Someone once said, “red sky at night, sailor’s delight”. Though I was never a sailor nor even a dock mate, I found great delight in this red sky moment, as if I were a boatswain minding my vessel’s bow while chasing the setting sun. If I were the captain of my own ship, long and grey, I would summon my soul’s wit and heart’s passion to this spot each evening to advise my wandering canvas as to which strategic brushstroke to make or Naval story to paint.
Our USNA officers in training will one day be issued their own canvas to paint. Some days may resemble the smooth ways of Rembrandt, when tides are at ease. While others will be scattered, chunked and diced, reminiscent of Picasso on his best day. When seas become turbulent and sailors and Marines grow weary amidst the chaos of the fight, our children will have learned and trained to be the calm in the storm, the master painter for their crew to guide them through, not the bliss of the red sky at night, but the warning of a red sky morning.
Our Navy daughters are becoming courageous, warrior minded officers I could never be. USNA is producing artists with the budding military talent to prod, teach and mentor their squads, battalions, and maybe a whole fleet, in due time, to inspire those they lead as much as God’s canvas, which has been spread across the sky, has inspired me.
Because duty does not call me when the whistle blows, I shall wait a bit longer until the sun tips its hat to the rising moon. I will ponder and pontificate on the beauty which lies before me and think of all those deployed, those we know and those we don’t, as they ride the bow of the ship they sail, fly through the heavens that spread wide and high and those who reside in each camp protected by a wire that only the most courageous of us will cross. I pray that they too can see the setting sun as I do. Let their canvas always be a delight as they push back from this dock and head their compass into the night of which I care not to do.
I am grateful to all those willing to serve in my stead. I am grateful for your kids and mine who said, “I DO!”, when many others never did. ⚓️
I’ve often thought the real joy of fishing, when saddled on the steed of anticipation, is found in places where n’er a grain of sand sticks to my tires, nor salty champagne tickles my toes. Places like bait and tackle shops, where breeze shootin’ is an art, and fish frys, that come with sides of tall tales of trophies caught, mostly half true. Surf fishing memories, which swirl like rip currents in my mind the night before the first big cast, keeps me awake as I wonder which hole I’ll fish.
Like children on Christmas Eve, I dream of my new toys propped up in beach carts and pickup trucks just beyond my front door threshold. Shiny things, like new fancy lures tethered with luck and hope conspire with my tackle box to determine which magic bait will draw the fish to my rig is a craft only mastered by few.
The joy of harvesting fish from the surf, whether one or a gaggle, is a tradition often rooted in my childhood when I lifted my first spot and croaker for a Polaroid photo. In my mind, exploits in the tidal pools hoping to capture a minnow to offer my quarry that hole up just beyond the break, were mostly fruitless, but fun. Unlike freshwater fishing, the tap of the tide which vibrated the rod tip was sure to be a fish, but often, just lead bouncing along the sandy bottom. Like bird dogs on point, my eyes trained and tail straight, I was ready to break on the anticipation of a real bite. The glory days of old are still glorious and that inner child is still there.
My optimism is not rooted in the fish I’ve caught, but it’s rooted in those I’ve yet to catch
– Steve Wade
Anyone who loves fishing as I do, knows dropping sustenance in a cooler is the end game, but it’s the game I plan which brings the excitement of what may come. There’s no wonder, “just one more cast”, like Pavlov’s dog, makes me salivate with anticipation. My optimism is not rooted in the fish I’ve caught, but it’s rooted in those I’ve yet to catch. Some say the early sun, which peaks over the horizon, is company for the lonely fisherman, but really, the salty memories of buddies who’ve fought the current beside me, coupled with what the tide may bring, is what keeps my heart and mind company.
Wishing all a bushel full of fishing tales, tight lines, and salty memories of childlike awe of what patrols the surf just in front of those who hunt the surf.
Anyone who loves fishing as we do, knows dropping sustenance in a cooler is the end game, but it’s the game we plan which brings the excitement of what may come. There’s no wonder, “just one more cast”, like Pavlov’s dog, makes us salivate with anticipation. My optimism is not rooted in the fish I’ve caught, but more, it’s rooted in those I’ve yet to catch. Some say the early sun, which peaks over the horizon, is company for the lonely fisherman, but really, the salty memories of buddies who’ve fought the current beside us, coupled with what the tide may bring, is what keeps our hearts and minds company.
I was recently organizing some old memories I keep in a shoe box and came across a half-completed painting along with a few other wildlife drawings I did circa 1994. Nothing special, but they reminded me of my love of duck hunting from when I was a younger man not afraid of sitting in an icy beaver swamp at four in the morning and in awe of God’s amazing creation. Any soil I trod upon to reach my destination buried deep in the dark waters was worth the plow I pushed through the hardened clay of central North Carolina. The plan formulated in my mind the night before the big hunt often caused my sleep meter to slow as I laid awake anticipating the coming dawn. It was a sweet time still tucked away in my Dewey Decimal mind I still search from time-to-time.
Watching the sun tip its hat over the swamp littered with summer’s decaying cattails, rotting tree stumps and the faint sound of a beaver minding its dam was one of the most exhilarating ways to pass a frosty winter morning. Some mornings, the air was so cold, my breath appeared as if a thick cloud of cigar smoke billowed from my mouth. The moist steam condensed on my beard and would freeze within what seemed like seconds. The ice around my lips was uncomfortable. My facial hair transformed from a fur like throw rug to a corse shag carpet. I recall a few January hunts where, with every step through the swamp, the padded knees of my neoprene waders would break loose another shard of ice. The air was still and felt sharp on my exposed skin.
After setting a couple dozen decoys, all a replica of the birds I hoped to harvest, the ripples from each man-made duck being dropped moved to the outer edge of their pool. Once I returned to my blind, the swamp I sat in was once again placid and still. The anticipation of what was to come caused my heart to race. My mind rehearsed each gunning scenario and my eyes focused on the dark holes in the swamp where a duck might lie in wait before it takes flight. It was still dark.
The only light I could muster was from a flashlight held in my cold, shriveled hand. The neoprene gloves I wore soon became ineffective. The smell of organic mud and stained water from the tannins released from decaying leaves submerged below the surface was pungent but was an aroma that set my mind at peace like comfort food after a stressful day’s work.
Only thirty minutes before the ducks began to fly, I would build a makeshift blind hoping to conceal myself enough to fool my prey.
As the sun begins to rise, I would hear the hurried flutter of wings above. Somewhere between dark and dawn, the silhouettes of ducks would begin to emerge from their murky roosts. Tufted Titmice and Black Capped Chickadees would dance in the flora around me. I was never sure if their song was a serenade or simply a fuss of annoyance as if I had somehow invaded their domain.
Only five minutes until I could legally allow the gun powder and steel to combust inside my Browning Gold shotgun . By this time, my heart was pounding and it took all I could muster not to pull the trigger as ducks flew above.
Finally, as I looked at my watch, it was legal shooting time, almost three hours after beginning my cold and dark journey through the oak and pine inhabited woods. My truck, parked along the gravel rural road, was but a faint memory of the warmth of civilization. My feet and hands were numb but my heart and mind were alert as if God Himself had called me to attention.
I pursed my lips on the duck call that had so many times before coerced even the most wary drake Wood Duck into my decoy spread. And then, as the pink and red hues of nature began to explode, my gun raised from my lap as if it were attached by strings directed by a master puppeteer.
As I sighted my barrel on the first duck of the morning which had foolishly chosen to approach my spread, wings cupped, twisting and turning to navigate the right opening amongst the plastic replicas of it’s kind, I pulled the trigger.
From its flight of which it had once mastered, it fell from its graceful approach which, in my opinion, is unmatched by any other sporting experience being afield has to offer. As I collected my quarry from the icy water, I reveled in the beauty of God’s creation. It was hard to think then, as it is now, that a master craftsman had not carefully constructed each feather on the bird I held in my hand. Its colors were magnificent, like royalty held on high. As I made my way back to my post, I was as content as an old dog lying under a shade tree on a hot summer’s day. Although the heat of summer felt as far away as the warm bed I had left a few hours earlier.
It was a good morning. All my mornings in the swamp were good, even the days when the ducks and I had conflicting schedules. Even if they couldn’t join me, I was ok with that. Mornings when my only company were the Titmice, Chickadees and an occasional beaver that made his displeasure of my presence known, still fulfilled my spirit.
So my journey began, in reverse. As I picked up my decoys and retreated back to my truck, I felt a lot of things, not including my fingers and toes. I mostly felt grateful. Grateful that I was allowed a few hours, out of an otherwise hurried life, to find peace in the swamp amongst the creation that God had so graciously allowed me to share.
As I think back to those days, I now realize how much I learned along my journeys to the murky beaver swamps that speckle the landscape of Chatham, Wake, and Orange counties. I learned that life is not lived on a couch or behind a desk. Life is lived by pursuing our passions.
In my early to late twenties, one of my passions was waterfowl, whether it was painting, drawing, carving, hunting or reading, I consumed every detail of every feather I could. Time with hunting buddies and the bonds we developed have made us brothers forever. Even though we are now separated by distance, our love of waterfowl and for one another has not diminished.
Now that I’m fifty, I’m remembering the things that once made my heart pound and mind race as if it was given a direct injection of serotonin. I have decided that life is better when we pursue our passions.
So, perhaps I will strap on some chest high waders, grab my old Browning and head afield. Or, maybe I will finish those old paintings, pencil sketches, and wood carvings which are scattered about between the dust of my attic and buried deep in my chest of drawers.
My hope is, life will yield good fruit and allow each of us to pursue that which we love so much. For me, it is ducks. May my body also be brave enough to leave the warm confines of my soft and inviting bed at some insane hour, hop in my pick-up truck and continue the journey I began thrity years ago.
I’m grateful to have shared a little of nature’s handmade delight over the years, even if it is icy, pungent, and sometimes too cold to bear.
Somewhere, in the back country of Pitt County, where roads are bestowed the names of patriarchs, black birds huddle, like a battle brigade, along high strung power lines and whole towns are condensed into Xroads, there’s a cotton field ready to be plucked this time of year.
Cotton, like the metamorphosis of a regal butterfly, is picked, pulled, twisted and combed to create beautiful finery for kings, costumes for thespians, coats for the cold, bathing suits for beachgoers who dare and for those who believe it’s ok to shop Walmart in their sleepwear any hour of the day. Not since Adam and Eve has there been a more sought after necessity than that which covers our loins.
All hail to this southern crop of warmth and comfort, which thrives in the black soil of eastern North Carolina. On this day, I was blessed, if just for a moment, as I was steppin’ high to walk through this great big ol’ field of cotton.
This is Mr. John Tunnell. He’s in his 77th year as an employee at the Sanitary Fish Market in Morehead City. He began washing dishes there in 1944, and since then, has cast many nets inside this storied seafood restaurant.
Being a cold, dreary day in early November, there were about four people shy of a twelve pack scattered around the restaurant gnawing on fried shrimp, flounder and everyone’s favorite appetizer, hush puppies. I’m a butter spreader, but ketchup on my puppies will do in a pinch.
After pushing my full, yet satisfied, self away from the table, I noticed this rather seasoned gentleman passing the time, seemingly alone in an empty booth. I thought, “perhaps he’s been misplaced”. “Maybe a loved one is wandering about, panicked as to where he’s been left”. He seemed content not doing anything at all. As I passed by, not a single thought germinated in my mind as to how he might get home, or Heaven forbid, he didn’t have one.
I paid my check and as I began to push on the exit door, one that’s been pushed a million times, for some fishy reason, I felt compelled to saunter myself back to his booth to introduce myself. Turns out, he’s the most well known and beloved old salt Moreheadians can claim as their own. He’s, “The Memory Man”. He can call most folks by their last name, those he’s most partial to, their first.
He knew family lineages, generations of those who call this town their home, their children’s accomplishments, and who they became along the way. And everybody knows him. He’s a wonder of historical knowledge and can spin yarns which are impossible for a stranger to untangle. He’s truly a treasure.
At the time, I was just an ol’ hungry, no name foreigner passing through town on my journey back to Raleigh, just looking for some seafood sustenance. But now? I’m a somebody! I’m Mr. Tunnell’s newest friend.
If you’ve ever been to this iconic fish house, you’ll remember seeing the couple hundred framed photos that’ve adorned the waiting area for decades. Celebrities, governors, presidents, potentates, old friends, outlaws, in-laws and a couple pirates drip from the heart pine walls like the “who’s who” of Neptune’s galley. Ol’ Mr. Tunnell is the main feature in some, many way back in black and white. He says he knows all the characters that’ve forever been cast in the Sanitary Fish Market hall of fame theater.
In closing, as I know eyes are beginning to roll and heads bob, I’ll wrap this up.
Meeting Mr. Tunnell was such a delight. We talked for over an hour, I mostly listened, along with another gentleman I met, a local writer who wrote a book about Mr. Tunnell. It only took a little gumption on my part to enjoy a whole trawler brimming with fish tales, some tall and some true, a crab trap full of local lore and who’s married to who.
I walked away from that place convinced, although Mr. Tunnell may be an “employee”, he’s really less of a worker bee and more of an ambassador of peace, a friend to many and promotional guru, not of the restaurant, but of mankind itself.
He addressed me as, “Mr. Wade”, as I said my goodbyes and I was ok with that.
Mister Pompadour is more than a barbershop where men with beards mingle. It’s a place where those wielding the tools of their trade cut, coif, and craft that which Solomon coveted and Rip Van Winkle aspired to. Living bearded is not simply a mantra to be tossed around like corn hole bags. It’s a lifestyle. Unlike the “He Man Woman Hater’s Club”, there’s no hate here. All are welcome, even those shaven faces only a mother could love.
Living bearded is not simply a mantra to be tossed around like corn hole bags.
It’s where Sasquatch and The Beast, like frogs, transform into well manicured gentlemen. Leather tool belts, like quivers of ancient warriors, hold scissors, trimmers, and other magic wands that mold even the most unkept bed heads.
C’mon by. Grab a beer. Have a seat and sit a spell. This old school approach to exceptional beard cuttery in a new school world is worth your green bills. My man card has been punched, my ego lifted, and those jagged edges that once slowed my roll have been made strait again (I think there’s a country song in there somewhere, but I digress).
I’m a blind fool when it comes to fried chicken and I rarely mind who cooks it. Gas station fried fare is amongst the most overlooked delicacy since boiled peanuts were first drowned in a glass bottle of Pepsi Cola.
Although your local Crunch and Pump may not offer this delicious breaded poultry, do not let your hearts be troubled. Somewhere down the backroad of every rural zip code, there’s the aroma of deep fried yard birds beckoning to the tastebuds of country boys and girls everywhere.
I recently read this article in Our State magazine and ‘bout stripped a gear to get to Betty’s for some finger lickin’ greasy goodness. It’s the kinda place your heart valves dread, but in the court of fried chicken opinion, it’s a risk worth the reward.
I’m typically a one and done kinda guy. Because my attention span is equaled only to that of a four year old, my unyielding interests typically swirl around inside the crockpot of life. I trick myself into believing more ingredients only makes life taste better. I’m just grateful I’m not on my third wife.
This is the first and only duck decoy I’ve ever carved from a lifeless and uninspired block of wood. It would be treasonous amongst the master waterfowl carvers of Eastern North Carolina for me to take much credit for the outcome. The hands of whom had already mastered his craft, my instructor guided me through every detail with grace and patience. It was his seasoned experience and contagious enthusiasm that prodded me to complete, what otherwise would’ve lived undone amongst a pile of old love letters and yearbooks at the bottom of my chest of drawers.
Although I abandoned this craft after only one march to the end zone, I’m grateful for the man who quarterbacked my effort. As usual, my crockpot continues to overflow with gently used recreational equipment and other sundry items of minimal interest which I hope will one day find a better home via Craigslist.
Like the master craftsman who gently pulled me through the unfamiliar wood shop full of tools and paints I had not worked with before, I believe having caring and dedicated mentors to help us create beautiful things from lifeless, uninspired blocks of wood, is essential. Otherwise, my chest of drawers would be full of life half done.
Every evening, as I retire my tenure as CEO of another day, the lights in our home are relieved of their faithful duty, one by one. The moths, which enjoy basking in the light and tiny insects that doddle about the window panes, simply move on to their night time lair and wait for the coming day. Though our power meter spins like that of a hamster wheel, I believe a well lit home conveys a gracious invitation to anyone who wishes to visit.
Our children, either by choice or by coercion, tend to live life in their parent’s shadow. It’s a safe place, of a familiar shape, provided for their protection. A place to find shelter from the day’s trials and a pallet upon which to rest with an assurance they’ll sleep well through the night. Like butterflies from a cocoon, our little dumplings will one day emerge from beneath us, step timidly into the light, and wiggle their way to create a shadow of their own, one where they’ll invite those who need protecting, a place to find refuge from the trails they face, and a soft pallet upon which to sleep.
Last evening, as I was walking through my routine of laying low the lamps, chandeliers, and porch lights in our home before bed, with my wood floors moaning in protest as I trod over their bones, this image hung heavy on my eyes in a way I had not seen before. This anchor, which has been hung as if a medal on the chest of a naval war hero, has donned our front door for most of our two daughter’s stay along the Severn. It has served our family well for seven years now. Though the anchor has been a nice nautical feature, jammed pack full of Navy spirit, it’s the shadow that laid at my feet I noticed, unlike any other time, which raised the hairs on my neck and chilled my heart. The salty tears began to well up as I realized, the anchor, which has stood watch all these years, is a beautiful representation of our Midshipmen, and now, it is me who stands in their shadow.
The shadow of the shield they wield, which has been, “imbued with the highest ideals of duty, honor and loyalty”, is one to cherish and worthy to stand under. Now, the Naval Academy is training Midshipmen to be the safe shadow for those who need protecting, a place to hide when those they serve need a retreat from the day’s toil, and will soon be the assurance for those who need a soft place to lay their heads for when the wolf knocks at the door. Their familiar shape, that will spread across the seven seas, the heavens, and fruited plains, will be guided by the oath they took which proclaims, in part, “I will support and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic”. That’s a deep and wide shadow for our collective Mids to cast, but it’s a net they’ve been weaving together their entire lives, it’s just who they are.
So, as this anchor continues to occupy its coveted spot and warmly welcomes those who care to cross our threshold, though the front is attractive and dressed in hues of white, it’s the shadow it casts in the dark of night which reassures me that our kids, as well as your’s, now have the watch. ⚓️
What was once a form of childhood punishment, albeit ineffective for kids who’s goal was to conquer the playground, being forced to sit still in “time out” never seemed to produce the same results as a good whack on the fanny. However, as an adult, staring around the cubicle of life, “time out” has become a vital lifestyle of healthy selfishness.
Time lounging on a beach, a pier, or boat, with rod and reel in hand, and fish stink on your clothes, is self prescribed medicine no pharmacist could offer to calm the mind and soothe the heart. Often, it’s just what the doctor ordered. A simple chair propped along the sandy shoreline, if only for a morning, is the right dose for me. Too much “time on” creates a life lived in the red.
Though my burdens may sometimes feel like a ton of lead weights upon my shoulders, at this moment, I’m choosing to live life as if my burdens rest like a ton of feathers. The salty medicine I swallow, while slouching in my portable chair, is chased with the intermittent champagne that bubbles at my feet. It’s as good as a two fish combo only reviled by the sweet tea I drink.
I believe there’s little which bolsters a fisherman’s spirit more than a fishing rod in hand and fresh fish in the bucket. As the moon bids adieu and tips its cap to the rising sun, we’re summonsed to the beach and compelled to wet a line, or two. It’s the only pastime where leaving the field, course, or court with zero points is not wished upon, but wholly acceptable.
So here I sit. I’ve been known to do so for hours, watching nothing more than my rod tip flutter with the tide. If I wanted to catch fish, I would try. On this day, I decided to let the fish swim unencumbered by my hook, line, and sinker. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be more of a surf fishing threat, but for now, I’ll take two of these and try again in the morning.
Facing Southward 