Those days drift back to me like tidewater,
slow and sure, carrying the smell of the bayou, salt, and sun.
My brother and I, usually barefoot on the bayou side,
spent half our childhood on weathered wharves,
lines in the water, time on our hands,
And the whole wide world waiting for us to grow up.
We learned patience from my father,
a man who could fish longer than daylight itself,
quiet as the herons watching from the reeds.
He taught us that stillness has its own kind of wisdom,
that a tug on the line is worth every hour of waiting.
Crabbing in the gulf-fed canals felt like treasure hunting,
leaning over the edge, pulling up the strings,
laughing when one stubborn crab tried to make a run for it.
And when we finally headed home, sunburned and exhausted,
There was the ritual of cleaning the catch,
scales flashing like tiny mirrors in the fading light.
Then came the aroma I can still smell today,
fish frying in the kitchen, french fries crackling in the pan,
a smell that could make a king jealous.
We ate like we’d earned it, because we had.
I remember the thrill of a new Zebco rod and reel,
a gift that felt like a doorway to the whole world.
And the stupidity (my own)
of forgetting to rinse the salt water from the reel,
only to find it stiff and stubborn the next time out.
Lessons learned the hard way tend to stick.
But nothing, nothing,
beats the early Saturday morning trips to the Gulf,
the sky still deciding what color it wanted to be,
the world quiet except for our footsteps in the wet sand,
and then that sunrise,
breaking open the day like a promise.
Those were the hours that shaped me,
The Saturdays that made themselves
into the person I became.
And even now, when the world feels too fast,
I can close my eyes and hear the water,
feel the old wharf beneath my feet, see my brother,
and know that some parts of us
never drift away.
wcd
