Swimming Lessons. Mary Monroe Alice

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      She could almost hear the chuckle in his voice. “No. Jason has already given the okay. I’m asking you if you’re ready to take on another one.” He rubbed his jaw. “I don’t seem to be on this decision tree, or you’d know what my answer would be.”

      The prospect of a second turtle was exciting, but the fact that Jason and Ethan had given the okay was thrilling.

      “Yes, I do. And yes, I am. Bring it on in!”

      “All right, then. I’ve already rustled up another holding tank. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but we’ll make it. Are you ready to go?”

      “Go? Go where?”

      “To get the turtle, of course. It isn’t going to crawl in on its own.”

      “I thought you said that the fishermen were bringing it in.”

      “To the fishery, yes. But not all the way here. They’re already doing us a favor by cutting their day short to bring the turtle to the dock.”

      “Oh, sure. Fine.” She looked at the food dish in her hand as her mind spun around all she had to get done. “I just have to feed Big Girl first, and clean out her tank.”

      “You feed. I’ll sweep.”

      His enthusiasm was contagious. The corners of her mouth lifted to a smile as she felt the tension of the early morning bubble to excitement.

      Cherry Point Seafood Company had been in business on Wadmalaw Island since the 1930s. It was a family business that once upon a time had transported passengers as well as seafood and local crops between the Sea Island plantations and Charleston. Back then, local folks could travel to Charleston by either water or horse, and most preferred a boat trip to a long, hot horse ride. Today, there were no more passengers. The long wooden structure with docks that stretched along Bohicket Creek was used strictly for commercial fisherman. It was home to the dozens of shrimp boats and fishing boats that brought in their daily catches.

      “Sure seems quiet today,” Ethan said, pulling the Aquarium’s white pick-up truck into the parking lot. The bed of gravel and shells crunched beneath the tires. He cut the engine and the truck shuddered to a halt.

      “Well, it is a holiday,” she said, looking out the window. “Likely most folks took the day off.” The fishery looked like a big, roughened wood shack. Along one side was a high loading dock fit for trucks, a smattering of heavy iron equipment, bales of rope, and farther down was the dock. She spied a burly man in jeans and white rubber boots leaning against a wood pillar, smoking.

      “Usually the place is jumping, just swarming with fishermen and shrimpers bringing their catch in to be weighed and packed.”

      “It’s not very big.”

      “Don’t let the size fool you. On a busy day in the season, thousands of dollars of fish go through these doors, packed in ice and shipped out to restaurants and markets all across the country. Used to be there were a number of fish houses in these parts, but this is the only one left. Sign of the times, I guess.”

      Ethan wasn’t dressed in his usual Aquarium uniform of khaki. On his day off he was slumming in olive green shorts, a stained white T-shirt and scuffed leather boots that had seen plenty of wear. His dark hair was an unruly mass and dark stubble coursed along his jawline. It occurred to her he looked right at home here on the docks.

      “I’ve never actually met shrimpers before,” she told him. “Should I be nervous?”

      Ethan appeared puzzled. “They’re just folks.”

      “Ethan, I’ve heard the stories,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “How they hate anyone connected with turtles. I’ve heard the names we’re called, too—turtle kissers, turtle Nazis…”

      His lips twitched but he only shrugged.

      “I know there’ve been some pretty strong words between the two camps over the years. I just want to know if I’m going to have my head served on a platter in there.”

      “That was before—sure, there were some, well, unfriendly feelings between some shrimpers and those folks who were demanding that the boats put those TEDS on their nets.” He scratched his neck and added wryly, “Time was, shrimpers called the Turtle Excluder Devices ‘Trawler Elimination Devices.’ Safe to say it was a touchy subject.”

      “To say the least.”

      “Hey, the bottom line is, those TEDS cost money.”

      “But it wasn’t about the money.”

      “It was to the shrimpers who had to put out money they didn’t have.”

      “Yes, I see what you mean. But, what’s different now?”

      “Well, for starters they’ve got the TEDs on every net they own now. And, those turtle shooters work. Hey, they never wanted to hurt the turtles and I think that’s what riled them the most. They were painted as being bad guys when they were doing their best to make a living—a damned hard one—and not getting a break from anywhere.”

      “Why are you so defensive? You’re a turtle kisser, too, you know.”

      He laughed. “I am. But I see their side of the story, too.”

      She turned to look out over the fishery and sighed. “So, no one’s going to bite my head off out there today?”

      She felt his gaze sweep over her.

      “I think they’ll be enamored.”

      A short laugh escaped. “Enamored?”

      “Sure.” He reached across her legs to lift the door handle and open her door. “Some of these guys have been out on the sea for weeks. You look a sight better than a turtle.”

      She pushed open the door. “Thanks a lot.”

      She followed Ethan into the dim, narrow halls of the fish house. Behind glass windows in the large room, the rusting machines lay still. Here and there she’d spy rubber boots but no man to fill them. Only when they neared the office did she catch the scent of burnt coffee and hear the hum of voices, punctuated by a woman’s hearty laugh.

      When Ethan stepped into the small, wood paneled office, all talk stopped. Two middle aged, deeply tanned men—one weathered and tall, the other short and paunchy—leaned against a Formica counter covered with stacks of paper. Both wore white rubber boots over their jeans. Across from them, sitting at an ancient wood roll top desk was a sweet faced, robust woman of the same age in a blue floral dress and shiny black flats. They turned to face him, and like lightning, their faces lit up.

      “Lookee here! You son of a…sea horse,” the woman sputtered. “Where’ve you been?”

      She had to be at least sixty but she leaped up like a woman half her age to wrap soft, fleshy arms around Ethan in a bear hug.

      “Shame on you for making yourself so scarce. If I didn’t see you at church from time to time I’d think you’d gone off traveling again.”

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