Bucket butts and the finger

Looking up from my station at the corner of the lot, the sun had burned off most of the fog bank and was sneaking through a ray or two on to the blacktop. Instantly it seemed we were being enveloped by some spiritual realm, the wet ground drifting smoke from the underworld, and bald eagles flocking to the trees at the top of the hill. It was all a beautiful and surreal moment, bucked by the slap in the face of a slight breeze wafting the scent of BioDry. There's nothing like the smell of rotten fish guts in the morning.

Four's grandfather was the person responsible for teaching us anything we needed to know about anything. He was a short and solid Native man with only small spears of white sticking out of his shock of wild straight hair. His brown hands were working-man weathered, thick and callused, but surprisingly nimble when it came to detail work, like tying flies or crafting sculptures out of driftwood and beachcombing flotsam. His patience was extraordinary as he taught us how to tie and tighten a clove hitch, measure within a millimeter by eye, and keep the same strand of twine rolling the length of the patch.

For small repairs, we'd just crawl around on our knees to dart in a knot or two within the mesh. For more time consuming repairs, or to relieve knees and backs, Gramps built this easel-like structure to hang sections of net on and we'd sit on overturned buckets for hours. When you'd finally rise, you could still feel the bucket ring embedded into your flesh. "Bucket Butt!" was the interjection shouted quite often as the either affliction struck, or someone just needed a break.

(I wonder if the street musicians in the city with drumsticks performing tribal beats while using the same white buckets have or suffer from the same term. If ever I go back there, and see them, I'll have to remember to ask.)

"Bucket Butt!" shouted Four, as he meandered over to the net tote. "Might as well pull the end of this out anyway."

He grabbed the tote that had maybe 30 feet left of gillnet within it and pulled it backwards. Reaching the dirty plastic bottom, he set the tote aside and inspected for any damaged pieces. This part was pretty clean as far as repairs go, the ends seem to get less battle scars, the exact middle is where the majority of holes appear. No one has been able to explain to me why that is. Scanning over the segment, pulling out pieces of sea debris, leaves and whatever else settled to the bottom of the tote, Four shouted to us excitedly, "whoa... check this out!!"

Dashing quickly over the three of us hover in a circle around Four's find. "So what," says J, "just a chunk of fish spine."

"Nope," Four states in a matter-of-fact tone, "what we have here is not a fish spine, fish don't have fingernails."