Theresa Wisner - Daughter of Neptune

DAUGHTER OF NEPTUNE

found at sea

By
Theresa Wisner

Sams Creek Press

Copyright 2015 by Theresa Wisner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Theresa Wisner/Sams Creek Press

www.daughterofneptune.com

Authors note: This book is memoir. It reflects the authors present recollections of experiences. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

Cover Design by Dissect Design

Daughter of Neptune/Theresa Wisner 1st edition

ISBN: 978-0-578-45218-0

This book is dedicated to the generations to come - may each be better than the one before.

Acknowledgements:
Id like to thank my critique group, Dorothy Black Crow, Susan Clayton-Goldner, Susan Domingos, Susan Amanda Kelly, Patsy Lally, Martha Miller, Bob Olds, Martha Ragland, Marjorie Reynolds, Lois Rosen, Jane Sutherland, Lori Tobias, and Angelique Little for their help with critiques and editing. To Clive Ricardo Lunn for being such a good sport while Susan Kelly and I took over their house with writerly duties. Id like to especially thank my husband and love of my life, Rich Wisner, who read and edited, supported and loved me throughout. Mostly, Id like to thank my mother who, although she doesnt appear much in this work, raised me with all the love she had, and taught me to be a fierce woman.

CHAPTER ONE

Long Island, New York

I smell the salt. Its carried on the breath of the earth here, and in the mist that hangs in the air. It clings to the inside of my nose and it tickles and is tangy, all at once. On my skin, a damp coating of fine crystals. I lick my lips, and taste the sea.

It was a two-hour drive to Montauk Point with my three older brothers in the back seat of the family station wagon. My little sister and baby James slept with my nine-year-old self in the way-way back. Now, like ducklings, we troop behind our parents down the docks to the white boat with Cricket II painted boldly in black across the white transom. Forty feet long, its bigger than any boat Ive ever been on.

Theres the mate, Brian, on the main deck, waiting by wooden steps to help us board. Two steps up, grab the stainless steel railing, jump onto the deck, and move out of the way for the next kid. Its only Mom and Dad and we kids with Captain Mundas and Brian. Well be angling for blue shark because were little, and blues are smaller.

Hes a performer, this skipper. His right sock is green, and his left one, red. I think maybe Christmas, as he pulls his khakis up past his shoes to show us his dressed-up ankles. He reaches to the deepest part of his lungs to heave words out in a voice thats riddled with the sound of an outgoing tide tugging pebbles from the beach. Port and Starboard! he yells. He sees the confusion in our faces and bends, palms moved to his thighs, fingers splayed inward. Hes eye level with Mike, the tallest of us. The shark tooth on his necklace dangles as he pivots his head to include each of us, in turn. He backs off on his volume. Port thats left. Starboards right on a boat. Know how I remember? Port has four letters, so does left. Starboard has well more letters, so does right. I know all that... but my socks here? He tugs up on his pant legs, Theyre my backups in a pinch.

My feet are welded to the deck as Mundus sweeps himself across the deck, on to other business. Awe.

We untie the boat and ride out to the shark grounds. Dad calls, Lets head up to the flying bridge. He and the boys climb to the deck thats up top, and gather around the steering wheel with Captain Frank. I dont like heights, but I want to be with them. I scale the steps of the metal ladder, stopping halfway. My ears get a funny feeling and I have to close my eyes. Dont look down. Just dont look down.

Two more steps and I poke my head over the edge. I pull a breath into my lungs.

Dad sees me. Go down to your mom.

But I want to be up here.

Youll just be in the way, and he turns to look forward.

I dont want to be with them. I want to be up here. With you.

But the wind carries my voice the other way.

If I were a boy, hed let me stay.

I join Mom with my sister and littlest brother in the cabin. I love Mom, but I see her all day, every day. Shes always doing something boring, like cooking or cleaning. Right now, shes leaning over a sleeping James.

Margarets sitting at the table dressed in red pants, a red and white striped shirt, and matching red sweater. Black boat shoes finish her outfit. Her shiny hair is cut into what Mom calls a pageboy.

Im wearing a blue, V-necked sweater. My hair is tangled. Mom started to comb it this morning but I squirmed too much, so she gave up. It used to be longer, but I got bubble gum in it last week. Mom used Scotch tape as a guide to create this bob with bangs.

She stands up and sees me. I thought you were up with your dad?

He told me to come down here. I look toward the deck as my heart plunges with the shame of not being good enough. Not being big enough. And especially not being boy enough.

We motor eastward for maybe an hour before arriving at the fishing grounds. Brian grabs a bucket of stinky bait from a cooler on the deck. He takes it to the stern and tips it. The guts plop as they hit the surface, then sink. Pieces resurface and make a greasy trail beside the wake of the boat. Called chumming, its supposed to get the attention of sharks. I dont go near it, but the smell trips over the wafting diesel, and I gag.

Along the sides and stern of the boat are fishing poles held in place by metal braces. Brians already got those ready with line and hooks. Near them are wooden clubs with large, metal hooks attached to one end. Gaffs, he calls them. Stay away from them, he says.

Brians got tattoos on his arms. Mermaids. Green and blue, with a dash of red. Dads got tattoos, but not on his arms. I see them sometimes when Mom gives him a shot in his butt for his diabetes. Pig on one cheek, chicken on the other. Never drown at sea, he says. Pigs and chickens dont like water. Theyll surface as fast as they can, bringing a sailor up with them.

While Brian baits the two hooks at the stern, we kids circle up around Dad for directions. Im back in the midst of my brothers and the sun is warming me from the outside in. Dads taken his shirt off and his lightly freckled biceps radiate white under the sun. His instructions are simple. Pay attention. Follow orders. Dont touch anything without asking. Dont let a shark drag you in.

Bolted to the middle of the deck is a chair dressed up in blue Naugahyde with worn white piping. Taking turns of fifteen minutes each, we occupy the chair by age, oldest first. Dad, with his flattop hair cut and his belly hanging out over the top of his beige khakis, stands alongside it, helping each of us get ready to fish.

When its my turn in that chair, its heaven; when one of my five siblings is in that chair, its agony. Five of every six minutes is spent waiting. Wanting. Not getting my hearts one desire the undivided attention of my dad.

When Im in that chair, my dad leaning over me, cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth, I look out over that ocean and a calm cascades over me. Theres a big, dark and dangerous ocean out there, but here, in the wake of my dads Old Spice, Im safe. Theres something magical about the water that changes him. Hes happy and carefree. Here, he has all the time in the world.

A leather belt is attached to my waist. It clings to my hips at the sides and settles against the bottom of my belly. A rigid leather cup above my crotch and below my navel is ready to hold the butt of the rod in place. Against the small of my back, the leather extends out, creating a grab strap so someone can snatch me before a shark can pull me in.