Mountain Top(240)

“Did your parents ever take long trips like this?” I asked.

“Maybe a couple of hundred miles or so in a day. There are roads in California unlike anyplace else. The views are incredible.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes.”

We popped over a bump that made me hit my knees against the top of the sidecar.

“Sorry,” Zach said. “That one snuck up on me.”

We came to Tybee Creek, an indistinct waterway that meandered through the landward side of a large marsh. The tops of the marsh grass rippled slightly in the breeze. A few white egrets stood motionless in the water. The tide was going out, exposing mussel beds at the edges of the watery channels. Expensive-looking homes lined the edge of the marsh on both the island and the mainland. We crossed a bridge onto Tybee Island.

“We’ll stop near the main pier,” Zach said.

We passed through residential areas with sandy driveways guarded by dune grass and into an aging business district. Several people on the sidewalks pointed in our direction as we passed. It made me feel special. We turned down a narrow street and parked in front of a meter. Zach turned off the engine. I climbed as gracefully as I could from the sidecar and removed my helmet. My skirt was wrinkled.

“That was fun,” I said before Zach asked me. “You’re a good driver.”

“Thanks, but you drive a car; you ride a motorcycle.”

Zach put on a pair of dark sunglasses. He locked the helmets to the motorcycle with a thin steel cable.

“You don’t need any money,” he said. “Bring your bag or I can lock it in the sidecar.”

“Lock it up. All I want is my hat.”

There was a cover that slid over the sidecar, turning it into a storage compartment. Without the helmet over my face, I could smell a tinge of salt in the air. The morning breeze was coming in from the ocean. I put on my hat.

“Ocean views, this way,” Zach said, retying his hair in a tight ponytail.

Two- and three-story frame houses with rooms to rent crowded against the sidewalk. There weren’t many people on the street.

“It will be crowded here by noon,” Zach said.

After a couple of blocks the street made a turn to the left, and I could see the blue glint of ocean in the distance. There were seagulls riding the air currents. Sand scattered the sidewalk. The street ended at a modest sand dune. Looking to the right, I could see the pier stretching its thick finger past the surf into deeper water. Tiny figures of fishermen stood at the end of the pier. I took a deep breath, enjoyed the sensation for a few seconds, and exhaled.

The pier was thirty feet above the water and wide enough for two cars to drive side by side. We passed fishermen using long, sturdy poles. Coolers of bait shrimp and fish rested beside the poles. Most of the fishermen were shirtless, tanned, and smoking cigarettes. I kept my eyes directed toward the water.

“What are they fishing for?” I asked Zach.

“Fish.”

“What kinds?”

“Saltwater varieties. I’m not an expert about pier fishing.”

We passed several black men with poles in the water. “Moses could tell me what kind of fish live in these waters,” I said.

“Who?”

“Moses Jones. Our client charged with trespassing.”

“Maybe, but as I remember he also sees faces in the water.”

We reached the end of the pier. Here were the serious fishermen, each with multiple poles. I watched one man bait four hooks on a single line and fling it into the air. It plopped into the water far below. Nobody seemed to be catching any fish. Gulls cried out as they swooped down, landing on the pier to scoop up bits of discarded baitfish and shrimp.

The pier gave a panoramic view of the beach. When I was eighteen, I’d traveled to the east coast of Florida for a mission outreach sponsored by our church and waded briefly in the Atlantic early one morning before the sunbathers wearing nothing more than brightly colored underwear made their appearance. Even that brief contact with the sea intrigued me. Like a mountain panorama, the ocean revealed the expanse of creation—a vista so big and unfathomable that only an omnipotent God could have fashioned it. With the tide going out the strand was broad, the waves small. Zach and I found an empty spot along the north side of the pier to watch.

“Are there many shells on this beach?” I asked. I couldn’t see anyone stooping over.

“No. It’s sand, sun, and water.”

“The one other time I was at the ocean, I loved collecting shells,” I said. “I have a jarful on a shelf in my bedroom at home. Most are broken, but there is still beauty in them.”

Zach nodded his head. “People are like that too.”