Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/528216
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 6 5 o r i z o n s H Roger Pinckney A tangled tale from the Carolina Lowcountry where writing runs deep in the blood. his eyes with his right hand. He points with his left toward a riffle on the sea, swings the tiller towards it. He nods at an oarsman who quietly pads barefoot to retrieve a harpoon. One oar-stroke, two, the harpooner winds up, the missile flies true, and the water erupts in wild, bloody froth. A line rattles after the harpoon and everybody stands clear, 'cause a loop around leg or arm is a snatch to certain death. Five seconds, ten, the harpooner gingerly pulls a loop from the bottom of the diminishing coil and makes a deft turn around the bow cleat. The line twangs, the cleat smokes and stinks, and the boat takes off with a sudden lurch, almost catapulting the helmsman over the stern. Faster, faster, the skiff on a plane now, throwing a wake of white water. The oarsmen lay their oars in the bilge, whoop, holler, and hold on. One man loses H alf-moon of July, a low tide at noon, glaring bright sun and nary a breeze to ruffle the waters of Port Royal Sound. Piney islands shimmer in distant heat waves, surf grumbles far offshore while the whole world waits for the tide change, for God to catch His breath. The slightest splash of an oar upon the water, then another. A 20-foot skiff gliding along, cypress, fastened with copper, she's beautiful, deep, long and narrow, rigged for sail but the sails are furled. Six good men at the oars. The oars are hand- carved from oak and the locks are oak pegs driven tight into oak gunnels. The oars are muffled with rags and gunny sacks. There is no sound except the whisper of the occasional oar-wash and the soft grunt of an oarsman. A man stands upon the stern seat, the tiller in his hand. He wears a broad-brimmed hat and he shades his hat to the wind, but doesn't seem to mind. It's 1842 and William Elliott has just harpooned another Devil Fish. D evil Fish, we call them mantas these days. Manta birostris, 30 feet across, 3,000 pounds. Not much went to waste. Meat and leather, oil for shoe and harness, scraps for chickens and hogs. And meanwhile there was fine sport for all hands. William Elliott was an aristocratic antebellum planter and these men were his slaves. Not field hands, mind you. These Gullah boatmen were among the best in the world and were treated like African nobility, which they were. With skills honed on the far side of the T his unusual illustration is from William Elliott's Carolina Sports by Land and Water published in 1846.