9. Nine
Somewhere around Tallahassee, Marin can’t handle the fact that 1978 Avions are not Bluetooth enabled and insists on us stopping at an antique store. Fifteen minutes later, she proudly walks out with a box of cassette tapes. The collection includes Mariah Carey, Tom Petty, Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and my personal favorite, Hootie and the Blowfish.
When we finally get to our campground outside of Fairhope, Alabama, I am convinced by the shack-like structure and hand-painted sign that says Office, we are going to get murdered.
“Is this place safe?” Marin hisses as her face pales with the distant sound of a revving chainsaw.
Yes might be a lie so I don’t respond.
The rickety screen door has holes and hangs loosely on the hinges, squeaking loudly when we open it, slowly stepping inside.
There isn’t much in the space—a few shelves of fishing tackle and a cooler of drinks line one wall, nets and buckets on the other. There’s a dim lamp in the corner behind a counter with a register. An old man with a wiry beard sits propped up on a stool, wearing faded overalls, eyes closed. A golden retriever is sprawled across the floor, sleeping, legs moving with little whimpers as he dreams.
Marin grips my arm tighter. “Oh my God, Mom! He’s dead!” she croaks.
I freeze, Finn laughs, and the dead man startles to life. Hand to my chest, my heart beats like a jackhammer.
“God, sorry, we thought you were dead!” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “Sorry. We have a reservation for tonight.”
He eyeballs me, then the kids, as if assessing if we are who we claim to be.
He nods slowly as he says, “I see. Wha’ brings ya down to de bay?”
His voice surprises me—instead of the southern accent I expect, he sounds almost Cajun. Shuffling through papers, he doesn’t take his eyes off us.
“Y’all here to fish?”
He looks amused as he says it—like he doesn’t believe it’s a possibility. I bristle at the implication even though I don’t even like fishing.
Finn clears his throat. “Actually, yes. I’ve been looking at the weather—you think there’s a chance of a jubilee in the next couple of days? I know it’s early in the summer, but temps are unusually high for this time of year from what I’ve read. Wind doesn’t seem to be blowing.”
My eyes widen as I look at Finn. A jubilee?
A surprised look that mirrors my own covers the old man’s face.
“Y’all know’ bout our jubilee, den. I call it de rush, myself. Eitha’ way. Smart boy ya got here.” He looks at me briefly. “I usually start checkin’ for de signs abou’ June one, but we only a few days early. Guess we could check tonight if you gonna get up and help.”
He points a crooked finger at Finn, who in turn, looks at me.
Stunned, I just shrug my shoulders. Because—what?
Travis would have volunteered to join, no doubt. The thought makes me blurt, “We’ll all help.”
Finn’s eyes go wide, Marin’s fingernails dig into my skin, and amusement fills the man’s face.
“Okay den, all y’all need to be here, dressed and ready in de mornin’.” He peeks over the counter at our flip-flop-covered feet. “And no toes. If ya don’t have no boots, ya better wear somethin’ over de toes for when ya have to shuffle round wit de gig.” He lets out a chuckle. “Name’s Dickey, by de way. A jubilee comes when we least ‘spect it, tonight seems good as any. Ya boy’s right with de signs, but we gotta check de tide.” He flips through some papers. “Yep, comin’ in right on time.” He looks up, a twinkle in his old eyes. “Course, I guess de tide’s always on time.”
He pauses—as if he’s just been very wise—then we all stand in the shack in an awkward silence until he continues.
“Anyway, here’s all de information for de campsite. You gonna wanna loop round de back side der.” He points to a map with all the campsites laid out. “And just back on in den. Y’all got wada, sewah, and ‘lectric all right at de site. Just come’n get me if y’all have any trouble.”
I take the papers and start toward the door, pausing.
“Dickey? I don’t think you said, what time in the morning should we meet you to go…” my eyes flick to Finn before I ask, “Jubilee?”
“Two sounds good.”
He leans back on his stool.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was morning. So, two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”
“Uh-uh. In de mornin’. A jubilee happens early. Dem fish come in lookin’ for a breath.”
What the hell?
Finn lets out a little snort, reading my confusion, and tugs my arm.
“C’mon, Mom. I’ll explain it while we set up.”
He lifts a hand and waves at Dickey and calls over his shoulder, “Hey, thanks a lot, sir. See ya tonight.”
“Don’t forget de shoes!” Dickey’s yell floats through the tattered screen door.
Marin shoots a look at me once she gets in the passenger seat. “What the hell, Penelope?”
“Marin! Language!” I say, opening the back door.
“You signed us up to go do some sort of creepy fishing party with a man in the middle of the night! Language feels appropriate!” she shrieks.
“He was nice once I realized he wasn’t dead,” I argue, sitting on the floor behind their seats.
“I think it’s going to be fun. Plus, what are you scared of, Marin? He’s old. If things go south, the three of us could take him. A jubilee is really rare, it only happens here and allegedly one other place in the world. If we are lucky enough to see it, it’s going to be awesome,” Finn says from the driver’s seat, clearly pleased with how everything turned out.
Marin mutters under her breath while we circle around the gravel road to our site. Finn easily backs us in.
We make quick work of setting up and eating dinner—grilled cheese—before settling around a fire.
“Okay, Finn, explain what we are getting ourselves into here. If there is a jubilee, how freaked out are Marin and I going to be about it?”
He pokes a stick at the logs.
“Well, it’s definitely different from fishing off a boat. Basically, a very specific set of conditions creates a situation where fish and shellfish—usually mullet, blue crabs, and shrimp—move to the shallowest water in the middle of the night, making it easy to catch them. Obviously, I’ve never done it, but from what I’ve read, most people will wade out a bit with a tub tied to their waist and gig for mullet or just use nets to scoop the crabs and shrimp. It’s a big party sometimes, drawing in a crowd if enough people find out about it.”
Marin opens a bag of marshmallows and looks at him.
“Gig?”
Finn nods, “yeah, it’s basically a big spear you stab at the fish.”
Her face twists. “Wait, so we go out into this water that’s overflowing with all of these things and start stabbing them… in the dark?”
“Mhmm. Basically,” he says. “Or netting them.”
“What’s the tub for?” she asks.
“For whatever you catch.”
His tone is so nonchalant, I bark out a laugh.
As terrified as I am by the idea of it all, I’m excited. We’ve spent a lifetime living on an island, but this feels different. Like a glimpse of a secret world I didn’t know existed before now.
Finn throws another log on the fire, smoke billowing into the air before he settles back into his chair and pulls out his phone.
I yawn as I stand up.
“I’m tired and need at least four hours of sleep before I gig in the dark,” I tell them, heading towards the camper.
As I open the door, the most beautiful thing happens—they both smile at me and say goodnight.