bears left towards the Great Salt Pond.   From the start of the main wall where visitors wave to the people on passing Block Island ferries, there are tiny one room shanties one after another.  They go around the corner as far as the eye can see.  Many of them are now grey-shingled siding from the weathering of the salt air.  We approach one that has a crack in one pane in the eight pane window to the left of its door.  A burly man exits the door and goes onto the dock.  The boat approaches the dock as I grab the rope at the bow and toss it up to the burly man.  He wraps it around the post while I run to the stern.  I grab the rope, toss it around the post and tie it up.  Cal cuts the diesel engine and goes towards the hidden barrels behind the lobster pots.  The burly man puts the metal ramp down into the boat.  We begin to roll the barrels up the ramp trying to keep the squeaks and scratching of the metal dock to a minimum.  One by one, we glide the barrels up the ramp and onto the dock that begins to creak and sway under all the weight.  

      We continue on for fifteen minutes with no one speaking.  Everyone moves as if it is a dance that we have been doing for years.  Cal brings the last barrel into the shack as I put the ramp back on the dock.  I start up the engine with its diesel smoke immediately wafting about me.  Cal releases the ropes and hops in to take his position at the helm.   

      The breeze of seagulls circling close to our heads begins to draw attention to us as we head over to Champlin’s restaurant to drop off the lobsters we harvested.  We pull up to their cement dock which is covered in so much seagull droppings that is seems to have been painted white.  I slide the orange plastic buckets onto the dock.  The worker, who came out at the sound of soft purring of our idling engine, grabs the buckets by their white handles and tosses the lobsters out onto the metal belt.  He inspects the sizes and moves them down the line to the scale.  "What a great early catch.  Guess you wanted to get in ahead of the others," he said as he continues inspecting bucket by bucket.  

      "It's always great to be ahead of the game," Cal replies.  He hands Cal our payment in cash.  The money they pay us is a drop in the bucket compared to the payday we already received.  I can see it bulging from Cal’s pocket of his blue Dickies. 

Why is this story worth telling?

I am writing this story to show the unending bond between parent and child and the forgiveness we all seek from past errors that were a learning experience yet effected others deeply.