Stretching one more time, he closed the tent and hurried down. It was rare for him to write while in camp, and his crew had already gone. As he passed their tents he saw the campfire was still cold from the night before, and knew they’d not even paused for a brew before setting out. Grey felt a surge of gratitude for them. They were good men. Like most locals they read the weather and sea expertly, yet they were truly backward in their big-game fishing techniques. It bewildered Grey—scarcely a single New Zealand saltwater angler knew what it was to strike and fight a marlin properly, to force the fish to leap and struggle in the exultant contest of true fishing. Still they persisted in the brutal practise of triple hooks and drifting; even the harpoon.
Not that Grey was eager to convert anyone anymore. A torrent of letters had greeted his first published opinion on New Zealand angling, local sportsmen surprising Grey in their ferocity. The local fishing club had even circulated a notice, provoked to a ‘controversy’ where Grey could not believe there was one. He had been prepared for some resistance, as no one liked to be persuaded from his practices, least of all the backwoodsman, but Grey would not be the one to play the pioneer again on that score. He’d tried once and had his hand savaged for his trouble.
But all that was behind him now. He went over the sand dunes quickly, a bag of clothes in one hand, a box of lures he’d modified the previous night in the other. He could see the Alma G now, riding sixty yards off, lolling at anchor with the first dinghy nearby, his crew on board already, a further dinghy waiting for him on the sand. The sight of his boat increased his excitement, as he would soon be out there and fishing, and he stepped onto the foreshore with a smile—and then he saw Colin. He was coming down the slope at the far end of the shore.
Grey hesitated. Colin was a problem. He was a local and taciturn, but persistent too. His slow conversations tended to salt away time. And it was quite annoying that in the last day he’d anchored on Urupukapuka one bay over from Grey, striding over the island ridge to talk to Grey’s crew shortly after doing so.
Grey looked out towards his boat, torn, then went quickly along the shore with one hand out to shake Colin’s, with his other hand reaching to the older man’s elbow to indicate that he was in a hurry.
‘Cracker day,’ said Colin.
‘Oh, it’s perfect,’ said Grey. ‘You keep serving up these beautiful days.’
They stood a while looking at the water, side by side, Grey trying to quell his panic about how long Colin would delay him. The man was high up in the local game-fishing club, and Grey was conscious of a need to make amends in the easily offended circle.
‘You’re not heading out today, Colin?’ said Grey.
‘Later,’ said Colin.
Grey adjusted his hold on his gear and looked back along the shore towards his dinghy. ‘Well, I’d better move along.’
Colin nodded timelessly and looked over the water again. Then he glanced at Grey’s gear. ‘I’ll give you a hand there.’
‘Oh, that’s fine,’ said Grey. ‘I’ll manage just fine.’
‘I’ll just come along,’ said Colin. ‘I’ll just bring those lures.’ Abruptly he lifted the box from Grey’s hand.
‘Well,’ said Grey. ‘Well sure, Colin.’
And so Colin loped along the sand beside Grey towards the dinghy while Grey looked out to sea to hide his embarrassment, because the New Zealander was really quite rude. On the water already a number of boats were heading out, cleaving the early surface in the direction of the cape. On the Alma G, Grey’s crew of Crowe and Anderson were visible, moving about on deck to prepare the boat for the day.
At last he and Colin reached the dinghy, and Grey bent to it immediately, stowing his rod and bag and seizing the bow in pointed demonstration that he was ready to pull her down the sand. But Colin put the box of lures just inside and laid a restraining finger on the dinghy’s bow as well, then stood looking elsewhere, as if pretending to be unaware he was preventing the boat from launching.
Grey cleared his throat. ‘Well, thank you for the help with the lures, Colin.’
Colin did not respond. He did not meet Grey’s eye, and he did not remove his finger-hold from the stern. Instead he gazed out to sea towards the boats that were lucky enough to be launched already.
‘Lot of boys heading out already,’ said Grey. ‘Keen to get out there myself.’
Colin faced him then. He held his eyes. Then he pointed along the shore. ‘I’ll just show you something,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’ said Grey.
‘It’ll only take a moment,’ said Colin. ‘It’s just over here.’
Grey looked in the direction indicated, then glanced again out towards the Alma G, and at that moment he saw Anderson watching him, and it was obvious the boatman could see that Grey was being waylaid by Colin, yet he looked over the intervening water as if the delay was entirely to be expected, as if Grey was not already late by more than an hour. It stunned Grey—nothing about Anderson’s demeanour suggested he was surprised by Colin’s presence there.
Grey felt Colin’s eyes on him as he stared out at Anderson.
‘Your boys will be all right,’ said Colin. ‘It won’t take long. I promise.’ Again he indicated the shore towards the far end of the inlet, the very direction that he and Grey had come from just shortly before.
Bewildered, Grey shook his head. He exhaled loudly. Then again he stalked alongside the New Zealander along the shore. No conversation came from Colin, and Grey tried not to be frustrated, instead watching the sand as it sank under his shoes. He would be out on the water soon, and then he would be out there all day. In all likelihood it would be a day’s sport to remember.
Soon enough he and Colin were at the far end of the shore. From this point of the inlet he could see more easily the few boats that were riding off the cape now. The boats drifted there. They did not troll at speed across the water with single hooks dancing in front of the rising marlin, instead they drifted with their murderous triple-hooks tending down into the depths, pregnant with damage, dangling and ready to rip the guts or throat from whichever great fish they foul-hooked—Oh, thought Grey, it was barbarous, the way men fished here, backward! And bizarre—there was absolutely no sport in hooking a marlin that way, not striking and fighting the fish but holding the rod while the boatman tired the maimed creature by towing it the other way. A twelve-year-old could do it, a ten-year-old girl. It made no sense at all. Grey ran his hand through his hair. He breathed deep to expel his frustration.
‘So, Colin,’ he said, and glanced at his companion. The New Zealander was watching the same boats intently, but it was impossible to know what was in his mind. With growing desperation Grey sighed loudly and ran his hand through his hair again.
Finally Colin spoke. ‘You had a good day yesterday. You brought in a few.’
‘I’d say we did,’ said Grey. ‘They’re running the right way for me. I’ve had—we’ve had—a string of fortune, I’d say.’
‘You’re getting more fish than us local men. Six marlin, you caught yesterday.’
‘That’s right,’ said Grey. ‘Six.’
‘Your single hook’s the thing, maybe, you think,’ said Colin. ‘That trolling.’
‘I think so, Colin,’ said Grey, taking care not to run on.
Colin squinted against the glare as he surveyed Grey. Then he said, ‘Yes, I was out there yesterday. I was riding under the Cape when you ran in. Maybe you saw me.’ He scratched at his jaw. ‘I certainly saw you running in. I heard you.’
‘It was a good day,’ said Grey.
‘I noticed you had that flag up when you came in,’ said Colin. ‘That’s your custom when you make a catch, I think. That an American thing?’
‘Oh, that’s just something I’ve developed. I’ve got one for each of the great fish. I put ’em up when I run in. It adds a little colour, I guess, a little pageantry.’
Colin nodded. ‘I noticed you had that loudhailer too.’
Grey laughed. �
�I did.’
There was another pause while Colin took this in. Again he scanned the far reaches of the water. He seemed to be searching for another boat to cross the expanse of flawless blue out there—not where the other craft were but further out to sea, way out where the light turned hazy. ‘Yes, I watched that whole thing from my boat,’ he said. ‘I heard you coming in. I heard you with that loudhailer out, and that flag, and I saw you running in, all guns blazing. I heard your announcement. Ladies and gentlemen. All of that. It was quite a production.’
Grey laughed. ‘Quite a production.’ He looked in the direction of his boat and his crew. By God he was busting to be out there again.
‘I suppose you could say that,’ said Colin. He dug into the sand with his shoe to work up a fragment of shell and inspect it, then toe it under again. ‘The thing is,’ he said. ‘Look—I have to tell you. I’ve got to say, that sort of thing doesn’t go real far here in the Bay. People don’t have a whole lot of time for that sort of thing.’
Grey looked in the direction that Colin was focused. Again it seemed to be the horizon he was searching.
‘Maybe it’s something you’ve always done,’ said Colin. ‘The flags and what-not. The loudhailer.’
‘I guess it is, Colin,’ said Grey. ‘I guess I’ve done it that way for some time.’
Colin lifted a hand to scratch at his jaw, then replaced it in his pocket.
A puff of breeze caught on Grey’s face—he looked out and, yes, the water had begun to stipple. The offshore breeze was getting up. He was losing valuable fishing time. ‘Moreover,’ he said, ‘I’m here officially, Colin. If there is a certain show to my fishing, I guess that’s part of the official visit. I’ve got a duty to promote the sport. I told your government I would promote the big-game fishing, here.’
Colin watched him coolly for a while. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can understand that. I know you’ve got a project on here. I’m just not so sure about the loudhailer. Or the flags. I’m not sure the local men are keen on the loudhailer.’
Grey went to say something, then didn’t.
‘Your own boatmen, even,’ said Colin. ‘I dare say your own crew aren’t keen on the loudhailer, Mr Grey.’
‘Is that so? I see.’
‘I think it might be the case, honestly,’ said Colin. ‘Honestly, I do.’
There was a pause.
‘Well, what is the custom, Colin?’ said Grey.
‘Oh, I don’t know about custom, Mr Grey. I don’t know about that. But I might say go easy on the loudhailer. Maybe just go easy on the announcements.’
‘I see,’ said Grey.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Colin. ‘Mr Zane Grey has landed six marlin. All that business. I’d ease up on that maybe. That’s my suggestion.’
Grey looked sharply at Colin and for a moment felt all the tension of those first days after his article crackling in between them. ‘Well, I’ll think that over,’ said Grey.
‘I’ll let you go now,’ said Colin.
‘I’d be obliged,’ said Grey. ‘My crew’s out already. You can see they’re ready to go.’
‘I’ll just come and help you with your dinghy,’ said Colin. ‘I’ll launch you.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Grey. ‘You’ve got your own trip today, no doubt. I can manage on my own.’
‘I’ll launch you. I’ll come down to your dinghy.’
Again Grey stared at the man. It was astonishing, Colin’s desire to oar in on another man’s day. Surely he knew Grey didn’t need assistance to launch a two-bit dinghy on the flattest inlet for miles around.
‘Honestly, it’s no problem,’ said Colin. ‘I’ll help you. It’s nothing. The least I can do is help you launch. I’ve delayed you a while here—I should help you get on.’ Having said this he glanced over at Grey’s boat and his crew, and Grey looked in that direction too. He recalled the unspeaking communion Colin had struck up with Crowe and Anderson the previous evening, the way they’d sat wordlessly by the campfire until Grey’s store of questions and stories were exhausted and he returned to his own tent and bedroll, whereupon they’d resumed a low murmur of conversation over the campfire.
So again he let Colin accompany him. Again they walked along the sand, the water collapsing in tiny wavelets at their side, no conversation passing between them, Grey increasingly irritable.
At length they were beside Grey’s dinghy for a second time.
‘Well, good luck out there,’ said Colin. ‘I hope they run in the right direction for you. You’ve certainly found some fish so far. You’ve hooked some big ones.’
To this Grey exasperatedly said nothing. He’d brought in more than forty marlin already, and twelve in a single day, and by his reckoning set a new world record for big-game fish in a single day. And all using the techniques he’d promoted, techniques developed off Cape Cod and used to considerable success—sporting success—by the great American clubs, and all round the world by any sportsmen who had at least some familiarity with modern advancements in the sport, and they were the very same techniques that Colin’s own members had set out to discredit so ferociously in the papers, without once having tried them, without once having subjected themselves to a fair and fierce fight with a great tuna. And what’s more, Grey thought, truly riled now, who was this Colin? This backwoodsman of the execrable manners and a twenty-foot launch that Grey could buy and sell, no doubt, for a fraction of what his Westerns had earned him. Grey was the one with the reputation—in every bay and camp he’d met New Zealand men and, in the towns, no small number of women who’d admired his Western stories or could recall the name of a favourite cowboy. Why, just yesterday he’d seen one of his book titles painted in cursive along the side of a pleasure boat some local fan owned.
But now Grey refrained from saying anything. He held his tongue. In truth it gave him a measure of unease that a man like Colin had had to point out a question of etiquette to him. And perhaps this ambush had not come entirely without warning. Grey had overheard the odd comment from time to time as he ran in. There’d been a certain atmosphere—perhaps in the reserve of his own boatmen he’d missed a message they’d been trying to deliver him. All the same he was reluctant to give up the loudhailer. Nothing could match motoring in after a full day’s sport, an array of giant tuna lying whipped and magnificent in the hold. Running in was so important, and the flags and the loudhailer were part of that.
Grey made a midway gesture towards Colin. ‘Well, tight lines today, Colin—best of British, as you might say.’
Colin squinted at him, gauging his tone. Then he turned with his eyes shaded towards the Alma G. ‘Like I said, Mr Grey, same to you.’
Tired of the man then, utterly tired of his prying and ignorance, Grey pulled the dinghy down to the water, leapt in, and began rowing. Once he looked up at Colin’s tall, pacing-away shape as it went across the foreshore, and thereafter he avoided glancing that way again. Rapidly he came alongside the Alma G, weighed anchor, and boarded.
With a brisk heartiness he greeted Crowe and Anderson, the latter searching his face in a way Grey considered unmannerly, then he went towards the charts and pored over them as the boat throttled out of the bay.
Grey did not need to look at the charts. He knew where they were going. And he did not need to speak to Crowe and Anderson either, as he did, pursuing a nonsense conversation about how they’d slept the previous evening, perceiving a slight wariness in their responses, a sense that somehow they could see how Colin had unsettled him on the shore. And for the first time in weeks as he faced them he felt conscious of his accent and expensive fishing clothes. He’d not felt that way in some time. It was a first-day feeling. He was used to feeling self-conscious as he set out amongst local men, but not in the fourth week. It was not a fourth-week feeling.
He studied the charts again.
He watched the barely ruffling water as it went by on both sides.
By the time he made Cape Brett, half a dozen local boats wer
e riding beneath it, drifting. Predictably enough, given the techniques under employ, nothing was happening, so Grey went beyond to troll for bait among the running kahawai, and even as he hooked the bait fish he was pleased to lure first one marlin, then a second, snapping in half-interest at the teasers—sizable fish, but too full of kahawai to be really worth baiting and trolling for properly.
Having hooked sufficient bait, he abandoned the troll for the time being and rode up near the other boats for the purposes of observation, almost knowing already what he would see. Sure enough, when he lifted the spyglass he saw a stand of too-thin rods with hopelessly inadequate tackle, reels fixed underside, and all of the boats at drift, not one trolling across the water with live bait fluttering in the wake of their boat to excite up the great tuna. Instead the triple-hooked lines dangled from the stationary craft as they bobbed ludicrously under the cliff like some misplaced display of clowns.
And even as he watched that ‘fishing’, as it was called, one of those over-long rods yanked downwards and a great commotion danced over a boat there, the angler letting line scream out and not striking at any stage, instead waiting and waiting in the bizarre local fashion, never rearing the rod up to strike and hook the fish properly and initiate a fight of the fair kind. Instead he let the marlin take his line deep and shouted to his boatman as the craft throttled up and began to rear out to sea, working against the fish, Grey presumed, to exhaust him that way.
Grey shook his head in bewilderment at what he was seeing. ‘Sure, he’ll lose that fish now,’ he muttered. ‘He’ll lose it pronto.’
The line tightened and still the fish did not come, and the sportsman did not pull him up, did not force him to leap and thrash, instead the boat contested with the heavy fish and the too-delicate rod and tackle strained and then, incredulous, Grey saw the rod bend to its extreme and snap, its top half dancing away over the water, the line itself breaking shortly after. Then the angler looked at the woe in his hands as if some other result could have been expected from such tactics, such tackle, and his crew came from elsewhere to console him.
I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales Page 17
