Glenn G. Coats

Navigating the Known

“It was eerie, engines sounding like they were bringing their boat right to you
and on you and through you, but never coming into sight; and voices drifting
in the mist.”—Arlene Martin Ridgway

The fish are not biting. With the tide coming in, I leave the channel and steer the boat slowly along Bonaparte Creek as it twists its way toward the inlet. The wings of snowy egrets flash in the cordgrass. High water keeps me above stumps and oyster points.

The Little River Inlet is calm. No signs of casino ships or commercial fishermen. I push the boat toward the rocky jetty beside Waties Island where the water is deep and the current strong. Thread fresh shrimp on my hooks and add two ounces of weight to each line. For a time, I haul black drum over the railing.

boat whistle—
not enough notes
for a song

When the run of fish ends, I pack up rods and gear; trace my way back across the passage. To keep from tipping, I steer into passing wakes at an angle. A few waves break over the bow, and a tackle box slides across the deck.

spaces between thoughts wading herons

I miss the post that marks the entrance to Bonaparte and turn down another tidal creek that I hope will lead me home. One creek looks like the next and soon I am lost in a maze of waterways. My boat scrapes bottom as the tide sinks; I cut the engine as darkness settles in, covering my vessel in shadow and silence.

boat lights
the flash of blue
in a crab’s claw

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About the Author

Glenn G. Coats lives with his wife, Joani, in Carolina Shores, North Carolina. His books include two recent collections of haibun, A Synonym for Gone (Snapshot Press, 2021) and Degrees of Acquaintance (Snapshot Press, 2019), and Furrows of Snow (Turtle Light Press, 2019), which won an honorable mention in the Haiku Society of America’s 2020 Merit Book Awards.