Robert Payne

Boom…Boom…Boom.

I awoke to the dull but persistent sound of freight containers being offloaded at the Port of Charleston’s Wando Terminal. “That’s the sound of money,” I had once heard someone say. It was 6am and time to rise for a saltwater fishing charter with Captain Peter H. Brown. I’d been looking forward to the trip for quite some time. Me, my father, and an experienced fishing guide would explore the meandering creeks and marshes of the South Carolina coast in pursuit of redfish (bass), trout, and any other assorted haul the Lowcountry could throw at us. In the close days proceeding, bending rods and screeching reels filled my imagination and intensified my anticipation. I hoped my suppositions would become reality.

I was a little dismayed the day before when I came in from Tampa, Florida, crossed the Cooper River Bridge, and witnessed the impending storm clouds on the horizon. When it began to rain in buckets, I thought the trip would be canceled for sure. A somber call to Peter allayed my fears somewhat. He’d been studying the weather and felt confident we should give it a go nonetheless. I complied, hung up the phone, and immediately went to pack my rain gear.

Despite my doubts, dawn rose fresh and brilliant. A short drive to Shem Creek barely gave me enough time to down my coffee before I was at the boat slip. When my Dad arrived a few minutes late, I couldn’t help but reciprocate for years of ribbings I’d received for consistently falling behind the agreed upon time. Fishing or hunting, I never qualified as a “morning person.”

Peter fired up his Action Craft Flats Boat, and we were on our way. He explained that the rain had caused significant clouding in the water, which would require a little extra creativity on our part. I was muddled by the fact that spinning rods, and not fly rods, would be our angling instruments of choice. But as Peter spoke, I looked across the Charleston Harbor to see the City filling with the flow of men and women making their way to work. I was happy to oblige, I thought, feeling fortunate that I had a beautiful Friday of fishing with my father ahead of me.

Before we’d even emerged from the mouth of Shem Creek, Peter had already scooped up a mess of Menhaden on his second toss of the cast net. Into the live well they went along with some Mud Minnows. I was sure they were aware of their impending doom. They would spend their day being live-hooked, cut up, cast, dragged, caught on oyster shells, picked up by sea birds, and sucked down the maws of sea creatures.

As is so often the case in a tight-knit community, the local fisherman know and support one another. Just as we were leaving the creek another boat maneuvered alongside of us. The Captain casually struck up a conversation with our Captain about weather and conditions. Peter graciously offered up information and a few Menhaden, and before the other boat veered off the man shouted to us, “you are in good hands.” A salty thought surfaced in me, thanks buddy, I’ve known Peter for 30 years.

Educational pursuits, life experiences, and work have taken me away from Charleston for longer than I would like, but I hold on to the fact that I grew up fishing these very waters. Before I could even walk I bounced around in a basket at the bow of my father’s little John Boat. Dad had been offered several different job offers in cities around the Country, but he had decided to take up residency in Charleston for the very reason we were now going fishing with Peter – the love of the Lowcountry. Along with my brother, who is now a realtor at Lane and Smythe, my sister, who works for the Coastal Conservation League, and my mother, who is a local Charleston artist, father took our family out in the boat almost every weekend.

Exploring the fringes of one of America’s oldest and most beautiful cities was always an adventure for a young child. The ebb and flow of the tide brought a host of new experiences. The biology of bringing up a seine on a mud bank, catching my first shark, getting caught out on a barrier island in a fierce thunderstorm, and heading shrimp till my fingers bled are just a few of my memories that beat against the inexorable march of time. Even though I know countless other boys and girls who grew up with the same intimate connections to the environs of Charleston, these moments are mine.

We arrived at our first fishing spot and Peter killed the motor. He baited our hooks and then quietly and deftly maneuvered us closer to the marsh grass with a Push Pole. We floated our bait in the persistent current, and before long we had caught several trout. The marsh grass gleamed green against the backdrop of palm, live oak, and pine, and somewhere in the brush a warbler welcomed the day.

Peter and I spoke of friends, money, and new developments that are further protruding and forever changing the unspoiled landscape that we knew as children – we could see some of them now from the boat. I think most of us recognize our hypocrisy when we cry out for environmental protection and economic improvements, but we know deep down that life is not absolute and there must be a better way. I know we all want our children to experience the same natural beauty that we shared with our parents.

The entire time we spoke, my father simply listened. We do not see each other often, so I wondered why he didn’t readily join in. But it occurred to me that he always listens to me, providing feedback when necessary, and guidance when required. While the amount of talk is not the measure of quality time spent together, I hope he knows I am there to listen to him as well.

I watched my father make a cast close to the bank, and in an instant his line went taut. There were no jerky movements, foolish displays, or wasted effort, but instead his efforts were smooth and practiced. Dad pulled in a beautiful bass. The day was far from over, so we made our way to several other spots. We caught some, we lost some, and all the while soaked up the landscape that has shaped the lives of each of us.

On the way back in to Shem Creek, we followed the Winds of Fortune, a shrimp boat returning with its days catch. At one time, my grandfather operated two shrimp boats in Shem Creek, the Carol El and Princess Anne, the latter of which sank out at the jetties with him on it. It was a different time back then. Much of Mount Pleasant was farmland, and the first Cooper River Bridge changed everything.

I wondered what Charleston was like in those days. I wondered what it was like for my grandfather to fish with his father.

To schedule a saltwater fishing charter with Captain Peter H. Brown, visit his website at www.saltcharters.com