Noodling

My children say I tell the stories of ten men. But I divide my story into four parts. The first is youth.

My youth began one night, when I was spread eagle on the floor of the Albemarle River. A strand of algae tickled my ankle. It had the width and texture of a dried-together spaghetti cluster as it danced across the exposed skin between the tongue of my tennis shoe and cuff of my rolled-up pant leg. My hands were occupied or I would've scratched it. My left hand was surveying the slippery riverbed floor for a catfish nest: a deep hole in the mud smoothed over by the quick whipping tail of a female flat-head catfish. My right hand was planted beside my right hip, as firmly planted as a boy's hand can be in a muddy riverbed.

I was scanning the river bottom with my left hand when the river rippled, throwing musty water in my mouth and testing my ability to suppress a cough. A boat motor hopped across the water surface, approaching at a speed that sounded uncomfortably fast. I could see a lightpost mounted on the boat's bow, but it was unlit and I only saw it as a shadow against the moonlit backdrop. The boat's edged nose headed towards me at a sharp angle, opening wide the water between us. It seemed to head straight at me, but it's easy to feel like a motor boat is heading straight at you when you're wading anywhere within a country mile of its approach.

I ducked my head, careful not to move too quickly and alert the boaters to my presence. The boat slowed and I felt the diminishment of its progress as a series of large waves slapped against my face. Between the waves, I heard voices inside the boat.

"Too heavy," a man said. "I can't get the damned thing up."

"Here," said another man. "Grab it by the bottom."

A heavy object plunged into the water and there was a pause before the recoiling splash on the river's surface. At that moment, my left hand sunk into a hole in the mud, a deep hole with width to match.

My hand-fishing experience was not yet commensurate with my eagerness, born of teenage naivety and its accompaying notoriety pangs. A more experienced noodler might've expected bad things in this hole I'd found, with its slimy sides and mud-congested interior. But I didn't appreciate the predictive qualities of texture in a river floor cubbyhole. A catfish churns her tail inside her nest, smoothing the hole's sides by sweeping sand and algae off the eggs and out of the hole.

This was no catfish nest. If I'd been underwater with goggles on, I would've seen my attacker rear back. I might've carefully retracted my hand as the snake vibrated its tail and flattened its body to appear larger, in hopes of averting the need to attack my darting fingers. If we'd been on land, the snake might've emitted musk from the scent glands on its tail. As it was, my head was above water and I never saw the snake's mouth open. I never saw its oral lining peel back, white as cotton, that soft breathable natural fiber from which that blasted snake's name originates and upon which my region's economy was once founded. Our cotton heritage is probably the reason North Carolinians say "cottonmouth," although I've heard other folks call it everything from blunt-tail moccasin to mangrove rattler, water viper, stub-tail, swamp lion, trap jack, true horn, rusty mokeson, water pilot to just plain gaper.

One stab into the meaty web of my left hand and I lurched back, my eyes wide as whip cream dollups, and I hopped out of the water stiff enough to make a good photo in Sports Illustrated or National Geographic if those boaters had any illumination or a camera on board.

It turned out the boat's light did work because it flashed on as soon as I stepped ashore. By the time I reached my skateboard, it was too late to go back for my bucket of two catfish. The boaters reached shore and I heard two plops as one hopped into a muddy spot on the river bank.

I had a good lead on the man chasing me when I heard a blast. If I'd looked backwards, I would've seen a spark from his raised gun as he ran uphill after me. But I didn't look back. I skated when I reached paved road and then ran where the paving gave way to gravel again. But running was difficult as the swelling spread across the back of my hand. The flesh seemed to darken with each pulsing throb. Breathing became labored and numbness spread to my chest and legs.

I didn't know where I was running. My father had an acute disgust for the river, especially hand fishermen, so I couldn't go home with a cottonmouth stab in my hand and my clothes wet with the vinegary smell of riverwater.

"A cavity of depravity," Dad described the river, "not worth the sacrifice of personal dignity."

Even as a kid, Dad didn't believe in freshwater mermaids. "Two things about mermaids," he told me. "One, they don't exist. Two, if such a species did exist--and mind you, they don't--then don't you think these magical creatues would find a more idyllic swimming pit than the Albemarle River? The mill run-off enough would drive me from Copeland County."

Dad lost his brother to a noodling accident. Uncle Dan was a high schooler, noodling for a mermaid tunnel in the river's catfish nests when he was yanked underwater. His feet were being held by two friends, but the authorities figured a sturdy-gilled catfish was strong enough to jerk Dan out of their startled grasp. The authorities waited several weeks before pronouncing my Uncle Dan dead. With his disappearance, I lost the only family member who believed in freshwater mermaids. And I wasn't born yet.

Dad said he hadn't been to the river since that night. I believed him. I also believed when he said I'd get no help at home if I was hurt hand fishing for mermaids. So I skateboarded to Dr. Barnhill's at three hours til dawn.