White Lobsters of Hidden Point: The Chronicle of Michelle Crace

By Eric Michael Borkoski

Travel through an amazing series of events that transpired along the twisted journey a special individual had lived from a small, secluded waterfront community on the lower Eastern Shore of Maryland, across the country, and down to the Caribbean Sea. Captivating encounters with alternative lifestyles, drugs, revenge, corruption, and much more all cloaked in deception. Learn how someone who suppressed her feelings to satisfy others suffered for social acceptance, adjacent to struggling for control of her own destiny. Readers of all walks of life will witness and realize the hardships of overcoming such diversity and the consequences from the decisions made, which affected the lives of all involved. White Lobsters of Hidden Point: The Chronicle of Michelle Crace is a long-awaited story of life, emotions, and mystery where, over time, the truth is revealed in the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662472701

Book preview

Chapter 1

Take Me Back

Hearing the trancelike rhythm of the rain against the old office windows was peaceful and relaxing. Tired from traveling, time had passed and I was almost asleep on the couch. Quietly, the door opened, and in walked a dear friend; as well, she was my former psychologist, Dr. Annette Fabia.

I couldn’t believe when I received your email. I’m so glad to finally see you, Michelle, she said, walking over to give me a hug.

Well, I made it back to Maryland late last night. You can imagine I really didn’t want to, but I have to settle some unfinished business here, I replied, watching her starting the coffee pot.

The office now smelled of her perfume, Red Door, mixed with the aroma of freshly brewing coffee. After spending so many hours on the long plane ride back, the thought of finally having a chance to relax on such a dreary morning made me feel at ease.

Sorry to have kept you waiting, dear. There were several accidents on the way down here. I had to pace myself, she said, pouring our cups of coffee.

It had been quite some time since I had last met with Annette, and returning back wasn’t exactly easy after everything that had taken place. Do you mind if I smoke? I asked, holding up a pack of cigarettes.

Sure you can. Go ahead, dear. Relax, she said, handing me an ashtray from her table. Out of the countless cases of individuals I have tried to help, you have been the one who has made the greatest impression on me. Since I retire at the end of this month, I don’t find any better way but to hear the whole story. She smiled, adjusting her chair.

Thank you, Annette, and I do remember telling you that one day I would, but since the feds already had me once, coming back to the States could put me in their radar again, I told her, peering out of the office window.

I understand, dear. Remember its between us. My lips are sealed, she assured me.

I know. It’s just over time, I learned not to trust anyone with my business. You know it’s been a difficult decade for me, I said looking back across the room.

Michelle, everything you tell me stays between us, no matter how long it takes, she replied.

Okay, first you better cancel any appointments you have scheduled for today. This is going to be a while, I said, laughing.

You are my only client today, Annette quietly said, settling in her chair.

The rain came pouring down the windows harder as I closed my eyes and focused back, remembering when we moved from the city to Hidden Point. I recalled my father sitting at the kitchen table looking over a map as Mom was busy getting everything ready. The day had finally arrived, and today we we’re going to the eastern shore to look at our possibly new home and a new beginning."

Okay, are we ready to get the hell out of the city? my father said, hugging my mom.

We’re ready, Dad! my sister and I yelled back, setting the coolers in the rear of the old station wagon. We buckled up while they made one last look over the map. The thoughts of no noisy trains and gunshots heard throughout the night sounded great, leaving the city behind.

Nearly after a two-hour drive, we finally came to Hidden Point Road on the southside of the town of Bladen. The old gravel lane was lined by tall pine trees, with small creeks running along each side. As children, it was like going to our own private island, the smell of the woods mixed with the water off the bay.

Slowly, Dad drove across the old wooden bridge, nearing the last driveway on the road. Frustrated, he thought for sure that he missed the address. Then through the overgrown weeds, my mother noticed the old iron mailbox leaning against the post. Honey, I think this is it. Look at the number, box 169. She grinned.

I can recall that moment of everyone staring at the long tree-lined driveway as Dad drove to what we could make out to be a weathered yet beautiful old house. The property was a total of eight acres, with water surrounding three sides and a natural cove where the boathouse was located. Built in the 1830s, the house was a two-story wooden siding colonial, with two brick chimneys at each end.

There along the west side of the property stood a four-car garage and a pathway which led down to the pier and boathouse. A thick line of fir trees helps block the wind coming across the bay when the cold winter months blew frigid and sharply.

Sounds like paradise compared to the city, she said as lightning stuck loudly nearby.

It was. I knew from the very moment my father drove up that lane this was our home, I replied, opening my eyes.

Tell me about your family, dear, Annette said, turning her chair toward me.

My father, Morgan Crace, worked as a narcotics officer in the vice squad. Early in 1974, during a raid near Patterson Park, he and his partner were shot by a heroin dealer. Dad was hit in the knee. Fortunately, both survived the ordeal, but he spent many months recovering from the trauma. The department put him in charge of a unit helping troubled teens and working with other projects in the neighborhood. He worked his last two years doing that until he took early retirement and had his mind set on starting a seafood business.

My mother, Ashley, worked at a firm down off Reisterstown Road as an advertising specialist. Most of her career was spent dealing with the promotion of the cities sports teams. Later on, she settled as head of the graphic design board. The city was always a special part of their lives. After all, we we’re all born there.

How about your older sister? Annette asked while taking off her glasses.

Missy was three years older than me. She was fifteen at the time when we moved. Growing up, her big dream was to someday run and own a business. Planning on going to college for design and fashion, I remember our living room always full of her friends, doing each other’s hair and nails. Overall, she was a great person and would take the time to help me with whatever problem I had.

Was it difficult adjusting to such a different environment for all of you? Tell me about the town, dear, Annette asked.

The community of Bladen was known as Waterman’s Cove years before, and most of the businesses that still survived along the town docks had been established over a hundred years ago. Some of the Chesapeake Bay’s best seafood was often caught and shipped from just off the island’s surrounding waters. My father’s dream was turning into reality for a chance to earn a living from the abundance and plentiful variety there in our own backyard.

During the first summer, we all spent it together giving the old place a much-needed facelift. My parents hired contractors to take care of the major problems, mainly a new well and other plumbing issues, along with the installation of central air-conditioning. By the fall of the year, we had moved in permanently and started rebuilding the pier and boathouse. Dad was ready to purchase his first workboat from Sydney, an old man descending from one of the town’s original founding families.

Sydney and his wife, Sandy, were a couple in their early sixties. They owned the Dunn Seafood Company and local store there in Bladen, near the town dock. Over the years, they had endured the hardships of the changing bay due to pollution and construction, along with severe weather that fell upon the coast.

The town basically had everything anyone needed, saving everyone a fifteen-mile drive up to Falston. During the fall of the season, the majority of the community gathered down at the docks. Hanna’s Wharf Bar hosted the annual seafood and barbecue festival, a local tradition. It gave people a chance to eat good food and catch up on what was going on around in the area.

Did you miss any of your family and friends back in the city? Annette asked.

I always kept in touch with my best friend, Sam. We wrote each other letters and talked on the phone every weekend, I said, lighting up a cigarette.

What about any local kids your age? she added.

During the winter, my father and I were working on his workboat and headed over to the local shop in town. Dad had a list of things ready, and that’s when I met my friend Mike. His father owned the garage, the Bent Prop. Steve Goeing started as a small engine repair shop and known now as one of the most reputable marine businesses in the county.

The years seemed to fly by living there in Bladen. Before long, Missy was teaching me how to drive her Jeep. I suppose our relationship growing up as teenagers was a normal as the rest of the kids around, probably better. My father was seriously dedicated to becoming a waterman and followed his plans with supplying several key restaurants along the Inner Harbor. Slowly, everyone’s lives changed. My mother didn’t have to commute to her office up in the city, one of the rewards of being the head of the board. The bottom-floor bedroom was eventually converted into her new home office, where my father had her take care of his accounting work as well.

When my parents weren’t too busy, either my father or mother would drive up to the city to pick up Sam. Down on the shore, Sam was like a fish out of water, and that made visits more fun. I am able to show what I had learned, becoming more involved in the bay and earning some money along the way.

You really began to settle in there. Sounds like you were happy. Annette smiled.

I did. It was like it was meant to be, I said.

My sister, Missy, spent most of her time working up in Falston, at Buffy’s Hair and Nail Salon, chasing her dream. During the holidays and on special occasions, our family would come down and spend time with us. There, everyone could relax and take in the true beauty the eastern shore had to offer. When my sister turned nineteen, she moved in with her boyfriend, Bill, at his new apartment in Falston.

The house seemed a little empty at first, but she was just a phone call away if we needed to talk. Most of my time was either helping my father or Mike up at his father’s shop. From the beginning, I started saving money and planned on purchasing my own boat, something that I could afford and call my own.

Really? How old were you by then? Annette asked.

Sixteen, I replied.

By the summer of 1980, Dad and I drove to the other side of the point. There, another tranquil creek sat with a couple aging piers and docks. There, I can still see her reflection graced upon the still water. Moored floating alone, slowly the transom swung toward us, the faded gold lettering, read Lil Bit. She was a circa 1950 bay-built workboat. Her hull measured thirty-five feet, actually thirty-seven to the bow pulpit, constructed from local white cedar milled from the woods there in Bladen.

Dad heard from other local waterman that Kelly Branch had an old workboat he wasn’t using and wanted to sell before winter set in. From the moment we drove through the old iron gates, we were greeted by his dogs frantically barking at the strange truck in their driveway. Kelly lived alone and never bothered anyone. He was somewhat of a recluse ever since his wife and children were killed in a terrible accident that had taken place several years before we moved there.

Ever since that day, Kelly never used another vehicle again. Everywhere he traveled was by boat. After going down to the creek and seeing the boat, my dad was impressed by the condition. Kelly had updated the electronics and had a new engine and transmission the earlier part of the summer. He had made the decision to buy a newer fiberglass hull boat and didn’t want to responsibility of owning a wooden hull any longer. In the end of things, I bought her for thirty-five hundred dollars because if I didn’t, my father was surely going to for himself.

Finally, I owned something. It took many years, but she was mine. It was a good feeling. My parents told me of the responsibilities, and to be honest, I felt like a new parent. I would find myself going down to our pier at odd times, checking to make sure she was still floating to put my mind at ease.

Mike and I spent every chance we had down at the pier, where, over the winter months, the next coming summer was something to look forward to. My parents still drove me to pick up Sam in the city, who helped in fixing little things; usually Mike had whatever I needed or his father knew where to get it from. Steve had a fenced-in yard behind the garage, full of salvaged old boats and motors, which helped out, being on such a tight budget.

Chapter 2

The Wharf Bar

What else did you do besides work on the water? Annette asked while pouring us both another cup of coffee.

What do you mean? I replied, taking a sip from my cup.

I mean, describe what normally went on when you had some free time, she said, sitting down.

We always got up early in the morning, and our day, depending, was normally over by five in the evening. There was always lines to be repaired, pots to be baited up, or maintenance of all the boats. When working out on the bay, there wasn’t a set time for anything. Some of the time, things would go smoothly, and others, you wished you could have just stayed in bed.

After work was over, and if my parents didn’t need a hand, everyone usually went and hung out over the Hanna’s. The place had been a major piece of our community’s history. Currently it was owned by a man named Cal Greene and his wife, Mika. Cal had inherited the business from his parents who had moved down to Marathon, Florida, when they retired back in the mid-seventies. He changed the establishment from the traditional mom-and-pa place to a more modern one for people of all ages. You could have a good meal, enjoy drinks, play video games and pool, all without traveling up to Falston. Actually, there in Bladen. It was like our own community center in a way.

Sounds very nice. Did you get to know Cal and Mika? Annette calmly asked.

At first, the rumor going around town was Mika had been one of those Russian mail-order girls you see in the back of those magazines, but I knew different. One day, we were going to eat lunch at the bar and noticed a new black BMW car parked around the back, next to Cal’s truck. Mike and I walked over and checked out the car, noticing the New York license plates, with the name Mika embossed across them. While having lunch, Cal told us how he had met Mika at a Yankees’ baseball game in New York. She was an extremely attractive woman.

The food served there was always good, made-to-order, and when Mom didn’t feel cooking dinner, we were there for family dinner. Cal had a good staff. The head cook, Cliff, was the best around.

Cliff? Well, that’s a name you don’t hear too often, Annette said, laughing.

Yeah. Cliff Beddling, I answered, smiling at her. "He and his family were the only blacks that lived down in Bladen, and after many years passed, the locals accepted them. Back in the Vietnam War, Cliff was a cook in the Army, and his love of making great meals satisfied customers from counties all around. His children were the same age as my sister and me. They were good people. We all went through school together.

The local watermen met every day at the docks, where the catches of all the incoming boats were inspected. There they were loaded into refrigerated trucks and headed to various restaurants and markets located throughout the state. By that time, my father had already purchased his forth boat. All the hard work started to pay off. He employed six men and landed contracts, supplying some of Baltimore’s major seafood purchasers.

Tell me about the local waterman. What were they like? she asked in a low voice.

We all practically saw one another every day, if not several times a week. Whether it was out on the bay or at the docks, most of the guys were pretty private and kept to themselves. There was a small group who worked the nearby area off the point, but others traveled south every day.

Kelly Branch, the old waterman that I bought my boat from, the Archer brothers, the older being Philip and his younger brother, Kevin. Stu Harding had a slip next to mine, and of course, Sydney Dunn when he felt like heading out. Each year, there seemed to be more chicken-neckers coming from the western shore, and our dock had become a tourist stop by beat. Over time, the town began to see the impact, but the locals appreciated the money.

Near the end of summer, I had saved enough money to buy my first vehicle. Now I didn’t have to bother my parents with driving me to the city.

What did you buy? Annette asked.

Up in Falston, I purchased a Chevrolet three-quarter-ton four-wheel drive from an old man who had bought it new back in 1972. I had Steve, Mike’s dad, order new rims and tires, making it the best all terrain truck around, any redneck’s dream, I said, laughing.

What about the winter months? What type of work did everyone do then? she inquired, sipping on her coffee.

Winter was a time of year when everybody brought out their nets and began fishing. Some guys oystered, but to us, fishing paid off much better. There wasn’t a season when we weren’t out there making money, except for when the bay is frozen over with thick ice, and that only happened a couple times.

Our community was a closer group when cold weather set in. All of us working out of Bladen were only a radio call away from base station, which was located over at the Bent Prop. We encountered weather where the waves would break against our boats, sending spray that froze the instant it hit the walk boards. Many times, neither Mike nor myself wanted to leave the warmth of the pilothouse cabin, but we survived, needless to say.

One of the closest calls that I remember was during the month of December back in 1984. The crew aboard one of my dad’s boats had filled their daily limit and was heading back home to the docks. As they crossed through Tangier Sounds, a bad storm came across the bay from the western shore, blowing wind gust up to sixty miles per hour. The boat was in relatively shallow water at the time, averaging between eight to ten feet through that particular area. Waves began slamming them violently, causing it to nearly capsize in the icy water. After narrowly making it back, that evening, my father set a distance he would allow any of his boats to travel during the winter months. The decision he had made cut into the companies’ profits, but his priority was always safety first, a decision some of the other captains should have done themselves.

Sounds like it was dangerous, a dangerous way to earn a living. Didn’t anyone have time for themselves? You know, that special someone? Annette asked, peering over the glasses rested on her nose.

Going to school seemed to be a break for us growing up, but for the most part, we wanted to be out on the bay. Not many kids there in Bladen were involved in many school activities. I remember we used to throw our book bags in the house and run down to the docks. In such a small town, normally we would hang around at Hanna’s, go out on one of the beaches and party. Sometimes we would travel up to Falston, sometimes farther. Mike always had a crush on Liz, Liz Sudley," I said, reaching over toward the ashtray.

Her father, Nelson, owned the pile-driving and pier construction company there in Bladen. His business boomed when they began installing and maintaining boatlifts and lifts for Jet Skis although the family was already rich. The Sudley family was from old money. In the beginning, their descendants had purchased a lot of land, and as time passed, the real estate paid off. Liz was the only daughter, and growing up, her parents kept a close eye on her. They didn’t even let her ride the school bus.

On the boat one morning, rebaiting a trotline, Mike came up with a plan he’d thought of, one to get Liz to a party we had planned later that evening. Always taking the time to listen to him. I just hoped it wasn’t going to get us all in trouble. The last thing we needed was to have the DNR roll up on a bunch of our boats rafting together, smoking pot and drinking, because of some stupid idea he had.

How did the plan work out? Annette asked.

Mike’s plan was to stay the night over my house, and Liz was spending the night over at Karmen’s house, her best friend, and the only place her parents allowed her to stay, I answered, taking a drag off my cigarette. It worked out. They were in love, I added.

The Rivas’ house was three houses away from mine. Karmen’s mother, Kate, was a deputy sheriff out of Falston and basically the law and order in Bladen. I always told Mike that going after Liz was like playing with fire. Her parents were strict and too nosy.

How old were you then? she asked.

We were eighteen, I replied. Most of us growing up smoked pot and drank beer after work, no different than teenagers anywhere else. On the weekends, we had boat parties, camping out in tents out of the big sandbar on Nagants Isle. We had some real good times back then. One night, they almost were caught while sitting down at the end of Mr. Sudley’s pier, finishing up smoking a joint and having a rare moment to themselves.

Mike was about to leave but heard footsteps coming down the planking. Liz’s parents yelled for her, which gave him a chance to hop into his skiff below, quietly pulling the boat beneath, hoping the whole time he didn’t get caught. He listened to her parents question Liz about why she was there in the dark alone, trying not to laugh or be heard below them. Liz’s mom, Jan, shined the flashlight around as Nelson followed his daughter back up to the house. Going to meet that Mike Goeing character! he yelled back to his wife. Nelson, for God’s sake, she’s eighteen years old. She loves that boy. What do you think, you can keep her locked in the house forever? Jan yelled back. The whole time, Mike listened, hoping they didn’t hear the chop of the waves slapping against the aluminum hull, giving him away.

What did Mike do to have Mr. Sudley so pissed? Why did he seem so protective of her? Annette asked bluntly.

They thought Mike wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t in their class. Nelson thought he wanted to be with Liz because of his money. But, really, they were in love. That’s all, I said seriously.

The following day, Mr. Sudley had a crew of his workers installing pole lights along the entire length of the pier and along the bulkhead. That night, we noticed the glow above the woods, so that was when we took my boat around, cruising past to see for ourselves. He had told me that they had a close call, but I suppose he had to come up with some other plan if he wanted to keep seeing her.

What about you, dear? Wasn’t there any special person that found a place in your heart? Annette whispered, pointing to me.

I closed my eyes and slipped off my sandals and settled back into the couch. My personal life, I had always kept private. Not even a few people know about what I have done. I never let anyone close enough into my life or business to even try to figure me out.

Remember Michelle? You said that you were going to tell me the whole story, Annette whispered, leaning toward the couch.

Okay, listen then, I said reluctantly. We worked hard out on the bay and occasionally made a few pot deals. Gradually, we could afford things over time, Mike being there the whole time, giving it our all. Sam, on the other hand, had become more distant, cancelling weekends, coming up with excuses, always busy working with friends in the city. I decided to drive up one weekend to meet Sam and to help move things into the new place. Right away, I could see the new job must have been working out well. A step up would have been an understatement.

All these years, Sam had lived with Grandma Hastings, I never knew her first name, right there off North Avenue, near Gwynn’s Fall Park. Known for being another bad part of town, shootings, drug addicts, the place was like the Wild West during the nighttime hours. It was like she was their mother. Grandma raised both kids, Sam and brother Jimmy. Not much was ever said about their actual mom. Even though Sam had made it out, however that happened, Jimmy and his family weren’t in a hurry to leave anytime soon.

Having a truck was a big help moving. Not many people had vehicles. Usually everything was there close by or you just got on a bus. The new place was eight miles outside the city, near the Liberty Reservoir, bordering Patapsco State Park, far from the raging sirens and gunshots. A small rancher with an attached garage, a long gated driveway and pool, the house was amazing, to say the least. We worked hard unloading all the furniture and totes into the rooms Sam wanted, then, after a swim in the pool, had the night for a much-deserved housewarming party. I helped set up the house during the weekend and partied like we had done so many times before. I was happy for Sam.

Back in Bladen, we returned to work as usual, and now the weekends once again seemed something to look forward to, but slowly the visits began to grow distant once work consumed our lives.

Another year had passed living on Hidden Point, the crabbing season was coming to an end, and the watermen were getting their boats ready to start setting nets. My father’s business grew strongly. Contracts with the commercial rockfish made my parents wealthy, unlike many years ago living on such a tight budget.

Many a night I watched from the steps, looking into the office where my parents sat talking about money, always trying to provide for us, to give us a better life. When we are younger, you don’t understand fully. Now looking back, you realize the obstacles and hardships that we made it through. I was proud of what they accomplished.

My sister, Missy, was still at Buffy’s and had saved enough money to purchase the business. I’m sure our parents had a hand in that as well. I remember my sister making the announcement over dinner of the engagement between her and Bill and plans of their wedding the following summer."

What joy! Annette said, clapping her hands.

Yes, it was a happy time for everyone, I added, opening my eyes.

What about Bill? What line of work did he do? she asked, pushing back into her chair.

Bill is a natural resource police officer, head of the eastern regional office. He’s a good guy, I said, lighting up a cigarette slowly.

We were at the Fourth of July firework show, held upriver in Falston. Most people around would load up their boats with food and coolers, finding a good place to watch the display. After we settled on a place, we would tie together, rafting and anchor usually just north of Nagants Isle. That area gave us a little privacy and a perfect view of the area’s best patriotic fireworks show on the eastern shore.

Before the sunset and the display starts, the Coast Guard and marine police vessels make their rounds, doing safety checks on each of the boats anchored in the harbor. When they pulled over to our group, Bill was the officer who boarded my boat that evening. Missy and him fell in love at first sight. They began dating and shortly thereafter. She moved in with him that fall of 1981.

Chapter 3

Getting Started

Explain to me how the day would generally start and why anyone would consider making a living on a boat? she questioned me.

Hearing the alarm clock’s beeping noise brought me out of a peaceful night’s sleep. I always did wake wondering what the day would bring. Glancing out the kitchen window, I would see the glow of the dock lights beaconing through the early-morning haze.

I tapped off my thermos full of coffee while keeping an eye on the local weather channel to see the forecast of our area for the day. Another day to make a dollar off the bay, I said quietly, smiling. Finishing loading up my cooler with lunch, I would always try to pull the old door shut quietly, trying my best not to wake my mother.

Suddenly, the silence of the morning was broken by the familiar sound of water churning out of those eight-inch exhaust flaps, along with the muffled rhythm of my father’s diesel engine. That morning, the fog was thick, making the air hard to breathe. Normally I would have headed down to my own boat, but the weather wasn’t looking well.

Good morning, sunshine came from out of the pilothouse. I boarded the stern and made my way to Dad in the cabin. Looks like we might be in for some bad weather today, Dad said. The cabin was lit up by the glowing instruments, and the weather station on the radio broadcast warnings continually. You know, ol’ Sydney believes there is going to be some good action around Pete’s Point today, he said, pointing to the chart.

Years ago, I would have believed Sydney Dunn, but the times here on the bay were changing, more with each passing year; things never were easy for watermen. It just didn’t set right with me that Sydney Dunn, a seasoned old salt, would tell my dad any of the prime spots, especially while having a couple beers at Hanna’s the night before.

Dad, I know you believe him. I think he’s full of shit, I replied, pointing over the chart toward the area of Maple Creek. Even though the old man knew a lot about the area and, granted, still possessed a sharp mind, over the years he had been known to steer many a waterman in the wrong direction. My father still contracted with Dunn Seafood Company with shipping by Sydney’s trucks, but outright purchases had ended some years before.

Captain Morgan? Captain Morgan, do you read me? Over, blurted out the speaker of Dad’s VHF radio.

My father picked up the mic and replied, This is Captain Morgan. Go ahead. We both knew that it was Mike calling from over at the base station.

Wanted to see if you were already aboard. Figured I would check. Didn’t want to call the house and wake Mrs. Crace, over, Mike said.

All aboard, pulling out in five, Dad replied.

Meanwhile, Dad and I continued to study the charts, finally agreeing on where we were going to lay out our lines. I told my father the Archer brothers had been working the lower end of the creek the day before and had never caught so many crabs.

Oh yeah, your mother made brownies last night. I grabbed them on the way out this morning. Thought you might need a few, Dad said, smiling. I guess the cigarette smoke didn’t cover up the smell of the joint I burned on the way to the pier.

The plan was we were going to head up to Pete’s Point and start running our lines west down toward the jetty off Maple Creek. They’re bound to end up there in this weather, moving west, probably be gone tomorrow, he said, handing over the plate of brownies. We worked late the night before, baiting lines, and that gave us a much easier start, being that the weather was so unpredictable that morning.

Through the cabin window, I watched a dim greenish glow making way into the cove. Look, there he is. Crazy ass, Dad pointed over to the radar screen. He leaned from his chair and flipped a switch which kicked on the spotlights mounted upon the bow spreaders, creating instant daylight on Mike creeping through the fog. Carefully, he crept toward the deck, the steady hum of his old outboard ringing out, followed by the smell of the heavily mixed two stroke.

So you said Philip had a record day, huh? Being the man of the house isn’t an easy job. I’m glad something went good for him. I can tell this weather is going to pass us by. Maybe we’ll set a record today, Dad said, aiming the floodlight. The sound of the vintage Johnson outboard idled, echoing off the hull, as Mike tied up to the cleat of the dock.

After climbing aboard, Naughty Gal, Dad’s newest boat, Mike stashed his cooler in the cabin and helped roll up the ropes off the stern. Late night at the shop, Mike? Dad asked.

Yeah, had a late one again. Had to help Dad with those big velvet drives since he’s been sick. He has been pretty weak lately, Mike replied, tucking the coiled ropes into the aft compartments.

Everyone knew in our town that Steve Goeing was sick; the news traveled fast throughout the area’s waterfront communities along the bay. You’re a good son, Mike. Your father is a strong man. Thanks for giving us a hand today. Should end up being a good day, Dad said, looking back, smiling.

My father knew that it was just a matter of time before the cancer took a turn for the worse; for all these years, he cared about Mike like a son.

That sounds like it was a hard time for everyone, Annette said compassionately.

It was. They were family to us, I said quietly. We all wanted to do more for them. We helped out at the shop, all the while believing God would be the final judge. Mike’s sister, Amanda, moved back home to be with her father, taking on the responsibility of running the store and office. She was in her mid-twenties and had graduated from college, business management, and it showed when she took over the place."

Where was Mike’s mother during this? Annette asked.

She was gone. They divorced when Mike was young. Steve raised both of his kids alone, I said, lighting up a cigarette. "Amanda was a beautiful girl, long auburn hair, always happy. She was one of my sister’s closest friends growing up in Bladen. I could never forget the first time when I actually really noticed her all those years ago. On my way over to the garage, I stopped and looked through the fence, watching her in that little bikini and flip-flops, power washing those boat hulls. That memory was forever etched in me.

"Thinking back, there were many times those shop lights would light up the docks at night. The sound of country music playing, with the right wind blowing, we used to hear it all the way over to our place. The Goeing family helped us from the first summer we moved to town. We learned a lot from them and, over time, about ourselves. Over time, I saved a lot of money living there at my parents’ house. My family had developed quite a system. Dad’s boats were always working, and the demands for freshly caught seafood was endless. On the other side, my own business of moving pot was equal to the amount of what I had been catching out in the bay.

Eventually, Sam and I began to get back in touch. Our relationship was drawn apart, mainly due to work and the distance between us. One evening, I headed up to the city to spend some time with Sam. It was a place to forget work and sometimes the loneliness of being caught up in my daily routine way of life.

I take it that you found relief with Sam? Annette asked quietly, adjusting her legs.

Yeah, you could say that, or a change of pace, I replied, looking over at the rain pouring down outside.

I arrived there just before dark and pulled around back toward the garage, where Sam had just parked the riding mower. It’s about time you made it! Sam eagerly said, coming over and greeting me with a hug and kiss.

Well, look at you! Aren’t we in a good mood this evening? I asked, shutting the door.

Baby, you are going to love the place! Little different from the last time you were here. Come on in, Sam anxiously said, heading inside.

After grabbing a drink, we sat in the kitchen and did a little catching up over a joint and a couple cigarettes. Look, I feel like a dirty bitch right now. Make yourself at home. Back in the bedroom, there’s some chronic next to the television, Sam replied, heading down the hallway to the shower.

I walked around checking things out and realized how much had actually changed; nothing we moved there before was there anymore. My eyes couldn’t stop scanning the house; in the living room was an enormous television with the latest surround-sound theater system. The furniture was all crafted of soft chocolate Italian leather, all the appliances were stainless steel, everything was state of the art, very expensive. I knew Sam and wasn’t sure what type of business one could have been involved in, but I was sure it wasn’t to do with anything legal.

That’s a long way from a city rowhouse at Grandma’s, Annette said.

You bet it was, I answered.

So what went on? she questioned.

Down at the end of the hallway, the door of the bathroom was left partially open. Slowly I made my way there, my mind full of curiosity about the things I had witnessed throughout the house.

Sam, you weren’t bullshitting. You have made some changes around here, I said, walking in. The steam filled the room, and the sound of the shower beat against the glass door, then Sam peered out from within.

You want to join me or what?

My eyes stared at the pair of pretty budding breast before me. No. I already got cleaned up before I drove up here, I replied without taking my eyes from Sam.

I’ll be finished up in a bit. Go in the bedroom. Go do some bong hits, Sam said, closing the door.

I went to the bedroom and flopped on to the fur-covered California king bed, grabbing the remote. The television was as large as the one out in the living room. I turned on the weather channel out of habit and grabbed the cigar box from the nightstand, loading the glass bong. After pulling a couple totes, I started flicking through the channels, all the time wondering how anyone could afford all that shit.

Across the hallway, I still heard the shower running, and my eyes focused on a light coming from within the closet doors. I rolled over and planned on turning off the light, but the closer I got, the better view I had of what was laying behind.

What was it that you were seeing, dear? Another surprise? Annette asked, leaning up toward me.

You could say another surprise, I replied.

Through the closet doors was a conjoining room, secretly concealed behind some coats and other garments hanging there, cleverly disguising what had been hiding beyond. Inside, it looked like the dressing room of some famous Hollywood star or the glamorous Las Vegas’s showgirls. Long chrome racks of dresses, blouses, and skirts along one wall, with a beautiful brass and glass-shelved vanity that could seat three people along the other. Metal racks over at the end wall held every different style of fashionable shoes a girl could have ever dreamed of owning. I felt as if I had been standing inside of a Victoria’s Secret warehouse.

Faintly, I heard the shower being shut off, so I quickly turned off the lights and quietly closed the closet doors. In total awe, I sat back up on the bed, grabbing the remote and started going through the channels. Moments later, Sam walked in. Fucking awesome, huh? Over five hundred channels. I can even watch two shows at once.

Lying there, I wanted to ask about the room, but I didn’t. I figured when the time was right, I’d be let in on what was going on. What’s up, Blondie? Bitch, you need to relax, Sam said, pushing me back against the pillows. Come on pack that shit up before we head down to the shore, Sam said, reaching over to the bong on the nightstand. I started breaking up a bud, then Sam turned quickly around. Hold on. I always keep a little something special. Don’t put that shit in there. I stopped and waited, unsure of what to expect.

Coming through the doorway, Sam tossed a freezer bag over to me on the bed. As soon as I unzipped it, the room was filled with the aroma of a skunk. Whew! Damn, where the hell did you find this shit? I asked, picking out one of the sticky buds.

I’ve got connections, my friend. A lot has changed over here on the west side. Sam laughed.

Back on the shore, I moved a bunch of different weed; a good majority was commercial grade, occasionally high test, but it wasn’t too often to come across pot like this.

A lot of people got high, I take it? Annette asked, smiling.

To each his own, I replied. Growing up, there were the rich kids who used up their parents’ money snorting cocaine, the ones who stayed up days