After spending a month in the Show-Me-State of Missouri visiting family and friends, I returned to the sandy beaches of the east coast in search of a summer job to keep me occupied until the beginning of school.

I was living on the Outer Banks of North Carolina at the southern tip of Roanoke Island in the little fishing village of Wanchese where I taught a combination fifth and sixth grade class at Wanchese Christian Academy.

Since there weren’t many job opportunities available other than working in the fishing industry, the pastor – Rev. Johnny Chase, Sr. – of the church affiliated with the school helped me acquire a position at one of the local fish houses.

We were up to our gills in freshwater fish nearly every day as a steady stream of local fishermen returned from their extended fishing expeditions up and down the eastern seaboard bringing boatloads of fish with them.

The fish house was always filled with the chatter of excited young men talking about how they couldn’t wait to brave the wild forces of the ocean and the tall tales of the older men discussing days long past.

However, when a boat docked in the harbor, the chatter lowered to a hush as everyone hurried back to their work stations and began preparations for shipping another catch of fish to the local markets.

The exhausted sailors would slowly begin the process of loading their catch onto a moving ramp, which transported the fish into the belly of the fish house.

Forming an assembly line on both sides of a moving beltway extending deep inside the spacious building, the trained veterans picked out the defective fish before the scaly sea creatures reached the end of the line where they were dropped into an over-sized scale.

Once a certain weight was attained, the freshwater fish were dumped into a nearby crate and covered with a thick layer of ice before the wooden box was nailed shut and loaded onto a waiting truck to be hauled off to local restaurants and other distribution centers.

Wearing a pair of black rubber boots, I was the one standing in a puddle of ice and water at the end of the assembly line waiting to dump another shovel full of ice into the crate with the smelly grotesque looking fish.

For someone who had never done that type of work before, it was rather difficult to keep the ice flowing as fast as the fish were being dumped. I could barely keep up the pace.

Once, after throwing a shovel full of ice on the slimy fish, I slipped on a piece of the frozen liquid and lost my balance. Somehow managing to twist my body a full 180 degrees, I landed in the crate with the extremely rank aquatic vertebrate.

I was fit to be tied.

My eyes grew as big as saucers when I looked down and saw a fish flopping around in my lap. It was still alive. I screamed as I threw it into the air hitting one of my fellow workers in the back of the head.

After everyone stopped to look at what all the commotion was about, the roar of laughter could be heard as it reverberated throughout the large room when they saw me trying to pry myself from the crate of fish.

I was never so glad to see the workday come to an end.

After the last boat pulled up to the docks and the final fish was packed in a crate, the boys, most of which were high school students, and I headed down to the end of the pier to go swimming in the harbor.

The first time we went swimming, I wasn’t sure what to do because I didn’t have a bathing suit. One of the boys told me we didn’t need them as he took off his trousers stripping down to his boxers.

The unique thing about Wanchese was the fact that every male from age two to 82 wore boxers, everyone except me. Sporting a pair of whitey tighties, I felt a little embarrassed removing my outer garments with all eyes on me.

I felt a little uncomfortable standing around talking to a bunch of half-naked guys while jumping into the fish infested waters at the end of the dock.

But then I thought, “It’s just us guys.” That is until I realized a popular restaurant, known for its delicious seafood platters, across the other side of the harbor – Fisherman’s Wharf – had a bird’s-eye view of the pier from which we swam.

It wasn’t long after that until I finally adapted to the island natives custom and purchased a few boxers of my own. However, I wanted to rethink my decision the time my drawers came completely off upon diving into the murky waters.

Their was a full moon out; and it wasn’t even dark.

After seeing my bloomers floating nearby, I quickly snatched them up wiggling myself back into the baggy underwear as a few of the guys snickered in my direction.

One particular day, some of the young men were swimming back and forth across the harbor. Thinking it looked like fun, I decided to join in on their amusement.

At the time of my nonsensical decision, the stretch across the harbor didn’t seem like such a great distance. But when I got halfway across, my arms became very tired, especially from carrying the ice back and forth all day.

I turned over on my back to float a while until I regained some strength.

As I was floating with my eyes closed, I was startled by the sound of a fog horn. Wiping the water from my eyes, I realized I was in the path of an oncoming watercraft.

Not knowing what to do, I continued swimming to the opposite side of the harbor. After swimming the remaining distance like an Olympic swimmer, I couldn’t possibly swim back to the other side.

Luckily, one of my friends had a motor scooter and was willing to ride around the massive harbor to bring me back to where my car was parked.

I may not be afraid to try anything once. But I can tell you one thing for certain, I never tried to swim across the harbor again. Because I probably would not have lived to tell about it.

Either that, or I might have been arrested for indecent exposure.

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By Mark S. Price

Contributing columnist

Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton.