The Blue Point Dock on Saturday Morning

The fishermen cast their crabbing traps into the water. Pulling the traps in by the bright lanyard they’re attached to, they inspect the trap, see bait, and cast back in.

The wooden wall of the dock is pale green and white above the water line. Beneath the water stains the planks silver brown, the line of the water a gossamer line of silver.
On the margin of the dock, on the strip of concrete between the guard rails and water, people crab.

The water this morning is ribbons of dark green, silver and blue. The further out on the bay the smaller the waves. They appear to drift sideways. On the flank of the parking lot the heads and tails of cars. Looking out to the beach or facing the water, their paint shines. The mailman’s truck turns at the entrance of the dock, pulsing golden lights.

The wind stirs up the waters, which begin to rise. Downshore they lap the timbers of bay houses. Tall, their many windows look out.

A pewter sky, with soft white thumped into the layers reflects in the tumbling eggs of waves. Slowly the crabbers circle the dock. They lift up their traps or monitor the water. With a silver net in his hand he tries to peer underneath the waves.

The air tastes humid and silver. The note of brine hangs on their lips. A seagull crying fills its beak with the air and the smell of water drifts over the damp planks.
A family trudges along the margin and stoops to inspect their trap.


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