Beach Descriptive Writing
One hot, humid, August morning around seven a.m., the smell of the lake water had already filled my nostrils. The temperature was already in the eighties and my lip had developed a fine sweat mustache. I knew it was going to be a hot day. We had arrived at the landing site fifteen minutes early; this allowed me time to get my gear organized and wonder the quiet landing site. As I stepped out of the truck, the door squeaked open. I gave it a heavy, handed push to close, as it was old and didn’t always shut the first try. The slam echoed through the deserted park. In my hand, I firmly grasped my go to rod and reel; it showed its age, as the emblem was slightly sun faded and the paint was chipped in some spots. This had been the rod that I had all my big
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However, I knew that this was a Striper fishing trip and my open face would not be needed. As we approached the dock, there were other boaters loading up. The small talk and laughter projected across the water; as well as, the occasional loud thud of someone dropping a cooler or piece of gear. The smell of bait fish and engine exhaust filled the air. I noticed that there was one boat that stood out; it was a classic fishing boat, that appeared a little ways off from the dock, gently rocking as the rippling waves crashed in the sides of it. The captain of the boat leaned on the captain’s chair while drinking what looked to be a thermos of coffee. He was skinny, wore glasses and had the build of a long distance runner. Once he saw my father and I advancing down the gradual paved slope to the dock, he quickly put his thermos down and greeted us. The captain cleared his throat it sounded as if sandpaper was being scratched together. He greeted us with a friendly “good morning”. My father politely replied back with a “good morning”. Once acquainted, I scurried and loaded my equipment on the boat, said goodbye to my father, and then we were off. He floored the engine sending huge rippling waves
However, I knew that this was a Striper fishing trip and my open face would not be needed. As we approached the dock, there were other boaters loading up. The small talk and laughter projected across the water; as well as, the occasional loud thud of someone dropping a cooler or piece of gear. The smell of bait fish and engine exhaust filled the air. I noticed that there was one boat that stood out; it was a classic fishing boat, that appeared a little ways off from the dock, gently rocking as the rippling waves crashed in the sides of it. The captain of the boat leaned on the captain’s chair while drinking what looked to be a thermos of coffee. He was skinny, wore glasses and had the build of a long distance runner. Once he saw my father and I advancing down the gradual paved slope to the dock, he quickly put his thermos down and greeted us. The captain cleared his throat it sounded as if sandpaper was being scratched together. He greeted us with a friendly “good morning”. My father politely replied back with a “good morning”. Once acquainted, I scurried and loaded my equipment on the boat, said goodbye to my father, and then we were off. He floored the engine sending huge rippling waves