Three to Be Read

by Philip Wylie

  Just because they’re nice people and full of beans. It’s a question of a way of life perhaps different from what mine can ever be—an attitude—society—people—a million things. I could marry her—sure I could. Tonight—and in the face of her family. We all know that.

  But—no matter what I did in my work—even if I ever do something valuable—I’ll always be the freaky brother-in-law—the dope—the dithering one who gets helpless when things are exciting. I’ll always trump Marylin’s ace, as they say.”

  It was Des who spoke, then—in a kindly voice. “You’re doing better every day, Ram. No fooling.”

  “Ram.” The doctor savored that. He laughed a little. “Maybe so, Des. But I’m so jittery, the way things are, that I haven’t any confidence about anything I do. And that’s not all. I’m proud of my folks. Medical missionaries—in a hell-hole. It was tough—the first dozen years—mighty tough for them. They stuck. They’re old-fashioned—and they made me that way—but I’m proud of them and proud of Poaki. It’s quite a place. The Brushes will never understand that.”

  Silence again. The somber silence of assent-or something near it.

  “So I’m leaving.”

  Then Crunch said, “You love the girl, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Stick around, then.”

  His head shook.

  “Ram. You don’t quit easy, do you?”

  “I think not.”

  “Well don’t, now. I pretty nearly gave up my gal—several times. We’ve been married a lot of years, now. Got a boy—a real one. And a gal-brand new. Nice house. A piece of a fishing camp in the Keys. This boat and a good business in her. Came from not quitting. ”

  “I’ll just make some new flub, if I stay… .”

  “So what?”

  Ramsay thought for a long time. Finally he seemed to smile. “As you say—so what. Thanks fellows. I’ll leave the suitcase on board.”

  They went back to their bunks. As they started toward sleep Crunch said, “Des—watch him like a hawk tomorrow, will you? Somehow, we’ve got to keep him out of trouble.”

  It was a bright day, the next one. Bright, hot and calm—with a steamy haze in the distances over the sea. A white sun. The Poseidon went out across the reefs and her passengers—Marylin and Ramsay, Dodson and Olivia—leaned over the gunwales and looked down through the crystal fathoms at the coral formations, the big fish, the flashing schools of small fish, the weird gardens. Even when Des put out baits—where the water was sixty or seventy feet deep—every detail of the bottom could be seen under the hull of the Poseidon. On the sandy stretches, sharks lay motionless. Rays flattened themselves out—diamonds with tails. Amberjacks turned in the clear water, swimming up and then down over roller-coaster currents.

  “I’d rather watch, almost, than fish,” Olivia said.

  And Ramsay, at her side, agreed heartily.

  Crunch understood that relationship, now. Ramsay was too nervous to talk naturally with Marylin in the presence of her brother. So he had chattered nervously with Olivia through the days. It was not even an unsubtle effort to create jealousy in Marylin; just a defense. Olivia was friendly and talkative. She made it easy for him.

  Poor devil, Crunch thought.

  And not long after that—not long after the bottom faded out of view—becoming indistinct at a hundred feet, a blur of light and dark after that, and invisible where the Gulf Stream rolled—Dodson hung the mako shark.

  It was the biggest mako Crunch had ever seen. And Dodson hooked it on twenty-four-thread rig.

  An epic battle began.

  III

  The mako made a pass at the bait on Ramsay’s side. Its dorsal was like a scythe.

  Its tail broke water. Its round, black, bulging eyes seemed to glare at the Poseidon and at the people on board. Crunch thought it was between eighteen and twenty feet long.

  Marylin gulped, “Look, everybody!”

  The pale belly of the terrible shark turned up as it veered away, apparently in reaction to the sight of the boat.

  Crunch, on the canopy, found himself grateful that it hadn’t taken the bait. Not Ramsay’s bait, anyway.

  It was gone from view.

  “What on earth was that?” Olivia shouted.

  “It was the grandfather of the makos,” Crunch answered.

  Then he saw it again—deep—a torpedo, a small submarine—shimmering darkly behind Dodson’s outrigger line. “Dod! You better be set! He’s looking you over!”

  “Looking over twenty-four-thread? I’m laughing.”

  “In a minute—you may not be!”

  The blue blur rose, defined itself, thrust a sharp nose—a prow—above the slick sea, then opened its cavern of teeth—teeth as big as axheads. It engulfed the bait.

  The line slanted down—slowly at first—and then stretched tight in the air so that it hit the surface with a small, running slap.

  Dodson stood and struck. His reel went crazy. Olivia leaped from the center fighting chair. Dodson shot into it and slammed his rod-butt home in the gimbal. His rod took a heavy bend and the reel continued to scream like something broken loose in fast machinery.

  Crunch, thin lipped, shoved both throttles to their extremes. The Poseidon’s motors tried to drown out the reel. Everybody was staggered by the forward thrust. The boat went around, skidding a little, and set out in pursuit of the mako. But even full speed did not seem to diminish the rate at which line melted from the reel spool.

  “How many yards?” Dodson yelled.

  “Nine hundred,” Crunch yelled back.

  “He’s got six or seven—already!”

  “We’re doing our best! Hang on!”

  “Till it breaks,” Dodson answered grimly.

  They leaned forward—not closely enough to interfere with Dod, but enough to watch that melting of line. Soon, the remaining quantity was but an inch in diameter.

  Desperately, Dodson tightened the drag. It accomplished nothing. The inch shrank, shrank—and then there glinted under the last few turns of line the brass axis of the reel. It was all over. Marylin swore to herself. Dodson glanced down and shook his head.

  But it wasn’t all over.

  The great shark made a mistake. Having felt the hook—having bulleted through the sea for half a mile—and having accomplished nothing by that measure-it leaped.

  Crunch had been praying for that.

  It leaped—high-huge—cobalt blue—and so far away that it seemed to Ramsay and Olivia, who had never seen a fish take so much line—that it could not possibly still be attached to the Poseidon.

  But Dodson knew. He whispered, “Oh, boy!” and leaned on the rod.

  The mako turned in the air and splashed back, headed toward the boat. It swam as it landed—and now the rush of the Poseidon at the rushing fish put slack in the line which Dodson recovered at his best speed. The mako jumped again. Dodson kept winding.

  “Roll it, Dod!” Marylin chanted. “Wind it in, baby! If you boat that fish you’ll hang up a record nobody’ll touch for a century!”

  He got in a hundred yards—two—three—four. Then the mako changed direction and the chase was on again. But, this time, the shark swam no faster than the top speed of the Poseidon and the angler neither lost nor gained much line, while they covered—in a huge arc—a good two miles of open sea.

  A mako is a mackerel shark and unlike the other sharks. The mako’s tail is built like the mackerel’s and it swims with the speed of a marlin and the energy of a tuna. It leaps—and other sharks sometimes leap when hooked, but none so high, so violently, or so often. It is not grey, or greenish, or yellow-brown. It is blue. It has round and bulging eyes. It does not have rows of slicing teeth, like many sharks, but a mouthful of immense, sharp, hard teeth meant to grasp and rend. It is a game fish and some who have caught makos regard it as the toughest of them all, tougher than broad-bill, than blue marlin, or the black demons of the Pacific, or the white, or the tuna, or the majestic broadbill. As a
rule, a big mako will play havoc with the heaviest tackle—tackle more than twice as strong as that used by Dodson.

  But with skill, Crunch kept thinking-with such an angler—with plenty of time—and with luck, especially—it could be… .

  He did not dare bring that thought to a conclusion.

  Dodson hung the mako at ten-fifteen. At noon, they were many miles above Key West, out in the Stream a mile or more, and the fish was running just as hard as ever—a few hundred yards at a clip. It had quit leaping, for the time being.

  Shortly before one o’clock, the mako sounded. It started from a point about two hundred yards astern of the Poseidon and went down in swift lunges, twenty or more yards at a time. The reel wheezed and was still, wheezed and was still. The rod-tip bowed down and down. At five hundred yards, the shark stopped. The line now descended tautly and almost vertically over the stern. And the mako, somewhere in the darkness of the abyss, moved along—surging this way and that.

  When, exerting himself strongly but cautiously, Dodson tried to heave the fish up—even a few inches—the mako responded by sullenly shaking its head and yanking a few more feet of line from the reel.

  “Let him stay there,” Dodson finally said. “The pressure won’t do him much good.

  And I can’t budge him with this gear. Couldn’t—with a winch—I bet. What do you say we eat?”

  They hadn’t talked much. They had just watched—breathless-concentrated—clenching things when the mako leaped or raced—bending a fraction of an inch in sympathy with Dodson’s even, heavy labor. Crunch had cut down the motors to match the dogged speed of the fish. They moved along slowly and calmly, like a ferryboat.

  Des said, “I think I’ll stay behind the chair here—in case we have to make any quick maneuvers. Marylin, you set up the bridge table.”

  “I’ll help,” Ramsay offered.

  They opened out the legs of the bridge table between the day beds. They brought, from the galley, potato salad and hard-boiled eggs, cold cuts, open cans of ice cold fruit, and iced coffee. They handed a plate and a glass up to Crunch. They served Des—who ate standing. Marylin, Olivia and Ramsay ate at the table, hardly looking at the food but watching Dodson instead. Afterward, Marylin fed her brother.

  “How’s it going?”

  He grinned. “Dandy.”

  “Tired?”

  “Hell, no.” He laughed. “Neither is the mako.”

  She filled a pail with water, dipped a sponge, and wiped the perspiration from his face and chest. He had long since taken off his shirt.

  The mako sulked until half past two. Then, suddenly, Dodson felt the pressure stop. “Broke off,” he called.

  “Broke off hell!” Crunch yelled back. “He’s coming up!” He threw forward the throttles to get the Poseidon clear of the spot where the fish might emerge and to give the angler a chance to wind slack without fouling the propellors.

  At the peak of his upward swim, not far from the boat, the mako burst into the air—once—twice—and again. They could clearly see the now-twisted leader and see that it entered the mouth of the giant fish. Hooked deep. Crunch wondered if the teeth would ultimately cut through the stainless steel wire leader. Another risk.

  Little waves spread from where the three jumps had been made and lapped the Poseidon. The rod bent and straightened and bent again as the shark tore away a few feet under the surface, zigzagging, circling on itself, circling the boat. For an hour, this furious race continued and then, after a long, straight run, the shark began to bulldog against the fisherman—keeping his distance—yanking out a foot or two of line—yielding it—yanking again.

  It was after four o’clock.

  Ramsay found himself near Marylin. “What a tremendous fight!” he said in a low, admiring voice.

  Her eyes answered. She squeezed his arm.

  “What stamina!”

  “Dod’s good.”

  “Very good.”

  “He’s gaining now, do you notice?”

  Inches—feet—inches again—Dod began heaving the great shark toward the boat. Its forked tail broke water. Its dorsal showed. It turned away, sculled, struggled, and was turned back.

  But Dodson was tired, too. He showed it in pallor—in excessive sweating, and in the nervous way he occasionally let go his rod with one hand and tried to wipe the pouring perspiration from his eyes. He had been on the fish for six hours by that time.

  The boat was some twenty miles from the point where they had hooked the mako. In the whole time and distance Dodson had not relented once, for a moment. It was not surprising that even he was wearying. However, he had his fish coming toward him, and that fact gave him new strength. His hands whitened. The rod creaked. His great back muscles showed like ropes.

  And Ramsay, to help out, took a large, clean handkerchief from his pocket. He folded it catercorner, twisted the two ends, and went up to Dodson.

  “If you like, Dod, I’ll tie this around your forehead. Keep the sweat out of your eyes.”

  “Sure, pal. Good idea. Wish I’d had it right along.”

  It was, probably, the word “pal” that threw Ramsay off. His hands began to perspire. They made the first knot clumsily. Dodson had to move his head to give a heave on his incoming fish. He brought his rod up again and held still. But now, with a heavy flurry, the mako turned about and lunged away once more. At the same moment, from sheer exaggerated effort, Ramsay lost his hold on the handkerchief. Dodson’s head swept it forward and it fell onto the racing line. The line whipped it into the first guide, where it jammed. Dodson made a frantic grab at the handkerchief, but it was too late. With the line held fast, the lunging mako broke it instantly—and was gone.

  Nobody said anything for a long time.

  Then Dodson put on an exhibition of the sportsmanship for which he was justly famous. He grinned at Ramsay. “Wasn’t your fault, old man. The big ones usually get away. We’d have lost him—nine chances out of ten—when we tried to get a flying gaff in him. Ask Crunch.”

  But Ramsay knew that Crunch had been hoping. So had everybody. All day. And—which was more—he knew that only a fumbling idiot would have lost his hold of both ends of a mere handkerchief.

  Olivia burst into tears.

  Marylin went below.

  Dodson stretched his mighty frame and looked up at the expressionless skipper.

  “Hell of a fine fight, anyhow.”

  Crunch said, “Yeah, Dod. Yeah.”

  Des leaned over the gunwale as if the sea was something, he had never seen before—something he wanted to inspect closely, for a long while.

  The Poseidon came around and started the long trek back to Key West. They were going to be late getting in.

  The next evening, the Webers gave a dinner for the Brush party—not at the Pearl of the Caribbees, but in the large dining room of the Hotel Tropic of Cancer. Morale among the Brushes and their guests was not high. Only Marylin and Ramsay had fished that day—with indifferent success, owing partly to the fact that they had gone out late, come in early, and taken only a desultory interest in trolling. The Webers were, of course, ignorant of the loss of the mako. All four of them, led by Mr. Weber-who was rotund, bald and full of energy—were eagerly entertaining their guests when Ramsay arrived—late.

  He walked through the dining room and up to the big, busy table, looking even more uncomfortable than was his want. His very appearance stopped conversation; it trailed away—died to nothing. Ramsay smiled with an effort and opened his mouth to apologize for being tardy.

  Pierce Brush said loudly, “Hi, there, Drop-the-Handkerchief!”

  The Webers looked at Pierce, wondering what he meant.

  But Crunch watched Ramsay because Ramsay had stopped cold. His color, such as it had been, drained to whiteness. His hands clenched. For a moment, Crunch had an impression—weird and spine tingling—that Pierce was in tremendous danger. Crunch slid his legs under his chair to stop something sinister. It wasn’t necessary.

  Ramsay’s
lips began to move. He was counting, Crunch realized. Then he understood: Ramsay was counting ten. His color came back a little. The expression in his eyes—the tautness of his lips—disappeared. He smiled his humble smile.

  “‘Evening, everybody.” He said it rather proudly—for some reason. “Sorry to be late. I got reading… .”

  Conversation was resumed. Mrs. Brush found an opportunity to lean forward and whisper to Mr. Weber, “We’re a little strained tonight. Some carelessness on the part of Dr. Binney caused Dod to lose a record mako the other day—just when he had it beaten.”

  Mr. Weber passed this item to his daughters. Cocktails were served. The meal proceeded with reasonable decorum.

  It was toward the end of it that Mr. Weber made his suggestion.

  “All you Brushes, I understand, are a little tired of fishing. I’ve got a proposal that might interest you. The boys, anyhow.”

  “What is it?” Dodson asked.

  “Any of you ever dive—in a helmet?”

  Both Brush boys—and their father—said, “Sure,” at the same time.

  “I’ve got a special rig—built according to my ideas—takes you down darn near seventy feet—if you want to go. Comfortable. Just a helmet that straps on—but covers only your head and shoulders. Fixed for escape from the straps—so there’s no worry in it.

  Hand-operated compressor.”

  “I’ve always wanted to try it,” Marylin said.

  Mrs. Weber interrupted. “Dad is crazy about fooling around under water on the reefs.”

  “He was,” said one of the Weber girls.

  Mr. Weber laughed. “My physician in New York said I was over-age for diving.

  My wife and daughters agree. So it’s unanimous—with me abstaining from the voting. But I’ve got the rig—the weather’s flat—and I’d be delighted to lend it to you.”

  Pierce and Dod said, “Swell!” and, “Elegant,” respectively.

  “Furthermore, I’ve got a diving site for you.”

  “I don’t think you ought—” Mrs. Weber began.

  Her husband smiled at her. “Mother—I’m talking to a lot of husky men. Maybe it was too much for me.” He turned to Crunch. “Know where Scuddy Cay is, Captain Adams?”