The Lobster Pound – Part 2: First Haul

On the last Saturday of the season, Joan hauled the pots by herself.

Angus stood on the wharf and watched. He had said he would not go out. He had said it would be good for her. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his heart in his mouth, as the Sally Ann chugged back into the harbour, riding low in the water.

She cut the engine, swung the boat to the dock with a neat, practised turn, and held up a crate. Inside, a dozen lobsters waved their claws in indignation.

"I caught them!"

"You did."

"All by myself!"

"With a little help from the sea."

She jumped to the wharf, flushed, windburnt, grinning, and flung her arms round his neck. He lifted her off her feet and spun her, once, with a roar of laughter. Gulls scattered. A fisherman on the next boat whistled.

Afterwards, they sat on upturned traps at the end of the wharf with two bottles of cold beer, watching the sun set over the harbour. The sky blazed orange, then rose. The boats rocked at their moorings. The smell of salt and tar hung in the air.

"You're a fisherman," said Angus.

"I'm a schoolteacher with a boat."

"Same thing, mostly."

"Can I ask you something?" said Joan.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Angus?"

He took off his cap, slowly. His face, in the sunset, was lined and tender. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must teach me to read poetry."

"That would be a pleasure."

"I'm not sure I'll like it."

"You will."

She kissed him, gently, a hand against his weathered cheek. He kissed her back with a slow, trembling gentleness, tasting of beer and sea. The harbour glowed gold. A gull sang out overhead, and the Sally Ann knocked softly against the dock.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Joan. "Very green."

The Sally Ann has a second name now, painted on the stern in careful letters: and Angus.

More mature romance stories: Autumn in Quebec · The Quilting Circle · The Silver Ballroom