BRANDYWINE, VA.—The Virginia Coast Guard is searching throughout the Chesapeake Bay for a local fisherman after his boat was discovered abandoned on the southern shore of Gwynn’s Island.
Henry McCabe, 35, is the owner of the 1974 Chesapeake deadrise. The boat was discovered run aground by a passerby, who noted signs of recent occupancy, including food and children’s clothes. Attempts to locate McCabe have been unsuccessful.
Spokesperson Sally Campbell said, “No distress calls were made to our current knowledge, and no hazardous weather was present. So far there are no signs of foul play.”
The discovery of the abandoned boat deepens the mystery around McCabe, who was a person of interest in the disappearance of his 8-month-old son, Skyler, in 2018. No charges are being filed at this time.
Matthews County Fire, Poquoson Fire, and the Virginia Resources Commission are aiding in the search.
Give me your hand.
Such a simple invitation. I’ve asked it many times of many people over the last year. Folks tend to forget how intimate the act is, how vulnerable you become when you surrender your palm to another. Especially to someone like me. The tender flesh of your wrist, the meat of your palm, the peninsulas of your fingers. Their secrets hidden from you but exposed to me.
I’ll guide you there, but first you need to...
Give me your hand.
The Brandywine Farmers Market has been around since I was a little girl leapfrogging over the headstones in the cemetery behind Shiloh Baptist while my mother bought her greens. Even longer than that. Every Saturday at nine on the nose, the church’s parking lot is overtaken by elderly entrepreneurs ready to hock their homemade wares.
Each parking space hosts its own stall. Farmers pull in well before the sun even thinks about rising, just so they can snag those hallowed spots up front where the foot traffic flows freely. Truck beds become rusted cornucopias of fresh tomatoes, sweet potatoes, ears of corn sheathed in leathery green husks, cucumbers covered in a fine dust of dirt, broccoli, zucchini, pumpkins, strawberries, and baskets of blueberries. Some even offer jars of pickled okra and peach preserves.
The local fishermen bring their bounty from Chesapeake Bay: blue-shells, oysters, herring, shrimp, mussels, clams, glass-eyed shad—all packed on beds of ice that slowly melt into a briny broth as the hours slip by and the humidity thickens.
Hand-painted signs line the highway for a mile out on either side of the peninsula, luring in passersby with promises of local produce and seafood. People who call Brandywine home still live off the land and water.
I live off your hands. The lines in your skin. The folds in your flesh. A palm reading sets you back twenty bucks. There’s tarot, too. I provide a full- or half-deck reading. Aura cleansings.
This is as close to a career as I’ve got. Long as I can recall, there’s always been a palm reader at the farmers market. Used to be my gram. She’d pull out the same tattered tarot deck and let you cut it anyway you liked. I’m not entirely sure why she even did it—it wasn’t like she was actually psychic—other than it got her out of the house on the weekends. I think she simply got a kick out of spinning yarns for a couple quarters, getting the kids all giddy over their destiny—You’ll live a long, happy life, hon...You’ll meet the fella of your dreams, darling...I spot good tidings heading your way, sugar...
It was simple to pick up where she left off after she passed. Runs in our family, I’ll tell any customer curious about my bona fides. I slip on the same boho tie-back dress with batwing sleeves, armoring myself with enough bracelets that my wrists jangle, ting-ting. My work attire, compliments of our local Goodwill. Got to dress the part.