My Father's Marine-Band Radio

The radio sat on a shelf above the workbench in our garage on Sanibel, and it was always on. It broadcast, on the marine band, the conversations of the shrimpers coming in at dawn, the recreational fishermen calling for a tow, the Coast Guard reading, in a voice as flat as a Sunday, the weather. My father listened to it while he worked. My father listened to it while he ate. When my mother finally, in 1987, insisted that the radio not be on during dinner, my father built a second radio and installed it, discreetly, in the pantry.

There are three frequencies I remember. The first is the shrimpers, who spoke a language of numbers and coordinates that I never fully learned. The second is a man named Charlie, who came on every Thursday at four to read the fishing report in a voice that sounded, to me, like the definition of adulthood. The third is my father's own voice, which came on, exactly once, in the summer of 1984, when our boat lost its engine and he had to call for help. He was calm. He gave our position. He said the name of the boat, which was named after my mother. Then he signed off, and turned to me, and said: that is how you do that.