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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Bo
After our serious talk I recommended we table the call to his folks until he felt more comfortable making it. I disagreed with leaving his family hanging one more second, assuming they must think he was dead, but the call was his decision to make.
He passed the ice chest down to me on the boat and paused on the dock.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. “You don’t have to go if you’re nervous.”
He knelt to untie the rope connecting the boat to the dock. “I’ll be fine, Bo. I’ve been on boats dozens of times,” he defended. “Maybe not this small, but I want to see what you do for a living.”
The previous week I’d gone to town and purchased new traps, buoys, and rope because I’d lost all of my old ones in the storm. I’d also set and baited the new traps the previous day so Hayes could experience the harvesting side of my job without the monotonous set up. Secretly, I wanted the experience to be fun and to show the exciting parts of trapping lobster and crab.
“I baited the traps yesterday so you won’t be opening cans of cat food today,” I reassured.
“Good,” he stated. “I’m all about the rewards anyway.” He stepped onto the boat and shoved us away from the dock. He quickly sat and grabbed the sides to steady himself. “Kind of rocks a lot, doesn’t it?”
“We have life vests, baby. We’ll be totally fine with how calm the weather is today.” Hayes forced a smile and patted his vest as he checked that the buckles and straps were secure.. “There ya go,” I said.
Once away from the dock and on smooth water, Hayes relaxed his hands and sat back to enjoy the view. It would be a twenty minute ride to get out of Port Royal Sound and into the Atlantic Ocean. I set my traps less than a quarter of a mile from shore so we’d be upon them straight away with the smooth ride we were experiencing.
“Hey!” Hayes yelled over the engine noise, pointing to a bright-pink buoy. “Is that ours?”
I adored how he’d included himself in the ownership of the buoy.
He moved to the side of the boat facing the buoy. “I hope there are tons of lobsters,” he hollered, lighting up with anticipation.
I turned the outboard motor off and we drifted to the buoy where I reached out with my gaff hook and snared the floating ball, pulling it to the side of the boat.
“Do you want to learn how I pull the trap from the bottom?” I asked.
He nodded his head enthusiastically.
“We use this winch to power crank the trap to the surface.”
Hayes watched me deftly attach the rope to the winch and flip the switch for the battery-operated tool. His eyes widened while we waited thirty or so seconds for the trap to break through the water. “I’m crossing my fingers,” he declared, holding his hands over his head. “Come on, lobsters. Daddy needs more Spam.”
Hayes was like a kid on his first ever trip to a carnival where he wanted his father to win him a stuffed animal.
I watched the rope as it wrapped around the winch until I saw the trap was close to the surface. I stopped the winch from pulling the trap the rest of the way out.
“What’s wrong, Bo?” he gasped. “Did the winch thingy break?”
“Are you a betting man?” I asked, lifting my brows. “Do you wanna risk adding more chores at home?”
“Hell yeah!” He clapped his hands and crawled closer to me.
“Okay,” I warned. “Winner on this pot gets to give up one of his chores and the loser has to accept the results.”
“Deal,” Hayes said, glancing toward the submerged trap, only the outline of the top was visible under several inches of water.
“How many lobsters do you think are in this trap?” I asked.
“A hundred,” he quickly announced. He rubbed his hands together, thrilled with the contest.
“I could cheat and accept your answer, baby, but I’ve never caught more than eleven in one pot. Give me a realistic number this time.”
He pinched his mouth. “Hmm?” he mumbled. “Eight.”
“And I’ll go with six,” I said. “Ready?”
