The Inner Inlet

My name's Willem. Willem Tarinsky. My father, like me, has come to this farm by the sea every summer since we were three. We practically grew up here, by this tree, in our own time, running along these muddy banks, diving into these tidal streams. Faster now, along the edges of the yard, where the grass meets the marshy reeds, the McMillan brothers and I form a line of boys that flows into the tall corn rows and across the field toward the cool forest floor. Crawling now, through the ferns and moss our bright white skin is no more. Our final destination, beyond the trees, over the wide stream and across the salt marsh of the back four, is the house of the girl, the girl of the wind, whose eyes drew us in, like sunshine and sin, on even the cloudiest days.

This is where we looped out time, spending lazy afternoons, four boys, a girl, five dreams, filling days with stories of time. At seven, I was the youngest. Gregory was ten and George eleven. Izzy, our fearless leader was twelve, almost thirteen. Their older brother Jeff was away at the academy. And Jill, she was 8, sometimes going on 83.

Hot turns to cold when we are in motion. My legs aren't as long as theirs, but I keep up the best I can. We cut between the tall corn rows, the clods of dirt uneven beneath our bare feet and I often trail behind, but Georgie makes sure I never lose sight of them as we move between the rows.

Summers are running weather and soon we've crossed the wide field to the forest edge where we catch our breath as we enter the trees. The moist leaves and dirt is cool under our feet, we've slowed, only briefly, as our eyes adjust to the muted light filtering through the still forest above, avoiding briars and pickers by moving lower. They volunteer to attach themselves, then slide off our backs as small sweat bees share our muddy route. The sound of the forest deepens as we move between the thickest trees, some with trunk widths approaching 700 years. Our hearts thump loud but slower, here in the calm, storing up energy for the launch ahead.

Gradually we return to the light, near the edge of the forest, we can hear the old row boat as it knocks against the faded dock. The gentle thump guides and we emerge into the afternoon sun rays filtering through the marsh grass. Its cooler now as the wind reaches gently inland across the protecting tidal flats. And then we're instantly going full bore. The rapid pounding of our feet on the planks and we take off into the air from the dock, vying to see whose jump will push off the furthest againt the others' to exceed the surrounding rush to gain that added push needed to fly. Its a full 20 feet to the rope and then some. Transending the surrounding pack ever so slighlty, Greggy pushes off George and grabs the thick swaying rope's tight knot about six feet above the water. And I, flying head over heels, manage to kick my feet off Jeff's shoulder to catch the lower tip of the rope just as it takes flight from Greg's inertia. I whip high in to the air and up to the craggy branch of the old willow as it bows down to absorb our flight, then sends Greg and I sailing backwards with an inverted flip as we arch back over the others below, in the dark swirling tidal water. Laughing, they grab at our feet as we sail past, just beyond their grasp.

The willow moves with our motion, dipping and parsing, its branches move through the water like fingers making patterns on the sheets of a bed. My toes pass inches from the mangroves near the high bank on the other side of the tidal inlet as we pass over minnows and carp peering up at our lanky forms. Their eyes follow our gliding shapes as a turtle makes a resonating “plunk” from the log on the far bank. Time is moving in slow motion as our pendulum wound down and we let go, joining the others in the dark muddy water of the inner inlet. Cooler now, and almost lifeless, I let my exhasted body sink down several feet to rest in the thick submerged reeds below, sounds and vibrations passing through the water stir me back to life, and upward to renewal via a deep breath at the water's surface.

The McMillan farm had been passed down through 12 generations, from Scottish and German immigrants who'd merged with the local tribes 100 years before the revolutionary war. Here, a mile inland from the sheltering outer banks on the North Carolina coast, the tribe and settlers had once shared this open land for hunting and gathering food, long before it was divided and ownership rights were establshed.

Protected by the islands of the Outer Banks, most days the winds were gentle on the north end of the inlet. Across the yard, a craggy apple tree watching over the house, and smaller fig trees lined the side yard. Out across the fields, an older house on stilts, stands by the end of a long line of magnolias.

We yell to each other as we run back through the fields toward the boys' house by the inlet, then plunge into the tidal stream again and slug our way through knee-deep mud. We climb out on the opposite bank and duck back into the tall corn, skin bristling against the stalks that shim and sway above as we race home for diner.

In the distance behind us, her father whistles loud, two fingers in his mouth. Out across the fields it carries, and for a second the cicada bugs are silent, listening to the long held whistle arch and reverberate. I've tried many times to whistle like that, it's a lost art. She lived alone with her father and never went far. Her mother had passed several years back.

We had gone to the edge of the march grasses, carefuly parting the stalks to peer at the white house where she lives. We never see her, only the linen drapes blowing in the window in the dimming light of the setting sun.

The heat of the day still radiates off her roof. We wait, and listen until the sun is gone. Greg jabs his finger into Izzy's ribs to see if he can get him to make a peep, but we all remain silent, transfixed by the fabric blowing in the wind. All nine yards.

A dog barks in the distance. Still light, the almost full moon is starting to rise in the east and it's almost supper time - mom let us eat late to squeeze every moment out of the summer days. Someone's stomach growled and our attention turned toward home.

An older man read and rocked on the big porch over the yard. The McMillan boys' grandfather sipped from a tall glass of tea and turned a book over in his hands, listening to a scratchy song on the AM radio. The thumb of his other hand was tucked under a black suspender as he rocked on the softly creaking porch, turing the coin between his fingers.

"Supper's almost ready. No shoes, Aub just cleaned the floor. We've got company coming tomorrow." As they pulled up wooden chairs around the farmhouse table, their mother placed steaming plates of rice, corn and chewy chitlins around the table.

After dinner, their grandfather leaned back with a gleam in his eye, peering over his mulberry wine, and began to weave a story his own grandfather had told many years ago.

Catch Sail

He leaned forward and drew us in, "North up the coast, 'bout 3 miles from here, 12 local boys set sail in their family sleuths in the middle of a moonless night. The Spanish fleet had run ashore two days before, driven by a hurricane. The Spanish sailer had misjudged the shallows and now their cargo was spilling out across the sandbars as the storm cleared. Word spread up the coast quickly in the wake of the storm."

Now the North Carolina boys were heading south to collect their share of the Aztec gold and silver, and they were prepared for a fight. Their small boats were filled with supplies from their families. These were the children of the area's land owners and politicians. As the looked back at the receeding shore, they held thoughts of returning with new found wealth and glory.

"Unfortunaetly, within 15 minutes of their arrival, Spanish ships arrived and chased them away. Vastly outnumbered, there was no advantage in remaining to put up a fight."

"But rather than return home empty-handed, they headed east to the Bahamas and joined a growing bunch of U.S. privateers. Embrassing the renegade spirit of the southern coast, they jouned hundreds of others plundering the English ships during the war of 1812."

"Many of the crew went on to have prominent positions in local business and government after the war of 1812. Many settled near Bath, the original North Carolina capital."

"Now I used to think those were just stories my own grandfather made up. Until I found this on my way back from Bath, along the red dirt side of Slyth Creek." He pushed the old coin to the center of the table. The muted metal was still partially encrusted with dirt, which contrasted with his starched white shirt. We leaned in, eyes wide, studying the coin, then looking at eachother and back to the coin. They knew exactly the area of Slyth Creek he was talking about. It's where they'd been digging up roots on the edge of marsh the day before.

There in the pile of coins we'd gathered and rinsed off, laid one unique one, looking more like a worn stone because of its ago. A small hole through the center was perfect for the leather string around my next. I scooped it up while the rest of the boys divyed up the rest of the lot, claiming propery rights. I didn't care, I'd found my gem in the rough.

Found a Stone