Bait Run Bloodlines
Sixteen-year-old Rayne O'Neal has six weeks to save her family's livelihood on the salt-scoured waters of North Carolina's Pamlico Sound. When a monopolistic cannery syndicate revokes her ailing grandfather's thirty-year commercial slip lease at Stumpy Point, Rayne refuses to walk away. Her only legal recourse is the Soundside Derby—a grueling forty-two-day commercial menhaden tournament where the highest certified tonnage secures the municipal lease and protects her home.
Armed with an aging twenty-foot fiberglass skiff and her grandfather's tarred-cotton purse net, Rayne must out-fish the cannery's sponsored flagship, helmed by gifted apprentice skipper Luke Midgett. To survive the shallow peat guts and violent nor'easter gales, Rayne pushes deep into treacherous shoal channels where heavy industrial vessels cannot follow.
As corporate scale tampering and harbor sabotage threaten both crews, fierce rivalry transforms into an unyielding test of craft integrity and maritime survival. Across boiling shoals and roaring inlet tide rips, every gallon of fuel burned and every pound of fish landed demands absolute precision. Rayne must outmaneuver corporate greed before the final horn sounds and Slip 14 is lost forever.
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The primer bulb on the Johnson 115 was stiff as cured tire rubber, but Rayne O'Neal pumped it until the black nitrile resisted under her thumb. The smell of raw two-stroke gas cut sharp through the low-tide reek of dead eelgrass and cold estuarine silt. It was four-thirty in the morning at Stumpy Point, twenty-six minutes before first light, and the wind had died down to a flat, sour drift out of the southwest.
Low water. The kind that exposed the rotting heart of every juniper bulkhead along the canal.
Ray wiped her knuckle across the carburetor housing, feeling for the cold seep of an unseated gasket. Monofilament burns crisscrossed her palms in dull white ridges, healed over twice since the gillnet season opened in March, but the salt air kept the skin pulled tight and raw. She checked the fuel line clamps. Tight. She reached under the cowling, cracked the bleeder screw with a dull eight-millimeter wrench, and watched the milky foam of trapped air hiss out against the brass threads before the gasoline ran clean and amber.
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