Chapter One
It seems appropriate to start with some background about life experiences that influenced my freedom philosophy.
I grew up going to church and a Christian school until fifth grade when my parents got divorced, thanks in large part to strict religious rules. This started a rocky relationship with organized religion while my journey with Jesus continued. Musical memories of singing classic hymns like Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art would occasionally stir the soul even as I strayed at times, reminding me He was always there. Knowing Jesus is with me has been a source of comfort and guidance as I try to follow His teachings that come down to the Golden Rule. We could have peace on earth if everyone treated each other the way we want to be treated. It is important to understand the distinction between treating others the way we want to be treated as opposed to how they treat us. We practice the Golden Rule because nobody is perfect.
It has been said that there are no atheists in wartime foxholes. Verily I say unto you, the same is true on oceans blue in raging storms of darkest hue. Most of us believe in a higher power of some kind, especially during tough times. A fellow fisherman once told me about how he became a believer. The weather was terrible as they cautiously approached Beaufort Inlet. Gale force winds blowing against a falling tide converged to form steep waves that crashed over their transom, flooding the deck, and breaking loose a fish box weighing well over a ton. His mate made it out just before the shifting box blocked their only exit. Seawater flooded the wheelhouse he was trapped in as his boat sank. He felt overwhelming fear knowing the end was near. Then an unlikely calm came over him as a strong hand grasped his shoulder and a clear voice told him everything would be all right. The boat suddenly rolled moving that heavy box just enough for him to escape unharmed. Crewmembers on another boat following close behind pulled both survivors from the water. My friend had no doubt he felt the hand of God and heard his Savior’s voice. I still get goosebumps recalling the old salt’s masterful regaling of his Divine encounter.
Thank you for continuing to read even if this subject is unsettling. Many people have been offended by those who twist a message of forgiveness, compassion, and loving-kindness into an excuse to judge, condemn, and demand punishment for what they view as moral failures by others. The Jesus I know gave us free will and freely forgives. Consider how He forgave the woman some religious leaders wanted to stone for her moral shortcomings. He told whoever was without sin to cast the first stone. Each one walked away realizing we all fall short. Jesus never suggested they ask Caesar to punish her for them. Forgiveness is necessary for freedom to flourish.
Watching Mom stand with a hand over her heart proudly singing along with our National Anthem at a Little League baseball game was my first memory of feeling patriotic. I love America and the freedom it offers. We are blessed with freedom few have ever known throughout human history thanks to the sacrifices made by ordinary people willing to fight for liberty. An elderly neighbor who took me fishing as a kid had some fingers that weren’t quite right. They were damaged when an anti-aircraft shell landed in the airplane he was about to parachute out of during World War 2. He picked up the live round that exploded while tossing it out. His heroic action saved everyone onboard and engrained the price of freedom in a young boy.
Fishing with that neighbor on his boat was the first way I earned money. It was so cool to be on the water surrounded by nautical splendor getting paid to harvest nature’s bounty. There was something different every trip that delighted youthful senses. The distinct squeal a clam rake makes crossing live clams sent vibrations running up the handle straight to my brain delivering sensations of finding buried treasure. Holding a gillnet cork line as fish hit the net was exciting, with eager anticipation building until it was time to see what we caught. Those summer days with the briny scent of salt marsh and seafood wafting in the sea breeze while working on the water infiltrated my psyche.
Dad helped hook me on fishing with a late fall visit to Radio Island when the blues were running. We could see a feeding frenzy of fish busting on schools of bait while walking the empty beach to a perfect spot. It was on with the first cast as one nice bluefish after another filled our cooler until the sun slipped out of sight and we had all Dad wanted to clean. This was our last fishing trip before the divorce ended my childhood.
Another cherished childhood fishing memory was with my cousin and our grandparents who were both fighting cancer. We went trolling for King Mackerel around Cape Lookout on a beautiful slick calm day. It didn’t take long to find hungry fish. We reeled them in as fast as we could. Pop was slinging kings over the side right into a big cooler. Gran would kick the lid shut and hold it down with her foot to keep our toothy catch from escaping all while she was driving the boat. We laughed until our sides hurt. What a wonderful last fishing trip before Pop passed. He had just retired and dreamed of running charter fishing trips. I was going to be his first mate one day. Cancer’s cruel timing instilled the importance of not deferring dreams.
Doing some landscaping as a teenager was fun but not the same as fishing. One week at McDonald’s for my first “real job” convinced me to look for work on a charter boat during summer vacation. A nice captain let me go on a trial trip to sell our catch. It was very rough with waves crashing over the side as we drifted for Snowy Grouper in deep water. We caught enough to make a little money and started trolling home when a reel began screaming as line peeled off with a Wahoo on the other end. I cranked feverishly to keep slack out of the line when it turned toward us and fought to gain it back after another run until a sleek fish of brilliant purple, black, and blue blending into a silver belly with stunning stripes thrashed beside the boat. The captain quickly gaffed and pulled in our prized fish. I was invited back for another trip with better weather. We were setting everything up when a massive school of brightly colored mahi swam around the boat. We offered some squid heads they instantly attacked. Mahi averaging around ten pounds soon covered the deck in a glistening mass of neon blues, greens, silver, and gold with specks of crimson red everywhere. The mayhem continued for at least an hour before they moved on. We caught 777 pounds of fish that day, so seven became my lucky number. I occasionally filled in for another mate before moving to California when Mom married a Marine. A job at Spencer’s Gifts in the mall kept me busy after school, but I wanted to be a fisherman. A very long cross-country bus ride brought me to stay with Gran for the summer so I could be a mate again. I moved back permanently to be a full-time fisherman after graduation.
Commercial fishing helped fill in gaps between charters and get me through the winter. Going offshore for two or three days to catch as many fish as possible was like a dream come true. We caught all kinds of awesome fish including some huge grouper, sharks, marlin, and tuna. There were epic battles lasting for hours with mixed results. We lost a giant Bluefin Tuna along with our Christmas payday after hours of a grueling fight in heavy seas, leaving me feeling like the Little Drummer Boy with no gift to give. My first Blue Marlin was a wonderful birthday present one year. We didn’t see that marlin until the end while others spent almost as much time fighting in midair as underwater. It never gets old seeing such immense and powerful fish full of fight and flashing colors in their natural environment.
Constantly changing scenery made for some awesome views while we fished. There were calm days with glorious sunrises and sunsets blending seamlessly into a mirrorlike ocean. Autumn’s harvest moon would slowly rise reflecting the setting sun’s last rays in waning shades of rusty orange until it finally pulled free from the ocean in an elongated illusion. Sometimes we turned off all lights on moonless nights to admire heaven’s celestial glory. Lights shining on the water attracted some unique creatures to watch. Squid gracefully glided by flashing intricate patterns before darting away in the blink of an eye. Tiny sailfish seemed to dance with delight in the spotlight. Flying fish were especially drawn to light when it was rough, often landing in the boat. An errant flyer came through an open window hitting me in the chest during dinner one night. It became bait. The darkness could also be intimidating with ships passing too close for comfort and unseen obstacles in our path.
We experienced weather from every kind of rain Gump described to dense fog, extreme heat, and bitter cold. Hailstones looked like machine gun fire hitting the water and sounded like the windows would bust out. Striking displays of nature’s power dazzled as vivid streaks of light rippled through the sky sending rolling thunder echoing across the sea or when pulsing bolts of energy instantly produced powerful percussion felt deep within. One day a waterspout formed off our bow and was over us before we could move. I went out on deck to feel the thrilling fury of a tempest wind. That was exhilarating, to say the least.
There was always something interesting to see at sea. Huge Ocean Sunfish would mosey along with one long fin cutting the surface as they soaked up the sun. They are unusual fish that look like something bit their tail off. There were rumors they could leap clear out of the water, but I didn’t believe it until seeing it. We were entertained by dolphins and an occasional whale that would jump for what appeared to be sheer joy. Pods of dolphins often played in the pressure wave off our bow, surging down it before leaping high in the air and darting back within inches of the hull. Great flocks of Gannets gathered around schools of bait to divebomb the frantic little fish with incredible speed in rapid succession. That was always a good sign for Bluefin Tuna. There were tiny Stormy Petrels we call Jesus Birds because they walk on water. Tired petrels sometimes rested on the boat after storms as we offered fresh water and snacks. One Jesus Bird landed in the palm of my outstretched hand, helping foster a growing spiritual connection with nature.
Commercial fishing was in my blood. I stopped doing charters to focus on supplying seafood for markets. We had a small skiff called Salty Cindy in honor of my lovely and ever-supportive wife. I worked that boat in the sound when it was too rough for offshore fishing. One year I was on the water almost every single day. Even checked crab pots during snow and tropical storms, mostly for the experience. As our children grew older, I wanted more control over my time so I could spend it raising them. It was time to give up going offshore for a while.
The kids learned to drive Salty Cindy and went with me to check nets or collect conchs on sandbars. Sometimes we would camp on Shackleford Banks and take pictures of the wild horses living there. My son was putting up the tent one afternoon while I set nets when a swarm of mosquitoes began to mercilessly attack us. We talked about going home just as hundreds of dragonflies arrived and started eating the mosquitoes. We could see them battling in midair and before long the mosquitoes left. We went on to explore an old graveyard and find the horses. Fishing was slow, but I remember thinking those memories we made were worth more than any boatload of fish.
Having better control of precious time also allowed me to spend more of it with my grandmothers during weekly visits to share a meal. They both loved seafood, so we often cooked what I caught. Watching them cook as a kid cultivated a culinary curiosity for experimenting with different cuisines. They both embraced the joy of cooking using a secret ingredient that makes everything better, love. Time spent with them as an adult offered chances to hear old stories from their youth. Granny’s Dad is my closest connection to a commercial fishing lineage. There was a rare twinkle in tired eyes when she told me about her favorite fishing memory. Young Granny was rowing the boat while Great-Grandpa set nets one night as playful otters disturbed tiny bioluminescent plankton, making meandering trails of glowing light. The joy and wonder she felt that magical night was clear in my sight. Her story lives on long after passing.
Photography was a fun hobby that developed into another line of work selling prints of nautical scenes at local shops and festivals. The kids helped at festivals where we would trade with other vendors for cool collectibles and sample some tasty treats. We were blessed with the best kids ever. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to have spent so much time with them. There are thousands of photos that can instantly take me back to those special places and times we shared. Taking pictures gave us a good excuse to walk on the beach, take sunset boat rides, or rush out to see a rainbow. Experiencing nature with kids rekindles youthful exuberance that fades with age. It is good to live a life worth photographing.
The chance to buy a boat for going offshore eventually came along. It felt great being out on the open ocean again. Taking my wife and son made it even better than before. They can both catch more fish than most people. We had a blast catching all kinds of different things including the occasional angry octopus that squirts ink and grabs hold of anything with incredible suction trying to escape. Gas prices began creeping up, so we started looking for a more fuel-efficient boat. A perfect one for us came along at the perfect time. We called it Reel Job because people used to ask me when I was getting a “real job”. The reply had always been that I was working hard to avoid that. The bigger boat with bigger bills required more work with more pressure to produce. Things got easier with time. I was living the American dream until federal fishery managers decided to help.
I grew up going to church and a Christian school until fifth grade when my parents got divorced, thanks in large part to strict religious rules. This started a rocky relationship with organized religion while my journey with Jesus continued. Musical memories of singing classic hymns like Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art would occasionally stir the soul even as I strayed at times, reminding me He was always there. Knowing Jesus is with me has been a source of comfort and guidance as I try to follow His teachings that come down to the Golden Rule. We could have peace on earth if everyone treated each other the way we want to be treated. It is important to understand the distinction between treating others the way we want to be treated as opposed to how they treat us. We practice the Golden Rule because nobody is perfect.
It has been said that there are no atheists in wartime foxholes. Verily I say unto you, the same is true on oceans blue in raging storms of darkest hue. Most of us believe in a higher power of some kind, especially during tough times. A fellow fisherman once told me about how he became a believer. The weather was terrible as they cautiously approached Beaufort Inlet. Gale force winds blowing against a falling tide converged to form steep waves that crashed over their transom, flooding the deck, and breaking loose a fish box weighing well over a ton. His mate made it out just before the shifting box blocked their only exit. Seawater flooded the wheelhouse he was trapped in as his boat sank. He felt overwhelming fear knowing the end was near. Then an unlikely calm came over him as a strong hand grasped his shoulder and a clear voice told him everything would be all right. The boat suddenly rolled moving that heavy box just enough for him to escape unharmed. Crewmembers on another boat following close behind pulled both survivors from the water. My friend had no doubt he felt the hand of God and heard his Savior’s voice. I still get goosebumps recalling the old salt’s masterful regaling of his Divine encounter.
Thank you for continuing to read even if this subject is unsettling. Many people have been offended by those who twist a message of forgiveness, compassion, and loving-kindness into an excuse to judge, condemn, and demand punishment for what they view as moral failures by others. The Jesus I know gave us free will and freely forgives. Consider how He forgave the woman some religious leaders wanted to stone for her moral shortcomings. He told whoever was without sin to cast the first stone. Each one walked away realizing we all fall short. Jesus never suggested they ask Caesar to punish her for them. Forgiveness is necessary for freedom to flourish.
Watching Mom stand with a hand over her heart proudly singing along with our National Anthem at a Little League baseball game was my first memory of feeling patriotic. I love America and the freedom it offers. We are blessed with freedom few have ever known throughout human history thanks to the sacrifices made by ordinary people willing to fight for liberty. An elderly neighbor who took me fishing as a kid had some fingers that weren’t quite right. They were damaged when an anti-aircraft shell landed in the airplane he was about to parachute out of during World War 2. He picked up the live round that exploded while tossing it out. His heroic action saved everyone onboard and engrained the price of freedom in a young boy.
Fishing with that neighbor on his boat was the first way I earned money. It was so cool to be on the water surrounded by nautical splendor getting paid to harvest nature’s bounty. There was something different every trip that delighted youthful senses. The distinct squeal a clam rake makes crossing live clams sent vibrations running up the handle straight to my brain delivering sensations of finding buried treasure. Holding a gillnet cork line as fish hit the net was exciting, with eager anticipation building until it was time to see what we caught. Those summer days with the briny scent of salt marsh and seafood wafting in the sea breeze while working on the water infiltrated my psyche.
Dad helped hook me on fishing with a late fall visit to Radio Island when the blues were running. We could see a feeding frenzy of fish busting on schools of bait while walking the empty beach to a perfect spot. It was on with the first cast as one nice bluefish after another filled our cooler until the sun slipped out of sight and we had all Dad wanted to clean. This was our last fishing trip before the divorce ended my childhood.
Another cherished childhood fishing memory was with my cousin and our grandparents who were both fighting cancer. We went trolling for King Mackerel around Cape Lookout on a beautiful slick calm day. It didn’t take long to find hungry fish. We reeled them in as fast as we could. Pop was slinging kings over the side right into a big cooler. Gran would kick the lid shut and hold it down with her foot to keep our toothy catch from escaping all while she was driving the boat. We laughed until our sides hurt. What a wonderful last fishing trip before Pop passed. He had just retired and dreamed of running charter fishing trips. I was going to be his first mate one day. Cancer’s cruel timing instilled the importance of not deferring dreams.
Doing some landscaping as a teenager was fun but not the same as fishing. One week at McDonald’s for my first “real job” convinced me to look for work on a charter boat during summer vacation. A nice captain let me go on a trial trip to sell our catch. It was very rough with waves crashing over the side as we drifted for Snowy Grouper in deep water. We caught enough to make a little money and started trolling home when a reel began screaming as line peeled off with a Wahoo on the other end. I cranked feverishly to keep slack out of the line when it turned toward us and fought to gain it back after another run until a sleek fish of brilliant purple, black, and blue blending into a silver belly with stunning stripes thrashed beside the boat. The captain quickly gaffed and pulled in our prized fish. I was invited back for another trip with better weather. We were setting everything up when a massive school of brightly colored mahi swam around the boat. We offered some squid heads they instantly attacked. Mahi averaging around ten pounds soon covered the deck in a glistening mass of neon blues, greens, silver, and gold with specks of crimson red everywhere. The mayhem continued for at least an hour before they moved on. We caught 777 pounds of fish that day, so seven became my lucky number. I occasionally filled in for another mate before moving to California when Mom married a Marine. A job at Spencer’s Gifts in the mall kept me busy after school, but I wanted to be a fisherman. A very long cross-country bus ride brought me to stay with Gran for the summer so I could be a mate again. I moved back permanently to be a full-time fisherman after graduation.
Commercial fishing helped fill in gaps between charters and get me through the winter. Going offshore for two or three days to catch as many fish as possible was like a dream come true. We caught all kinds of awesome fish including some huge grouper, sharks, marlin, and tuna. There were epic battles lasting for hours with mixed results. We lost a giant Bluefin Tuna along with our Christmas payday after hours of a grueling fight in heavy seas, leaving me feeling like the Little Drummer Boy with no gift to give. My first Blue Marlin was a wonderful birthday present one year. We didn’t see that marlin until the end while others spent almost as much time fighting in midair as underwater. It never gets old seeing such immense and powerful fish full of fight and flashing colors in their natural environment.
Constantly changing scenery made for some awesome views while we fished. There were calm days with glorious sunrises and sunsets blending seamlessly into a mirrorlike ocean. Autumn’s harvest moon would slowly rise reflecting the setting sun’s last rays in waning shades of rusty orange until it finally pulled free from the ocean in an elongated illusion. Sometimes we turned off all lights on moonless nights to admire heaven’s celestial glory. Lights shining on the water attracted some unique creatures to watch. Squid gracefully glided by flashing intricate patterns before darting away in the blink of an eye. Tiny sailfish seemed to dance with delight in the spotlight. Flying fish were especially drawn to light when it was rough, often landing in the boat. An errant flyer came through an open window hitting me in the chest during dinner one night. It became bait. The darkness could also be intimidating with ships passing too close for comfort and unseen obstacles in our path.
We experienced weather from every kind of rain Gump described to dense fog, extreme heat, and bitter cold. Hailstones looked like machine gun fire hitting the water and sounded like the windows would bust out. Striking displays of nature’s power dazzled as vivid streaks of light rippled through the sky sending rolling thunder echoing across the sea or when pulsing bolts of energy instantly produced powerful percussion felt deep within. One day a waterspout formed off our bow and was over us before we could move. I went out on deck to feel the thrilling fury of a tempest wind. That was exhilarating, to say the least.
There was always something interesting to see at sea. Huge Ocean Sunfish would mosey along with one long fin cutting the surface as they soaked up the sun. They are unusual fish that look like something bit their tail off. There were rumors they could leap clear out of the water, but I didn’t believe it until seeing it. We were entertained by dolphins and an occasional whale that would jump for what appeared to be sheer joy. Pods of dolphins often played in the pressure wave off our bow, surging down it before leaping high in the air and darting back within inches of the hull. Great flocks of Gannets gathered around schools of bait to divebomb the frantic little fish with incredible speed in rapid succession. That was always a good sign for Bluefin Tuna. There were tiny Stormy Petrels we call Jesus Birds because they walk on water. Tired petrels sometimes rested on the boat after storms as we offered fresh water and snacks. One Jesus Bird landed in the palm of my outstretched hand, helping foster a growing spiritual connection with nature.
Commercial fishing was in my blood. I stopped doing charters to focus on supplying seafood for markets. We had a small skiff called Salty Cindy in honor of my lovely and ever-supportive wife. I worked that boat in the sound when it was too rough for offshore fishing. One year I was on the water almost every single day. Even checked crab pots during snow and tropical storms, mostly for the experience. As our children grew older, I wanted more control over my time so I could spend it raising them. It was time to give up going offshore for a while.
The kids learned to drive Salty Cindy and went with me to check nets or collect conchs on sandbars. Sometimes we would camp on Shackleford Banks and take pictures of the wild horses living there. My son was putting up the tent one afternoon while I set nets when a swarm of mosquitoes began to mercilessly attack us. We talked about going home just as hundreds of dragonflies arrived and started eating the mosquitoes. We could see them battling in midair and before long the mosquitoes left. We went on to explore an old graveyard and find the horses. Fishing was slow, but I remember thinking those memories we made were worth more than any boatload of fish.
Having better control of precious time also allowed me to spend more of it with my grandmothers during weekly visits to share a meal. They both loved seafood, so we often cooked what I caught. Watching them cook as a kid cultivated a culinary curiosity for experimenting with different cuisines. They both embraced the joy of cooking using a secret ingredient that makes everything better, love. Time spent with them as an adult offered chances to hear old stories from their youth. Granny’s Dad is my closest connection to a commercial fishing lineage. There was a rare twinkle in tired eyes when she told me about her favorite fishing memory. Young Granny was rowing the boat while Great-Grandpa set nets one night as playful otters disturbed tiny bioluminescent plankton, making meandering trails of glowing light. The joy and wonder she felt that magical night was clear in my sight. Her story lives on long after passing.
Photography was a fun hobby that developed into another line of work selling prints of nautical scenes at local shops and festivals. The kids helped at festivals where we would trade with other vendors for cool collectibles and sample some tasty treats. We were blessed with the best kids ever. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to have spent so much time with them. There are thousands of photos that can instantly take me back to those special places and times we shared. Taking pictures gave us a good excuse to walk on the beach, take sunset boat rides, or rush out to see a rainbow. Experiencing nature with kids rekindles youthful exuberance that fades with age. It is good to live a life worth photographing.
The chance to buy a boat for going offshore eventually came along. It felt great being out on the open ocean again. Taking my wife and son made it even better than before. They can both catch more fish than most people. We had a blast catching all kinds of different things including the occasional angry octopus that squirts ink and grabs hold of anything with incredible suction trying to escape. Gas prices began creeping up, so we started looking for a more fuel-efficient boat. A perfect one for us came along at the perfect time. We called it Reel Job because people used to ask me when I was getting a “real job”. The reply had always been that I was working hard to avoid that. The bigger boat with bigger bills required more work with more pressure to produce. Things got easier with time. I was living the American dream until federal fishery managers decided to help.