| The North Wind blew hard that January of the Winter of ot Seven.................why it cascaded across that flat Bay like an angry ghost of cranky blue ice no one can say..............squall after squall came down on those oyster tongers reachin' into the depths for to eek out their basic subsistence ....tuggin' is what was then and is now their only means of provision in this harsh and unforgiving environ of salt and sand and sadness.........that ole Nor'wester felt it's heavy wake across that mirror top basquelper, breaking it's surface up into white caps, frothy and bubbly and foamy and makin' it more than work to see that next forkfull so arduously dragged out of that thick pastey grey, muddy mud bottom of mud ...........>< ......gars.............they'd eat the hide off'n anything fallen overboard quicker than one could scream HELP!!.................pirahnn, piranna, prihrhanna..........well, you get the idea.........so there wasn't much use in reachin' in after ole Buddy Jobber when he leaned too far over just as a whitecap beat the opposite side of that flat~skipper..........no use reachin' in after eem at'all..........no one even heard so much as a peep out of eem..........a splash and it was all over........ they say that if you listen real hard on cold grey days along that mirror top bay, when the squalls are Northern and the caps are breakin' white, that you can hear old Buddy Jobber.........the sound of them wooden tong handles rubbin' on the gunwale......... the rain stopped..........wind's movin' 'round outtah the West..........gone be night afore much longer............stretch the tarp..........this one ain't over yet............... |
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