It was an old, rickety dock that stuck out into the bay like an unkempt, dirty finger. The two boys had taken to calling it the “Dock of Doom” because it was likely to plunge into murky waters of the breakaway at any given time. An ever-present odor of rotting oyster shells hovered in the humid air of August, and seemed to cling to hair and clothing like cigarette smoke. The summer was languid and soaked by afternoon rainfall.
Those two boys were cousins, best friends, and mischief makers. They begged an occasional beer from oystermen and drunks that hung around a convenience store across from the boat basin, and filched half-smoked cigarettes from the parking lot. Once in a while, they’d help unload the day’s catch of oysters from a boat or two, earning a few dollars here and there.
On this particular day, they had decided to take their fishing poles out on the dock. There was a faint smell of rain in the air and they knew that the fish would be biting.
It was a fine afternoon. A cool breeze took the edge off scorching temperatures, filling the shoreline with fresh fragrances from the sea. They had a couple of hot Budweisers in their bucket and two cigars, recently stolen from the store’s counter.
The dock began to sway as waves picked up and thunder grumbled from a distant, dark cloud. The boys paid it no mind, for they were half-drunk, and giddy on strong tobacco. The discussion turned to girls, making for a lively conversation, punctuated by lies and curse words.
Whitecaps formed and slapped against dilapidated pilings, causing the dock to sway precariously. The boys drank hot beer and laughed at silly jokes.
Pretty soon, night crept in, unnoticed by the two. And still, wind intensified, making a strange, high-pitched howling noise. Salt spray had soaked their feet and lower legs and stiffened their wind-blown hair. They joked and fished until they grew hungry and sleepy. By this time, rain had begun to fall in furious torrents, making their return to shore a dangerous affair. The dock swayed and snapped and creaked and sagged as they gingerly held on to each other for support.
When they finally reached solid ground, they ran for all they were worth into the nearby store, dripping wet and scared. The store windows heaved and threatened to explode with each raging gust that hit them. Everyone huddled in the back as power went out and lightning struck ever closer. A deep, moaning sound became louder and louder.
Soon, the storm broke and rain grew softer, wind more gentle. LIghts came back on in the store and people began to go on with their business, whatever it was. Those two boys took this opportunity to run for home, breathless and tired. They slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.
The next day, they met up at the end of the road and walked towards the boat basin, fishing poles in hand. They talked about shrimping, girls, and what they would do one day when they were older. But as they neared the water, they noticed boats turned around sideways and rubble everywhere. The Dock of Doom was reduced to a few boards and pilings. “Looks like a waterspout hit last night.” said an elderly fisherman. “Guess it just missed us!” observed one of the boys. “Then you got lucky. My boats’ tore up and my gear is strowed from here to yonder.” mused the old man.
Eventually, the boys found a new fishing spot and life went on. School started up, days grew cooler, and soon the beloved dock was forgotten. All that remains now is one rotted piling and a few rusty nails, slowly disappearing, like those long ago summer dreams of two young boys.
