There's Blood on the Moon Tonight by Bryn Roar Page A

calm spring morning. The sea as flat as Lizard Lake back home on Moon. Rusty had the wheel, while Ham hoisted in the catch. He emptied the net of its bounty on the deck and prepared to separate the flotsam of the sea from the shrimp and money fish. They employed no other mates, so they often did the work of four men, on what was the biggest shrimp boat in Beaufort County.
    Ham had taken over his dad’s old spot on the Beaufort docks, right beside the very same rednecks who’d once taunted Jessie—now over a year in his grave. God rest his soul. Buried right beside his beloved Reva, in Moon’s only cemetery, deep in the heart of the piney woods. Nobody dared kick any of his catch back into the drink! For as Ham liked to say, when driven to anger: “Hear me well! I ain’t half the Christian my daddy was! I ain’t got but one cheek to turn and I won’t be turning it for the likes of you!”
                  Ham, usually a cautious man, was thinking on this curious turn of events instead of the job at hand when calamity struck. Unaware that a line had coiled around his ankle, he dropped the huge net back into the drink—only to find himself being dragged right along after it.
    It happened so fast Ham didn’t even have a chance to call out for help. Just enough time to hold his breath before the Atlantic swallowed him whole.
    He tried untangling his foot but it was no use. If the boat had been idle he might have stood a chance, but with the line pulled tight from the surging seas , Ham couldn’t make any headway with the knot.
    As the heavy net sank ever lower into the briny depths, the light coming from the surface dimmed…
    Ham couldn’t recall how he got back on the deck of the Betty Anne. By then he was already technically dead.
    The first thing Ham saw when he came to was the worried face of Joe Rusty, looking down at him.
    Despite the fact he hadn’t witnessed Rusty’s heroics, nor would his friend talk about it in any detail ( It was nothin’, Hambone. I didn’t see you on deck, and I just got a feeling. So I pulled up the net, pushed some salt water out your lungs, and here you are, boyo! Easy peasy, teasy squeezey), Ham could still picture it just as clear as day.
    The second time Joe Rusty saved Ham’s life the Atlantic was showing a lot more attitude. The morning run from the docks of Beaufort had been mild and uneventful. Not so their return trip. The blue bitch showed her nasty side without warning. The clouds above her head turning black in the wink of an eye. With the violent crash of a lightning bolt, rain pelted horizontally into the windshield of the Betty Anne’s wheelhouse. Rusty fought the sudden heavy seas at the wheel, while Ham radioed his wife to let her know they would be late getting home. He told Betty Anne to pass the on news to Shayna O’Hara.
    He was racking the radio’s mike, when through the windshield he saw a line had given way on their crab traps. Three of the wooden traps skittered wildly across the deck, hit the port side, and flipped overboard. The rest were a wave away from following them over the side.
    “Leave ‘em be, Hambone!” Rusty had shouted, even as his thickheaded friend was heading out the hatch.
    The crab traps weren’t more than six bucks apiece of wood, chicken wire and galvanized nails; but Ham, like his daddy before him, couldn’t bear to part with any of his hard-earned money. Neglecting to tie a safety line on, he dashed out on deck and grabbed the last two traps before they could skitter overboard.
    He was holding them up triumphantly for Rusty to see, when a large comber hit the boat broadside.
    Everything not tied down on deck, including Samuel J. Huggins, was washed overboard.
    Once again, Ham ended up comatose before he could witness Rusty O’Hara’s heroics. And once again, his stalwart friend refused to speak of it. This go-around Ham couldn’t picture the details of the improbable rescue.
    The last thing he recalled was hitting