eary and worn out from the previous day's chores I woke on a dark August morning to the sound of heavy rain pressing tight against the panes of the bedroom window. My wife gently stirred as I rose up on my elbow to scratch my head. She smiled sweetly in her sleep as I slipped from the sheets. I was to go fishing this gray morning but it looked as if it were going to be a writing day. Thunder rolled down the river, rattling the plates on the wall. It's a wonder I was the only one awake. I shuffled to the kitchen, put on a strong pot of chicory and carved up a ripe summer melon. It was quiet in the house. I assumed Papa woke, saw the conditions and then snuggled back in for another hour's rest.
Taking advantage of the stillness and the mystique of the river's stormy ballet I thumbed through the Bible to the book of Psalms searching for a poet's song to lift my heart and set my course for the day. I stopped by chance on a worn bookmark that read "Work before play sets the soul right on its way." The phrase immediately took me to my youth and reminded me of my early days learning responsibility on the river. It was a phrase my Papa would always say as soon as we pulled in the Oyster Street drive. As a child I, as well as my sisters, learned to earn our stay on the May River toiling in the hot sun for the privilege of a swim, a visit to All-Joy, a trip to the fishing-hole. Float the tide? Not when there's brush to clear. Boating? Not until all the barnacles have been scraped clean. For a boy in love with the river these tiresome chores were the doings of what I then thought to be a work obsessed father.
Turning the worn bookmark over in my hand I laughed at how I used to honestly believe each summer Papa would intentionally transform himself into Lt. Colonel Bill "Great Santini" Meechum, the crazed alter-ego imitation of a salty Marine bent on giving his son the summertime blues just for fun. After all, wouldn't any real man rather play on the river instead of slaving away on its steamy banks? These things made perfect sense to my young mind at that time in life. I mean to play is much better than to work, right? So, as a boy, while friends and relatives swam and golfed on "the Island" Papa, my cousin and I would end up spending those endless summer days fixing a rusted out, no good boat trailer or replacing the plugs in a smoky, old motor. "It's not fair," I used to cry. Undaunted in principle Papa would never fail to remind me "Son, one day when you own something of your own you'll understand." I always hated that line. I suppose this is the natural struggle that develops between father and son, as the son strives for independence and the father tries to impart wisdom the son doesn't yet understand. For some, that gap is never breached, but as fate would have it I would come to understand Papa's point through the eyes of a brotherin- law. It all happened one August long ago on the May River.
Growing up I was the only son in a family of three sisters. Now, having three sisters meant I really had nine sisters. For as most parents and any lone brother will tell you a teenage girl rarely maneuvers without several friends in close tow. Needless to say I was in desperate need of a big brother's influence.
By the time I had reached college age Skip had stepped in to fill that void. However, in the beginning I must admit to taking advantage of Skip. You see, Skip was a means to an end for me. He understood Papa and was able to communicate with him through hard work. This meant I was off the hook more often than not. Where I would cuss and moan, he would catch the slack with a smile, and oh boy did I let him catch it too. Heck, I figured I had already paid my dues. I was going to let the new guy earn his Bluffton keep while I made up for lost time in the sun. So, while Skip used his precious vacation time to till flower beds, transplant azalea, pressure wash the house and dock, I would lounge in the hammock, silver spoon in hand, drinking cold beer and laughing at Skip's willingness to do Papa's bidding. Skip didn't mind. He had a big heart and was eager to give it away.
Before long when I would emerge from the river, bed or wherever I'd been shirking work and sheepishly ask Papa what needed to be done, he'd reply "Skip did it." One would think I'd be thrilled; not so. The thought of being replaced desperately made me want back in Papa's club. From then on I began to watch Skip with an eager eye, careful to observe his work and mannerisms, mimicking where possible. I easily recall the tipping point. It was a muggy afternoon after a particularly hot and smelly task of hauling an unwieldy load of trash to the Bluffton dump. Skip, singing loudly through the static of AM radio, noticed the sour look in my eye and wryly spoke "You'll never be able to walk beside Papa and be happy until you learn to speak his language." I remember turning those words over in my mind for days. Finally I asked Skip to explain what he meant. "Simple," he said "listen to his message."
Skip spoke those words almost 10 years to the day I sat watching that beautiful thunderstorm roll up the May River. It wasn't always easy but I took the advice and listened to Papa's message. What I began to understand was the love and passion Papa had for the Lowcountry and family. Those emotions were expressed through his sweat equity, the energy he poured in to maintaining the things his family enjoyed. All those menial jobs as a boy were for me to gain an understanding and appreciation for the blessings and curses of living on the water. Unfortunately, Skip passed away and has been gone now for five years, but his message still resonates within. Skip did do it; he built a bridge for the "Great Santini" and me. As I closed the Psalms I could hear Papa behind me pouring a cup of coffee. I was glad to be in his presence and thought about a list of things we could accomplish, or perhaps just sit in the silence with our coffee, enjoying the storm, together.
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