Deadman's Cay

by Boyd Craven

  Four days a week, Franklin would take his big charter boat into town to pick up paying customers before heading out to sea. I wouldn’t see him until much later on in the evenings, on his way to drop off the customers then back to moor at the dock by the shop.

  I helped him spray down and scrub the deck so the blood, scales, and fish slime didn’t become overpowering when he went back out, and sea birds always seemed to follow him in.

  The pay wasn’t union wages, but it was significantly better than I had ever thought. Getting cash under the table for now meant no overtime and no record of employment. I was planning on a down payment on a car or an apartment with what I was squirreling away. That was the dream anyway. Meanwhile, I had been sleeping in one of the hulls that Franklin kept in the yard on stands. The owner had the boat brought in for repairs, but he’d passed away before the overhaul of the boat could be done, and the heirs all fought over everything in the will. The boat had sat for years, until he lost track of who was supposed to come to get it.

  It worked for me. It had a small cabin area in the front with two old cushions I put together like a futon, and a galley that had a stove that ran on white gas. There was no air conditioning, as that had been stripped, along with the engine and most of the wiring, but it was dry, and it didn’t cost me anything. At least not yet. Franklin had given me three sets of old worn coveralls to wear while I worked, and I kept them rotating as I cleaned them with the cold-water hose and some hand soap, then hung them to dry overnight.

  Food was a simple affair. Franklin loaned me a couple rods, and every night I would sit at the end of the dock, or on the back of his charter boat and cast, catching everything from mutton snappers to sheepshead. I would sometimes get a fish I wasn’t sure on, and if nobody were around to ask, I’d throw them back. The fishing down here was pretty great, and with patience I was always rewarded with a fish that was large enough for me to have a large-ish stomach-filling meal.

  I would often find myself boiling minute rice, adding a dash of liquid smoke, a can of corn and a can of black beans I would pick up at the local Aldi’s really cheap, and add a pan-fried fillet. One decent sized Snapper could feed me like this for a good two meals. It was better food than I’d had when I was locked up, and it cost very little. I had maybe a dollar fifty into two meals, and all I had to do was take the time to do it.

  This wasn’t a life like I’d ever lived before, watching the sunsets on the end of the pier, listening to the fishermen coming home at night, sometimes asking them about their catches… Something in my soul I hadn’t known about needed this, and I was more than happy to keep doing it for as long as Franklin would let me. My initial plan hadn’t changed much, but I was slowly finding my dreams of going back into a regular job a little scary. Life was just a lot simpler, more fulfilling. I could understand Irish John’s reasons for wanting to live this kind of life.

  “Hey,” I heard one morning, much, much earlier than normal.

  “Morning,” I said, opening the hatch on the small Chris Craft and stepping out onto the deck.

  Franklin was out there, two cups of coffee in his hands. He handed me one and took a long, slow drink of his own.

  “Mullet are running,” he said, absentmindedly.

  “Okay?”

  “Need an extra set of hands. You up for it?” he asked.

  “Just tell me what to do,” I told him.

  “I can do that.”

  I was sore, so sore. Did I mention how sore I was? The mullet migration happens in the early fall, I guessed, depending on which part of the state you are in. I didn’t know for sure, because this was all new to me, but we spent a day cruising on his bigger boat, then a day hauling in mullet, and then a ton of time boxing, cleaning … or did I have that backward? Packing them in ice, coming back. I learned the basics of using a cast net. We would work with the charter boat as the larger base and go out in two smaller boats. Three of the guys who worked the charters with him went with Franklin and me. One to stay on the charter and cook, and then each smaller boat had two people.

  We would spend our time casting the nets out and pulling them back in with mullet. Some loads seemed too heavy to just heave out of the water, so Franklin used a PVC contraption that had what looked like a soccer net zip tied to it. The cast net would come in mostly full, and he would toss this contraption out behind the cast net with a rope attached and bring it under the cast net. Then the cast net would be raised up with the contraption, and the fish on the bottom wouldn’t escape. That was where my bulk and muscle came in handy. Some loads, Franklin and I were muscling in hundreds of pounds of fish, some fifty to eighty pounds. It depended on where the net was cast.

  It was nonstop work for almost a week, and I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t care that I smelled like fish, and my bed was so much softer than on Franklin's other boat. That was something I learned. The charter business was really his cash cow. He took his other boat out for large commercial runs like mullet, and he could do shrimping in it too. It was different, fun, and it paid really well, but I was exhausted. I didn’t know how the old man did this all the time.

  “Hey, I need you to do me a favor,” Franklin said the next day after I had taken time to shower in the warehouse underneath a hose and a large handheld scrub brush.

  “Sure thing,” I told him.

  “Can you run out some mullet I kept back on ice and some supplies to Irish John?”

  “I don’t have a boat,” I told him, knowing his big charter boat was way too big to get near Deadman’s Cay.

  “I’ve got that twenty-four-foot aluminum tri-hull on the trailer out back, we used mullet fishing. That one’s mine; well, it was my son’s.” He paused for a moment, silent. “Anyway. Mate it up to one of those thirty horse Johnsons and take you about ten gallons of gas from my big tank. Help him put up the fish and supplies I’ve got for him, and I’ll take care of you.”

  He already was, in more ways than one, but I didn’t want to gush and proclaim my man love for the old guy. He had really taken me in, and I appreciated it, more so than I thought I could put into words. At this rate I had enough for a down payment stashed away. It wasn’t a lot of money, but I realized at this moment, I didn’t have to be homeless. It was a choice at this point.

  “For sure.”

  “Good. Pack. It might be a day or three out there.”

  “I can do that. He’s quite the cook,” I told him, jokingly.

  “That old man knows more about making a meal out of anything than anybody I know. Oh, one last thing. There is a bottle of Johnny Walker in one of the boxes I’m going to send you with. He’ll drink it all in one night if you let him, so either drink the other half or cut him off.”

  “I’ll figure something out, but a drink sounds good,” I admitted.

  “Good. I figure a couple hundred pounds of mullet will keep him out of FWC’s hair for a while. You remember how to get back out there?”

  “I think I can remember,” I told him.

  “Good. I’ve got two or three of these junker hulls ready to mate up to rebuilt engines. When you get back — and don’t rush, when you get back — we’re going to auction some of these off.”

  “Sounds good. Want me to pack up now?”

  “Sure,” Franklin said. “Quicker you guys build the smoker, the quicker you can get out of there.”

  Smoker?

  I surprised myself by finding the Cay with ease. I was also surprised to see what looked like a fiberglass bass boat and two kayaks pulled up on the beach, close to Irish John’s canoe. He must have taken the motor off the mount because it wasn’t in sight, though there were five figures on the beach.

  “Hey, you big dummy asshole, you come here!” Irish John yelled, and boy, was he pissed!

  “Hey, Irish, what’s going on?” I asked him, cutting the motor and coasting into the sand.

  I was off in a flash and pulled the boat up as much as I could before taking the anchor line on the nose of the boat and wrapping i
t around a tree.

  “‘Dese here people say Irish John need to leave.” Irish was pointing at two teenage boys, an older woman and what had to have been her daughter.

  “Why do you have to leave?” I asked, keeping my hands loose and easy.

  “Sir, it says right here that in national park land a person can do dispersed camping—”

  “You’re kicking him off the island so you can go camping?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.

  “The laws say—”

  “Lady, do you know he’s set up here permanent like?” I asked her as nicely as I could.

  “Mister, don’t you be taking that tone with my mother,” a pimply faced kid no more than seventeen or eighteen said, taking a step toward me with a clenched fist, his voice a threatening growl. Kind of.

  I walked up to him slow and deliberately and then looked down at him, staring. The woman and the boy both swallowed, the girl looking away like the ocean was the most interesting thing ever.

  “I’m not taking no tone with your mother,” I growled in a low, quiet voice, “but you ever take that tone with me again, I’m going to shit in your hat and make you eat it,” I said the last and looked to see Irish laughing silently, holding his stomach.

  The boy trembled, and the woman put a hand up to her mouth in shock. “Ma’am, as far as I can tell, this island is more than an acre or two. Pitch your tents, camp. There’s nothing in the laws that says you get the island all for yourself. Besides, me and the old man here have some business.”

  “Mister,” the younger teen said, a shorter less pimply version of what had to be his older brother, “we don’t want no trouble. We just thought this place was abandoned, and we were looking forward to some time alone.”

  I took a deep breath and stood up straight. “If you want an island all for yourselves, there’s a slightly larger one more inland. It’s got a fresh water spring, and a beach as good as this one. Otherwise, you might as well camp here. Me and Irish John there are going to be smoking fish for a day or two—”

  “And you brought the whiskey, yes?” Irish interrupted.

  “Most definitely, but half of it is mine,” I told him, and Irish pouted, so I turned back to the younger kid.

  “It’s up to you guys. I can keep Irish John busy so he won’t be bugging you guys, or maybe I can show you where the other island is. Up to you, but I’ll tell you what, it’s a better spot than this one. It’s more protected from the wind, and it’s further off the channel out to the deep water so you don’t get your little kayaks swamped.”

  “If it’s so good, why is he out here?” the young woman asked softly, looking at me for the first time.

  “Because Irish John is a little kooky, and I don’t think he likes being around people. So he camps out here, at the island nobody visits much.”

  Irish was sticking his tongue out at me for that one.

  “But you’re his friend?” she asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, guy,” the mother said, “I don’t want an issue either. He just freaked us out when he popped out of the brush, going on and on.”

  “He got me the first time too,” I admitted. “I thought he was going to whack me one.”

  “He was going to mate with de crabs!” John said helpfully, pointing at me. The girl burst into giggles, and the mom snorted and then broke into a smile.

  “I wasn’t,” I called back and turned to the defiant boy. “And, big guy, I can respect what you were doing with your mom. I respect it, but this time it wasn’t smart. You can’t pick a fight outside of your weight class unless you know some serious ass-kicking moves.”

  “I got some moves,” he said, grinning slightly now, “but I didn’t realize how big you were till you stormed over here.”

  “No harm, no foul?” I asked him and held my hand out; after a moment he took it, and we shook.

  “Now, you want me to show you on a map, or drive you guys out there in my boat?” I asked them, pointing to the aluminum one I came in on.

  “You have a ton of stuff to unload, I can read maps,” the younger woman said.

  “Okay, let me get it,” I said and walked over to the boat where Irish had been leaning over to look in.

  I snagged the bottle of Johnny Walker off the top, ignoring his curses, and grabbed a Ziplock baggie that I kept as my dry bag. I got the map and was smoothing it out when I could smell a hint of coconut oil. I felt the woman’s hand on my arm. “Sorry about that, and thank you.”

  “Like I said, no harm, no foul. I think Irish John’s been out here off and on for decades. When the FWC stopped us, they said they knew all about him and keep an eye on him.”

  “It’s Irish John who keeps an eye on them!” he said, banging on his chest with a fist. “Stupid dummy asshole big nose mud stompers!”

  I just shook my head, and the young woman joined us at my right side as his diatribe continued, making us chuckle a few moments before getting serious.

  “We’re right here, so if you turn back this way,” I pointed, “and follow the dark water, the second island over is part of the park. You have to go halfway around the island, but you’ll find a freshwater spring according to the map.”

  “Oh hey, I saw that place. It had tons of crabs on the sand when we went by.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know right where that is,” one of the boys said.

  “Sorry, guess we’ll get going,” the mom told me.

  “You don’t have to, but if you want a place to yourselves, that’s probably your best bet.”

  “And give you space to mate with the crabs?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.

  This time, I was the mature individual with the hand gestures. She kicked sand playfully at me and headed to her boat, kids in tow.

  Processing mullet proved to be a lot more fun than catching them. At least with a bottle of Johnny Walker to split between fish. We filleted the whole fish, leaving a section of the tail on so when we hung it, two fillets hung from straight, narrow sticks. Irish explained to me that usually a butterfly fillet would be used for smoking mullet, but I had brought too damned many for him to use, and the fish was so oily it wouldn’t store for long, so he hoped I liked smoked fish.

  Turns out, I did.

  Once I got the hang of things, Irish John handed me his hand ground Coke-bottle-bottom fillet knife and showed me how to use it. Right away I found that, although it was small in my big mitts, it worked just as well as the fillet knife that Franklin had sent me with. Slice, move my thumbs, slice, flip. I was saving the roe, or fish eggs as John called them, in a large bowl until that was full, then he had me discard it in the surf. Everything we didn’t use, the rest of the carcass, went into a depression in the sand. Soon, I was sort of lost in the manual labor, filleting fish, laying the pieces out on a large broad leaf while Irish started setting up a stand over the area where his cookfire was.

  He hummed a song I hadn’t heard before, and it invaded every space of my head, but not in a bad way. It was almost haunting in the beauty and how it seemed to pull deep from his memories. I looked up to see that he had made a large rack out of thin wooden branches that had the leaves stripped off, but the bark on. I knew there was plenty of scrub brush and small trees on the island, along with palm and sea grapes, but these looked like they had been used more than once. The whole contraption was held together tinker toy style with what looked like a rough twine.

  “When Irish John gets bored, he makes ’da rope. Thin rope for little jobs, or weave thin ropes into big rope. Maybe someday Irish John get tired of all ’dis paradise and use the big rope for himself.” He pantomimed hanging himself, his tongue hanging out.

  “You’ll never get sick of paradise, Irish.”

  “You got ’dat right,” he said, then snatched the bottle of whiskey off the sand between us and started chugging.

  He caught me watching after a second and pulled the bottle back to judge how much he had emptied.

  “I’m on a ration, so I don’
t do nothing fool stupid,” he said, then put the bottle in the sand near me.

  “Last time I was in a bar drinking, I ended up in jail. That’s how I ended up homeless and looking for work,” I told him.

  “Well good ‘ting, you big dummy asshole, you find Irish John first. Now you got two places to stay and work to do that keeps you happy.”

  “Two places?” I asked him.

  He held his hands out wide, the fillet knife in his hand where he had been cutting twine from his construction. “You are more than welcome to share Irish John’s paradise. You just can’t snore as loud as last time, or I’ll shit in your hat and make you eat it.”

  “I’ll try not to snore,” I told him, and he pointed at me with the knife as he laughed to himself and then went back to work.

  He was right. This wasn’t the glamorous life I had set out to live, but it was a world better than where I’d been in lockup. I woke up, fixed engines or hydraulics for trim and plane boards, I ran down electrical issues once in a while on larger boats at Franklin’s yard, and went fishing with him as needed. I still couldn’t remember port from starboard, bow to stern, but I knew left, right, front, back and I could clean the fish the customers reeled in. The odd jobs took me to terribly horrific places like this tropical island with a bottle of whiskey, fresh food to eat, and I was getting paid for it.

  Yes, that was my brand of irony and sarcasm in play, but as little as I had in life at the moment, I still had my dream. It was weird, but I was starting to think maybe that dream wasn’t what it once was when I was a boy. When I was younger, all I’d wanted was to work on trains. Nothing more exciting than working on something that could push or pull heavy loads across the country. I’d had that dream and once I’d got it, I’d found myself drifting. Cutting and preparing this pile of fish made me appreciate in hindsight what I’d had, and how if my father hadn’t gotten sick, I would have likely turned to bitterness and hatred.

  “If you don’t want your half, Irish John will help you get through it ‘till he gets to his half,” he said, breaking my concentration.