Sharking and Other Stories

By Edward Norvell

A collection of short stories, mostly set in the south starting with the lead story about a young man and his relationship with his father put to the test during a dramatic fishing trip gone terribly wrong. There are fantasy stories of Gods and Goddesses, stories of love, romance, and love lost in this collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Norvell
• Release date: Apr 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458096371

Edward Norvell

Ed Norvell lives with his wife in Salisbury, North Carolina. He has two grown children and is an attorney working for non-profit land trusts across the state of North Carolina. He and his wife own a house on Ocracoke Island which is their second home. He has published Ocracoke Between the Storms, Portsmouth, Spies, U-boats and Romance on the Outer Banks, Southport, a Story of Second Chances, Shadows, No Salt To Season, and two collections of short stories. He received his undergraduate degree from UNC-Chapel Hill, a masters degree in English and creative writing from the City University of New York, and his JD Degree from the Wake Forest University School of Law. He has also attended the Breadloaf Writer's Conference at Middlebury College, VT.

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Sharking and Other Stories

A Collection of Short Stories by

by Edward P. Norvell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Edward P. Norvell

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This novel is a fiction. Any reference to historical events; real people, living or dead or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Sharking

The wet sand filtered through Scott's fingers, hardening into the intricate spire of a sand castle, as the sun penetrated his tanned back, soothing and relaxing him. Scott sat with his legs folded under him, as he sculpted the spires and walls of the sand castle. The sound of the waves drowned out all other sound. He could feel the breeze blowing steadily from the ocean. At fifteen Scott was physically at an awkward stage of adolescence: not quite a teenager, but too big to be a boy.

Scott, he heard someone call from over a sand dune.

He looked up and saw his father, standing beside sea oats bent by the wind, wearing a beaked baseball hat with the name Atlantis, printed over an anchor. Scott could feel his father's dark eyes focus on him, and heard disapproval in his voice, but he continued to build the sand castle without looking up. His father walked quickly over the soft sand of the dune, onto the beach.

Answer me when I call you, his father said, yanking Scott up by the arm. I thought I told you not to play in the sand anymore like a kid. His father kicked the sand castle and stepped on it, leaving a large print in the mound of wet sand. You're almost fifteen years old. You're too old to be sitting in the water, making mud pies. Scott wiggled loose from his father and ran like lightning down the beach.

Come back here, damnit. Don't run away from me when I talk to you. His father ran after him, but the boy was too fast for him. Mr. Reynolds was tired, having been awake since five in the morning, after taking a party of drunken businessmen deep-sea fishing.

Scott sat on top of a sand dune watching the white-capped waves roll in. By concentrating on the monotone of the waves, and the sound of the wind, Scott could forget the hurt and turmoil, which raged inside him. Every once in a while it welled up like a storm at sea. What was wrong with building sand castles? His mother didn't mind. Why did his father make such a big deal out of it? What was wrong with his father? All of a sudden it seemed he was turning on Scott and Scott didn't know why. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought them back, armed with one clear thought.

He repeated it over and over in his mind until he began to mouth the words I hate my father, I hate my father, I hate my father.

Scott opened the back door of the house trying to slip into his room without his parents hearing him. It was dark outside. After he left the beach he went to play video games on the fishing pier with Ricky Holmes and a few of his friends. Scott ate dinner with Ricky and his family.

Scott, is that you? his mother called out.

Where have you been? his mother asked, getting up from the sofa facing the television, where she sat knitting a gray sweater. Mr. Reynolds did not take his eyes off of the television set.

I ate at Ricky's, Scott said, leaning against the hall door, which led into the living room. The house was paneled in knotty pine, which gave it a warm yellow glow at night.

Why didn't you call us?

I forgot.

Mr. Reynolds turned his head to his wife without looking at Scott. I made him mad this afternoon. I caught him playing in the sand again and he ran off.

Bill, Mrs. Reynolds looked at her husband, sharply.

He's still a boy.

A boy, hell, Rebecca, he's almost sixteen years old.

He'll be grown soon enough. Don't be so hard on him.

She put her hand on her husband's shoulder.

Frank Field's son is Scott's age and he's helping his Dad on the boat, he said.

I told you, I don't want him to work on the boat until he is old enough, Mrs. Reynolds stiffened.

Do you know how much I pay those high school kids to work for me?

I don't care how much you pay them. I've heard all this before.

Is your son too damn good to work on a fishing boat with his father?

I didn't say that.

Afraid he'll cut himself on a fish hook or get bit by a shark?

I didn't say that either.

John was too good for it. He went to college, wouldn't work with his father like the other boys. Now look where he is, in Atlanta, working some computer job. We don't see him more than twice a year. He's too good for both of us. Is that what you want for Scott?

"I'm proud of John and so are you, to hear you brag about him to your buddies. He comes to visit us when he can.

He's very busy, and, yes, if Scott wants to go to college, I want him to go. He has talent with drawing and design. Who knows, he may become an architect or an engineer."

"Too damn good to work with their father, both of them. You pamper them, play up to them, and try to set them against me.

They don't do what I say. They say, 'But Momma told me not to do that'."

That's not true and you know it.

Scott ran to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He heard his parents argue in the living room for another half-hour, then his Dad stomped down the hall and slammed the back door. Mr. Reynolds got into his car, backed up, spraying gravel as he did, then sped off down the drive out to the highway. Scott heard his door open; it was his mother. She knelt beside his bed.

"Don't be mad at your father. He's under a lot of pressure. He's not making the money he needs to keep everything going. It seems that each year it becomes harder to catch the fish he needs to satisfy his customers, and it becomes more and more expensive.

He's not mad at you and me. He's mad at himself and doesn't know what to do." Scott reached up and hugged his mother.

The next morning at breakfast they ate in silence. Mr. Reynolds looked tired and hung over.

Well, it certainly is a nice day today, isn't it? Mrs. Reynolds said smiling. Scott looked out the sliding glass doors, through the pine trees in front, over the Intra-Coastal waterway, and past the silvery marshes to the cottages on Holden Beach a couple miles away. It was a beautiful day. The wind played with the glistening saw grass in the marshes as it does with the water: making dimples here and there, laying them flat in one direction, then rippling them just beyond. Several sailboats made their way down the waterway. He could see their tall masts through the trees, sails flapping uselessly while they were being powered by small motors on the waterway. Occasionally a barge would float by noiselessly, carrying mounds of black coal, or loads of freshly cut trees to be sent to a pulp mill in South Carolina.

What do you have planned for today Scott? Mrs. Reynolds asked.

Me and Ricky are going to take the dinghy out and go shrimping, then dig some clams.

Mr. Reynolds slid his chair out and stood up.

Where are you going? Mrs. Reynolds asked, her tone changing from pleasantness to anxiety.

To the dock, to work on the boat. The starboard engine is giving me some trouble and I have a party of four who are going to the Gulf Stream with me tomorrow to go bill fishing.

Fishing for marlin? Scott asked, excited.

Yeah, do you want to go?

He's not going to the Gulf Stream with you on business until he is fifteen years old. You promised me that. Mrs. Reynolds said, glaring at her husband.

I hear you, just thought I'd ask. He replied with a smirk on his face.

Scott was thrilled when he heard his Dad say marlin fishing. Usually his father fished for blues, Spanish or king mackerel. But only at certain times of the year did he go to the Gulf Stream, fifty miles off shore, to fish for marlin. The best marlin fishing was off Cape Hatteras, just to the north, but every once in a while marlin were caught off Cape Fear.

Scott liked to work on his father's boat, but he knew his mother didn't want him to. She didn't mind him helping to clean up and prepare bait and tackle while it was at the marina. But as for going with his father on a business trip, she said no. He couldn't wait until he turned fifteen.

Scott and Ricky put their pails and nets in the wooden boat and filled the tank with enough gasoline to last them for the day. After Scott got out into the inland waterway,

Ricky gradually fed the shrimp net into the water. The floats spread out behind the small boat that Scott had helped his brother build. After a while Scott slowed down, and with his foot on the steering rod of the out-board motor, they both began to pull the net in; slowly at first, faster as it got closer to the boat, so the shrimp couldn't escape. When the net was in the boat, Scott and Ricky picked out the little flounder, seaweed, and fish, and threw them back into the water. Then they started to gather the shrimp, which were slippery and jumped like grasshoppers when touched. The boys giggled and laughed as they chased the shrimp around the bottom of the boat, picked them up and dropped them into a pail half full of water. A few of the small shrimp managed to escape, hiding under the exposed timbers at the bottom of the boat.

After several more passes with the net, they had a pail full of very active shrimp. When they finished Scott pulled the boat up on a bank of black mud on the marsh side of the inland waterway. They wore tennis shoes to protect their feet from oyster shells, which were everywhere and colorful nylon bathing suits - Scott's was red and Ricky's was lime green - and they wore white tee shirts with pockets.

They tied the boat to a large piece of driftwood, and then trudged through the black mud, along the bank of a creek, which led into the tall shimmering grass of the marshes. The tide was going out; at high tide the mud would be under water. They passed several beds of oysters. The oysters were