by Boyd Craven
I spun around and a small wiry black man no more than a foot shorter than me was standing there, a crazy bowler’s hat the only thing he wore from the waist up. He had on a pair of khaki shorts and wore no shoes. His beard was a gray grizzled mess, and he looked a little underfed, but not unhealthy.
“Sorry, am I in your way?”
“Shit in your hat, make you eat it, big dumb asshole!”
I laughed, which made the man’s eyes go big, a contrast to his black skin.
“You don’t ‘tink Irish John can make you eat your hat full of shit?”
“I don’t have a hat. I’m too poor for a hat,” I told him, trying not to grin and set him off.
“You don’t look hungry,” he told me, the agitated tone out of his voice.
“I just got here. Been gone a long time. Just wanted some water for my jugs before I move on or try fishing. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“You got a fishing license?” he asked.
“Yeah, just got it. Why?” I asked him.
“Maybe I’ll shit in my hat and make you eat it!” he said, and then started cackling.
It was just too weird, and I joined in a second later. “You looking for a fishing buddy?” I asked him.
“Actually, big strong guy like you. Irish John needs somebody to paddle. You want to paddle?”
“Paddle? Where are you going?”
“To where the fish are. You must be crazy not to know that. Even Irish John knows that.”
This guy had a screw loose, but I didn’t get the feeling he was going to attack me. Maybe he came off crazy as an act to scare away people, but I didn’t think so. I thought he was dyed in the wool off his meds. That was okay. There had been guys like him in prison too. I just had to overlook some of their weirdness sometimes.
“I don’t know. I’m going to be looking for a place to stay tonight. I was going to get some fishing in if I could, but I’ve got Ramen if I don’t catch anything.”
“You paddle, I take you to where we catch enough fish and you can stay on my island for the night. Big dummy asshole, don’t you know Irish John is the world’s greatest fisherman?”
“Then why do you need to know if I have a license?” I asked him, putting the larger bottle of water in my backpack.
“Because the FWC knows Irish John’s boat. If I have a big dummy asshole in it who’s doing the fishing, they leave me alone. Irish John doesn’t have license anymore, not since I got my own island.”
“Your own island, huh?” I asked him, liking the crazy coot, despite the hilarity.
“Yeah, and the tourists all come out to talk to Irish John, sometimes give me things.”
“Where is your island?” I asked.
“Out this way and paddle for a long way. You do paddling, I get the fishing going. If FWC comes, you hold the rod. Then we cook fish and sleep under the stars.”
“Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day,” I told him and hoisted my backpack, wondering if I had lost my mind.
The boat was a larger and wider one than I had seen fishing the rivers and lakes in Illinois. This one was almost three and a half feet wide and had a squared off back with a piece of plywood where a motor would be mounted. To me, it looked like a rowboat and a canoe had a love child, and this was the result. Irish John had me at the back where I could use my muscle mass and strength to propel us out. His boat had a slight fishy smell to it, and he explained he had a cast net under his seat and that was his usual fishing gear, but he also had a rod. Oh boy, did he ever. It was brand new sometime around when Pearl Harbor was bombed, and the line looked like braided wire, but I kept my mouth shut.
He cast the net near a shallow spot as we were heading out of what he said was the actual Crystal River. He pulled in a dozen of what looked like shad minnows and let them flop into an old cooler with no lid.
“Paddle over ’dere,” he said, pointing.
I looked and almost lost my lunch. The river opened up, and although I could see dots of land, the water got darker. I knew from my limited experiences that it also meant it probably started getting deeper. Then the crazy coot pulled out what looked like an old pair of insulated underwear with the legs tied off at the ankles and about eight feet of rope, and tossed it over the side.
“What the hell was that?” I asked as he started jigging the line.
“Sea anchor, we’ll not float away so fast. Irish John knows all about boats and fishing; you’ll not go wrong.”
“Okay,” I said, watching the shad flopping around still.
After a couple more moments of playing with the rope, he straightened up and got the rod out. He had two hooks on a leader. To me, it looked like a perch rig. Irish, because I wasn’t going to call him Irish John or refer to him in the third person, put two of the shad on the hooks and then dropped them over the side, counting down with one finger. Then he closed the bail on the reel and handed it over to me.
“Just nice and easy. Ocean waves make Irish John’s boat rise and fall. These fish we jig, but no need to jig because rise and fall of boat. You know how to fish?”
“Yeah,” I said, just as my rod tip jerked violently down.
I set the hook, and Irish hooted excitedly as I reeled. The fish tried to run under the canoe more than once, and I changed the rod from one hand to the other around the back of the boat until I got it near the surface. I tried pulling it in, but the rod bent nearly in half. I saw a flash of pinkish red as it slapped the surface.
“Get it near Irish John. I pull it in,” he said excitedly.
I wrestled the rod until the fish was near the boat, and then his arm shot into the water. He wasn’t a heavyweight nor did he look strong, but he easily hoisted a reddish-pink fish that had to be at least ten or fifteen pounds by the look of it. I heard the sound of a motor and turned to see a boat with lights flashing headed our direction. Irish spat in the water at the sight of the approaching boat and tossed the fish in the middle between us.
“FWC, I’d like to make them shit in their hat—”
“And eat it,” I finished.
“Don’t be a smart ass to Irish John,” he said, but his eyes never left the approaching boat.
They slowed down long before their wake could swamp the canoe, but I still had to hold onto the edge of the boat for balance as the waves they had thrown caught up with us.
“Irish, did you get a fishing license?” a man in a brown shirt and cap asked, his partner at the wheel.
Both were armed, but they were relaxed and looked like this was a routine occurrence.
“No, big dummy asshole has license. Irish John not fishing. Irish John showing man where to catch fish.”
“So, now you’re operating a charter fishing business?” the partner asked and laughed at his own joke.
Irish started cursing under his breath, and I heard more than a few things about hats and feces. I started chuckling and pulled out my wallet and handed up my ID and fishing license.
“And you are Mr. Anthony Delgado?”
“Tony,” I told him. “Yeah. Irish said if I paddled, he’d show me to where to drop a line.”
“Because he’s the best fisherman in the gulf,” the partner behind the wheel said.
“Well, I mean, I got this guy within seconds of dropping the bait.”
“Redfish. Looks good. I was just checking. Old Irish here likes to skirt the rules sometimes. In truth, we just try to keep an eye on him. John, you eating regularly?”
“Why should you worry?” Irish asked him. “All you do is come up in fast boat, make lots of noise, and now fish not here. How can I eat if my big dummy asshole friend can’t fish because you bigger assholes scared fish away?”
Irish was dead serious, but we all grinned.
“You staying out on Deadman’s for the night?” the officer asked as he handed my ID back.
“What’s that?” I asked them.
“That be my island,” Irish said loudly while the FWC rolled their eyes.
“Oh, well, I guess. Deadman’s Island?” I asked them.
“Deadman’s Creep,” the game warden told me.
“Deadman Cay,” Irish corrected him. “Don’t want no fool from Burg to come try to say they live on my island when ‘dey on fake channel.”
“It’s kind of dangerous to go out that far in just a canoe. We’ve been trying to talk Irish into coming and staying at the shelter for a while now, but he isn’t really hurting anyone.”
“Why’s it dangerous?” I asked them.
“It’s the edge of the shipping lane coming into the city. It’s dredged deep at one spot,” the officer behind the wheel said. “A little boat like this can get swamped easily if a bigger boat comes by. And if the wind kicks up, you might be stuck out there for a few days.”
I almost asked for a ride back at that point, but Irish was looking at me and I figured, why not. Everyone out here had been nice, from the cops to the game wardens. Hell, I’d got a church invite and my own fishing guide. I’d even caught a fish big enough to feed a few people on the first cast. Not too bad for only being out of prison, what, twelve hours?
“Irish John’s offered me a spot for the night,” I told them.
“Gotcha. Want us to tow ya mostly there?” the officer asked.
Irish opened and closed his mouth a couple times and then nodded and started pulling up the rope. The long johns came to the surface of the water, and he grabbed it by the tied-off end and started pulling it out.
“Shit damn fuck,” he said all at once, yanking his hand back and dropping the sea anchor.
“Not a shark,” the officer told him, and I felt a shiver run through me. “Just something scaring baitfish up. I can see from here.”
“Irish John got a little startled, ‘dat’s all. Nobody can ever say they saw Irish John scared. Startled—yes; scared—no. I’d make anybody who called Irish John scared, shit in his h—”
“Hat and eat it,” we all finished.
He glowered.
“Thanks, guys!” I said as they threw Irish a line.
Chapter Three
By the time the FWC turned to leave, they already had their lights on. I’d had no clue that Irish was going to have us paddling in the dark, but I didn’t say anything.
“We put the bait in the water?” I asked, knowing the shad were dead.
“No, is for traps,” he said simply. “Come on, get fish, get shit. Let’s eat.”
I grabbed the fish and walked ashore using the center of the canoe, trying not to tip it. I got off, and Irish surprised me by pulling the canoe all the way on shore.
“It stay here good; come on. Irish John show you his humble abode.”
I couldn’t make out much in the dark, but it looked like palm trees and about ten foot of sandy spots and a rocky area further down the shoreline, the water gently lapping it. The rest looked like dense vegetation and shrubs.
“You know where we’re going?” I asked, wishing I had a machete, and pushing scratchy-feeling fronds and weeds out of my face.
“Yes, just here now,” he said and stopped.
In the moonlight, I saw him make a motion with both hands like he was Vanna White exposing a letter on Wheel of Fortune. What I saw made me squint and then smile. It was a small hut that seemed to be covered with palm fronds, tucked under a taller tree. I would have to duck to go inside, but it looked like it would keep the rain off of us.
“Wow, thanks,” I said and dropped my pack.
“Big dummy asshole make fire, then Irish John can see to clean fish. We both eat a lot, then set out traps. Okay?”
“Ok,” I said, “Where’s your…” I was going to ask him where his fire pit was, but I could just make it out by following Irish’s arm and finger pointing the way.
Plant matter had been cleared from around it, and several logs were pulled up across from a blackened hole that had been dug out of the sand. I walked over and saw the remains of an old fire and supplies to build a new one. John watched as I pulled some dried fronds from a pile and made a base in the sand, then piled up some smaller sticks. I stripped some of the fibers off a couple of dried-out fronds then made a big ball with them. I shoved it into the pile of sticks and pulled my Bic out. A couple of flicks and the kindling was lit, the fire hungrily devouring the smaller fuel.
“Big sticks now,” Irish said, and I knew he couldn’t see me rolling my eyes in the dark, but I did. I did as he asked, breaking them over my knee.
Soon, a small fire was built, and Irish disappeared inside the hut and came out a second later with four long, thin carved sticks, points at one end and blunted at the other. He also had a large flat leaf that I had a hard time making out in the dark. It had been fresh recently, but was starting to dry out. He took the fish from the sand and went down the path to the water. He came back a couple minutes later having rinsed it and put it on the large leaf, then he went back inside his hut, to come out a second later with a small, circular object.
“What’s that?” I asked him.
“The gods must be crazy,” he told me, and held up a clear piece of glass. I realized after a moment that over two thirds of it had been ground down into an edge, the last third ground down and rounded.
“Bottom of a Coke bottle?” I asked him.
“For a big guy, you must have soft mush for brains. It’s my skinner.”
“Oh,” I said, ignoring the implied insult and watched, fascinated, as he used the curved edge to slice easily through the fish, quickly cutting fillets and leaving the skin on.
He left the fillets and took the carcass, guts still inside it, back toward the water. He was back momentarily and then pointed to the stick.
“You cook; I’ll show.”
“I don’t… How?” I asked him.
“We use two sticks for each fillet then.” he asked and sat down and picked up the curved stick.
I watched as he poked a hole through the end near where the tail had been. He poked it right through the meat where he’d cut some small bones out about halfway up the fillet and then out again near the top of the fillet. The entire fillet was loosely skewered, and the wooden shaft wobbled as he lifted it up.
“Need forked sticks now. You carve. Get them about this big,” he said, holding his arms out about four feet apart.
I decided to just go with it and found myself at the edge of the light where a bushy tree thing came out. I found a section that was mostly straight that forked and broke it off, twisting the branch free. I stripped the leaves and, having a little bit of an idea of what he wanted, I snapped the ends of the forked branches off near the middle. John took one look and then handed me the skewered fillet.
I leaned the skewer on one side of the fire and pushed the forked stick into the sand on the other. I managed to get it propped up, skin to the sky, without burning myself too badly.
“Dummy asshole, meat will fall off. Skin down,” Irish John said, acting like he was going to kick sand at me.
I fixed it and then went and got another stick ready for him to prop up his filet. By the time I found one and stripped it down, I could smell the first fillet smoking and cooking.
I watched as John worked his magic. He might have been crazy and might quite literally be a hobo, but he was an expert at changing the angle of the sticks so more or less of the fish would cook, and I paid attention. I had no inclination to ever have to live like this long-term, but it was interesting. He went into his shack and came back out with two more of the broad leaves. He laid them out, then pulled the skewers off the fire. He tossed the forked sticks to the side and then pulled the fillets off the skewers and onto the leaves.
“Very hot. Irish John waits at least five minutes to eat. Now good time for a smoke.”
“Oh, okay,” I told him, and I sat back as he threw the leaf he had used to fillet the fish into the fire.
“I said now good time for smoke,” he said again, making a motion over his mouth.
“I don’t smoke,” I told him. “Go ahead if
you want to.”
He made a disgusted sound and sat back. I opened my backpack and pulled out the water bottles, offering him one. He took the smaller one and tipped his hat my way. I took a long pull on the larger bottle and waited. The bugs weren’t bad, but they didn’t even seem to be bothering Irish the way they were biting at me.
“Can eat when it doesn’t burn fingers. Pull off pieces. No need to be fancy.”
“So my name’s Anthony,” I told him. “You can call me Tony if you like.”
“Big dummy asshole Tony?”
“How about just Tony,” I told him.
“Tony. Good, big asshole still.”
I bit my cheek until he started laughing at me, pointing and slapping his knee.
“Irish John made good joke. You should see look on your face.”
“Yeah, you got me,” I told him and tried pulling at the edge of the fillet where the skewer had gone through the skin.
A large chunk of fish came off, and I stuffed it in my mouth. After eating ‘loaf’ in prison, this was heavenly. The fish was cooked and smoked to perfection. My only critique was I should’ve picked up a salt and pepper shaker while I was in the store; otherwise, it was perfect.
“Eat. When done, take offal with Irish John,” he told me.
I was able to finish my fillet and took the last piece that Irish couldn’t fit into his stomach. Leaving the fire, I followed him, until we ended up at the beach. By the moonlight, he went to another tree and dug through the tall grass on the side and pulled out two squared-off boxes made of sticks. I walked up and touched the side to see that they were essentially chicken wire over a wooden frame. He opened a flap on top and put a fillet skin in one of them, then cursed as he knelt down and came back with the head and rest of the fish from earlier and put it in the other side.
“Get little fishes, bait, put in with skins.”
“The baitfish from earlier?” I asked him.
“Yes, in sun a while now. Smells good for crabs.”
I walked back to the boat shaking my head, wondering if I had been worked over in prison and was having a hallucination or something. A few guys kicking me in the head would do it. The white gangs there sometimes would have a go at somebody and with a name like Delgado, I surely wasn’t a friend of theirs. Still, I gathered the small fish up, smelling what Irish said I would and walked them back in two handfuls and put them into the trap. He tied the flap closed with a piece of twine of some sort and then handed me one of them.
