He narrowed his eyes, warming to the game. “And just how does a pirate kiss?”
Harper thought to herself this was their first private joke. “He thrusts and parries.”
Taylor kissed her swift and hard, proving the point, then released her as quickly. “Now ye saucy wench, stand aside. It’s time to get this old sow out to sea.”
Harper stood by the railing, out of the way, and watched as he moved deftly across the deck to the pilothouse back to the side of the boat to shove off. She couldn’t ignore how his muscles strained at the task and how beads of sweat formed at his brow.
Taylor fired the boat’s diesel engines and the growling noise filled the air along with the cries of seagulls and the strong stench of diesel fuel. He hurried to the pilothouse, grabbed the wheel, and began talking on the marine radio. Slowly he maneuvered the Miss Jenny away from the dock.
She thought he looked so handsome standing wide legged at the wheel, his gaze on the water, a man born to captain a ship. Harper recalled her ancestor and thought, I know how Claire felt when she met the Gentleman Pirate.
The great engine rumbled beneath them, and a few gulls cried and swooped in the late-afternoon sky as they pushed away from the dock. Taylor slipped his arm around her shoulder as they passed the long line of houses bordering Jeremy Creek. They stood side by side, faces to the sea, as he motored through the ribbon of racing water bordered by a maze of endless, bright green marshland. Harper thought that she’d remember this moment, standing at the wheel of a shrimp trawler, Taylor’s arm around her, for as long as she lived. She’d tell her grandchildren about it. Then she smiled. No, she amended, she’d write about it. Document this moment on paper to read over and over. She felt the words bubbling at her heart.
When at last the vista opened to the Atlantic Ocean, Taylor released her and put one hand on the throttle. “Hold on, girl.”
The engines roared to life and the boat vibrated beneath her feet. The water churned into whitecaps, and Harper laughed out loud for the pure joy of it. She felt the power of the engines racing through her body as she hurried back out onto the deck to clutch the railing. The wind coursed over her, lifting her hair from her shoulders, spraying droplets of cool water on her face. The big trawler was pushing hard through the chop, and above, the nets hanging on the outriggers were creaking as loud as the seagulls overhead. Taylor called out for her, and turning her head his way, she saw him point to the water just beside the boat. She followed his direction and looked over the side.
“Oh, look!” She laughed again. A dolphin was racing alongside, riding in the wake. Her sleek gray body arched in and out of the whitecaps with obvious joy. Harper’s heart lurched as she thought of Delphine and wondered if that sweet dolphin she’d come to love would ever again enjoy living in the wild.
Harper clung to the railing and watched the dolphin until it swam off, disappearing. Soon after, Taylor lowered the speed and allowed the boat to cruise at a crawl. He came to her side and slipped an arm around her waist.
“Like it?”
She lifted her face to him. “Love it.”
“Thought you might. Hoped you would.”
“I have to admit, I had no idea it was so beautiful. The lowcountry shows off her best side from the water.”
“That’s how people first saw this land. Farther up there”—he pointed inland—“is the great Santee River, the birthplace of the plantations.”
“Do they still grow cotton there?”
Taylor barked out a laugh. “Why do people think the only crop on the plantations in the South was cotton?”
“Because we all saw Gone with the Wind.”
“Truth is, it was rice that built the plantation economy in these parts. Yellow gold, they called it. That and the know-how and strong backs of the slaves. Our swampy, semitropical landscape was perfect for it. The slaves from the Sierra Leone area not only knew how to grow rice, they brought their culture with them.”
“The Gullah-Geechee culture.”
“Right. A lot of what we think of today as lowcountry culture can trace its roots to the Gullah.” He pointed out over the wetlands that bordered the land. “Once upon a time, more than one hundred and fifty thousand acres were planted with rice. Imagine it.”
As she looked out over the vast wetlands, Harper tried to imagine how hard a life the slaves must have endured in those swamps, fighting snakes, alligators, and disease all while laboring under that scorching sun and humidity. She thought, too, of the manacles that she’d found in the garden.
“I can’t.” She turned to him. “Did your ancestors plant rice?”
Taylor shook his head. “We weren’t planters. When the McClellans look out at the wetlands, we don’t see rice.” He smiled wryly. “We see shrimp.”
“Aren’t shrimp bottom dwellers?” she teased.
“They are,” he replied with equanimity. “But the estuaries”—a gleam was in his eyes—“girl, this is our nursery for shrimp. That’s where our crop grows.”
“You, Taylor McClellan, are the ‘son of a son of a sailor.’ ”
He laughed, and his eyes revealed his appreciation that she knew the lyrics of a favorite Jimmy Buffett song. “I’m the son of a son of a shrimper,” he corrected. “Speaking of shrimp, I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m starved.”
“Great. I’ve packed lots of food.”
“Packed? We aren’t going to catch our own shrimp? We’re on a shrimp boat!”
He looked at her with doubt. “Do you have a clue how hard it is to trawl for shrimp? It’s damn hard. You need muscle and experience and a whole lot of patience. Your hands would be raw and you’d smell like a fish house when you were done. We could’ve done that, but I didn’t think it would make for a very romantic evening.”
“At least take me for a tour of the boat.”
“All right, then. For starters, it’s called a trawler.”
Taylor took Harper on a tour of the trawler. He explained how they lowered the nets on the outriggers on either side of the boat like butterfly wings. He showed her how to tie the thick rope knot that bound the nets against hundreds of pounds of shrimp. How the nets dragged the ocean floor, tickling the shrimp up into them.
“I can’t explain what it’s like to pull in the nets dripping from the sea, let it hang over the deck then untie that knot and see the explosion of shrimp burst. But if you like, I’ll show it to you someday. When you’re dressed for it.”