Whenever we pull into a port, I always like to get to know the local foods.  I want to meet the people at the markets and see what they are cooking. It is my way of soaking up culture. In Savannah that meant shrimp.

It was early morning as we cruised the river of marsh grass. A local fisherman had agreed to take me out on his shrimp boat to see how they were caught. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of large live oaks. They looked like they were about to topple from the weight of the Spanish moss hanging from their limbs. A cool breeze blew off the water, rustling the palm fronds and causing me to don my sweater.

Bo-Nita was a fifty-two-foot trawler.  Like most shrimp boats, she was rugged and well worked in appearance, her wooden hull battered from hauling equipment.