By Ben Bailey
I’m a mountain boy, pure and simple, and I take a certain pride in that. So much so that it may border on smugness. I might even give the impression that I look down on those who are not mountain bred and raised. After all, we are tough. Most of us cut our teeth on a Barlow pocketknife and were huntin’ squirrels by the age of ten. We read tracks like most people read the Sunday News and walk the steep mountain trails like we’re taking a walk in the park. My father carried me on his shoulders through the remote mountain trout streams till I was old enough and big enough to manage them on my own. And of course, as I got older, I also came to appreciate the beauty of our mountains and the rich heritage of our forefathers that settled its soil and reaped her bounty.
I say all that to say this. I just returned from a recent trip to Hatteras and the Outer Banks where I got a clear look at my own frailty and flawed reasoning. I got a good look at another beautiful culture. I met new people with just as much pride in their way of life as I have in mine and with good reason. The sea does not yield her bounty, but those who have chosen her don’t seem to mind; on the contrary, they seem to rise to the challenge and relish the fight.
We rose at 4AM and were on the boat by 5:30 or so. The weather was questionable. Recent storms had whipped up 6’ to 8’ waves but we had traveled eight hours to fish and a fishin’ we would go. Within 30 minutes, we were out of the safety and calm of the harbor and I got my first look at what an eight foot wave looks and feels like. Needless to say, it didn’t take me long to lose my breakfast and subsequently, throughout the day, I lost earlier and earlier meals till they were all gone. It was just me, a once proud mountain boy, reduced to a hollow shell. Every once and a while, I would rise to the task of reeling in a Tuna or a Dolphin, but mostly, I just waited for death to take me.
Meanwhile, the Captain kept us afloat and moving while the deck mate kept the fishing gear functional and to his credit, he was never still, always attending to some chore. He kept the deck clean, all the rods working, and all the hooks baited. He very patiently instructed us when a fish was on and never once made fun of the sick mountain boy. As I watched him walk about as the boat pitched and tossed, I was filled with admiration for this son of the sea who was definitely in his element and definitely due my respect. His heritage is just as rich as mine and his pride just as worthy.
Ben Bailey, is a native of Western North Carolina, Master Carpenter, Avid Angler, and Naturalist.