Across the Creek

Across the Creek

At barely eight years old, he was scarcely ready to confront a wily old trout poacher. Or was he? Friday afternoon, 14th day of April 1959, with trout season due to open the next morning. I’d turned in my homework, got Monday's assignments from Mrs. Whitten, and Dad...

Rumshark

Rumshark

When the shark hit the end of the line, it came up, shook his head just like those mahi did. The dock bowed, creaked, groaned, sagged. Clink, clink, clink. I was bent over the gunnel of Maggie C, a 26-foot Maine lobster boat rigged for ocean-running. Six weeks, 600...