Ebb Tide (F)

“Hey, hon.”

The waitress, early 20s I guessed, smiled.

“Coffee?”

“Yes. And 2 eggs fried hard, 2 pieces of bacon, and grits.”

“Add toast and that’s a number 6.”

“Whole wheat.”

She delivered the order to the cook and came back with the coffee.

“That’s a different looking jewelry box.”

“Oh, not for jewelry.”

“Is that a fish?”

“Yes, a salmon. The box was used to deliver salmon from British Columbia.”

She looked uncertain.

“In Canada.”

“Nice looking.”

She didn’t ask what I’m carrying in it if anything. I’m not sure if I would have said since I’m unsure of the protocol for something like this. My younger brother’s ashes. I didn’t think it was right to keep it—him—the ashes out in the car while I had breakfast.

His will said ashes scattered at Copper Inlet. He told me himself the last time I saw him. Near the end. Very near. We fished there a lot when we only had an hour or less.

So I’m brought him—the ashes—down from Raleigh. To catch an outgoing tide.

Our older brother thought it perverse.

“We’ve got a damn family plot. Same graveyard, same plot, over a hundred years. Ashes in the ocean. Whatever for?”

“He wanted it that way.”

“He couldn’t just go along with—“

“Not your call. End of story.”

“Well, there’s going to be a headstone.”

“Fine.”

I knew why Mark wanted a final connection to the water—to the fishing. The fishing we talked about during his final month. Talked about a lot.

Breakfast was set down in front of me. I put the box next to me on the seat.

He managed to laugh—actually laugh—when we talked out getting ourselves into a school of small bonefish when we were boys. It was early afternoon and the Florida sun was searing and our little boat rocked at anchor and bam!, the frenzy started.

We both were using Johnson silver spoons and both had strikes at the same time. The fish were easily hauled in and released, and bam!, we had fish on. Over and over and over again.

Within minutes we were casting only 10-feet or so. In the shallow water we could see the fish streaking about wildly. Mark soon tired and just set his rod on the gunnel and let his lure drop. Bam!

He tried to shake the fish off, but to no avail. He laid down on the bottom of the boat while the fish thrashed about.

“Mark! Mark! You need to get that fish in. Mark!”

I had to take his rod and release the fish gulping for its life.

When I reminded Mark how he just quit and left that fish floundering, we both laughed.

He got so tired looking last year. The fatigue showed in his eyes, the droop of his mouth, the slump in his shoulders. A lot of times when sitting with me, he just let his head drop toward his chest.

Soon enough he would be bedridden.

I paid my bill and took the box with me to the car. I figured about 20 or so minutes to the inlet.

Traffic was light enough, my mind kept looping back to his last days.

“I won that dolphin tournament out of Edisto.” Mark nodded toward a plaque on the living room wall.

“Under 20 pounds. Weak.”

“It was big enough.”

“Well, yes, but still weak.”

I cringed after repeating the word. He could barely lift his head to nod.

I parked on the island side and grabbed the box. It occurred to me that maybe there was a law against throwing ashes off the bridge.

About a third of the way out on the bridge—the tide clearly ebbing—I turned toward the ocean. There was a light sea breeze. I took the top off the box and set it by my feet.

Maybe I should have said something about his life, offered words to capture his spirit, but I couldn’t think it through in the moment.

“Here you go, Mark.”

I shook the box out over the railing and the ashes on the breeze were pushed back under the bridge and out of sight on the tide.

Greenville 2023