Glenn G. Coats

Carbon Copy

river current all the voices before and after

Dawn. From the parking lot, my father and I see fishermen lined up around the boat. Some are bent over with heads resting on their arms. “Likely been there all night,” dad says. “This boat is like home.”

We carry our gear, lunch and tackle boxes, rods and reels, and a heavy chest with ice across the rickety walkway. Captain Jim and his mates help us down into the boat. They all know my father, who sailed with the captain’s father when Jim was still a child. There is laughter and talk of weather and tides. “Brought your boy with you for good luck,” the captain says.

My father has on a red and black checked jacket and a white golf hat. A cigarette holder sticks from a corner of his mouth. He sets up on the port side of the boat, says he can move easier under lines when a big blue drags him along the deck. Others on the boat greet my dad like a friend and stop to talk. Newcomers ask him for advice. Old-timers share stories. One tells me that my dad reminds him of a dancer on The Lawrence Welk Show, the one who always wears a smile. “My father is a tough act to follow,” I say.

The motors start and the captain backs his boat out of its slip. I perch in the bow where I can search for flocks of gulls; the backs of whales and dolphins. As the morning lightens, I tie a silver jig on my line with a double clinch knot; give it a tug to test it. Then I sit back on a bench, close my eyes, and wait for the long ride out to begin.

Father’s Day
the sea cuts our differences
down to size

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About the Author

Glenn G. Coats lives with his wife, Joani, in Carolina Shores, North Carolina. His recent collections are Degrees of Acquaintance (Snapshot Press, 2019), a collection of haibun, and Furrows of Snow (Turtle Light Press, 2019), which won an honorable mention in the Haiku Society of America’s 2020 Merit Book Awards.