“I enjoyed our conversations,” she said, unaware of whether her answer came from showbiz or real life.
“Where are you from, dear?”
“Holland.”
“The country?”
“No, Holland, Michigan.”
“Ah, Lake Michigan. Some fine catches there. I fished the Great Lakes a long, long time ago.”
“Did you catch anything?”
“Of course. I always catch something. How about you?”
“Okay, yes, well, not with a fishing pole, but with a stick. I caught a disgusting, slimy vine of sorts.”
“Oh, if only I were thirty years younger, I would have married you for your charm, young lady!” He laughed loudly for everyone to hear. “Vicki, I take people from all over the world fishing. How would you like to go late-night tarpon fishing with me?”
“Tarpon fishing? Sure. I’d love to sometime.”
“No, I mean tonight. I’m dropping my group off at the marina, then I’ll swing back to Tarpon Key and pick you up.”
“So late?”
“Absolutely! Eleven o’clock. Be on the front dock.”
“Okay. Why thank you. I look forward to it!”
She walked into Ruth’s office. “I think I did something politically incorrect or perhaps dangerous. I don’t know which.”
“What did you do?”
“I told the captain I’d go fishing with him. Tonight.”
Ruth stared. “Why of course you should. That’s not wrong! He’s a respected man around here, and he’s taken celebrities and famous people from all over the world out fishing. Do not miss an opportunity to go fishing with Porter. You’d be a fool!”
God put those stars up there to separate day from night, Vicki thought as she looked overhead, mesmerized. Like staring into a fire, she could hardly drag herself to blink, and she hardly noticed where the boat headed. With not a cloud in the navy blue sky, the stars sparkled like a broken chain of scattered diamonds, and her neck ached from looking up. She had never noticed the sky before. She knew the basics, that the sky wore blue on sunny days and gray on cloudy days, but now, because she was taking the time to truly notice it, she saw that the sky wore more, accessories.
She looked around, studying the boat. No cruise ship, but in the realm of fishing boats, this captain kept his boat in top-notch shape. Like the napkin holders in her parent’s shop, the silver rims of his vessel sparkled in the moonlight, as if freshly wiped with Windex. Pride of ownership.
“We’re entering Boca Grande Pass, the world’s best spot for tarpon fishing.” Captain Smith had one hand on the wheel and the other on a tropical drink garnished with a piece of pineapple.
“Boca Grande means big mouth in Spanish, I think,” said Vicki, dipping her hand over the edge of the boat to tap the dark, somewhat warm water below.
“Yes. This is the mouth of the Charlotte Harbor, and it’s one of Florida’s deepest natural inlets. The Calusa Indians loved its rich fishing grounds. Tarpon love it too. They usually hang out in warm, coastal waters.”
“Do you think we’ll catch anything tonight?”
“I guarantee you’re going to catch a tarpon, and we won’t leave until you do!” The saltwater guru sipped his drink. “We’re not on a deadline here. We don’t want to rush anything, but you will catch a tarpon. When I don’t know yet. Tonight? This morning? Absolutely!”
“But how do you know I’ll catch a tarpon? Aren’t there other fish out here too?”
“Oh yes, there are others – grouper, snapper, cobia, mackerel, sheep’s head, and pampano.”
“Goodness! There’s as many fish as there are bottles of wine!” The boat stopped, and he unleashed the anchor.
“A bottle of wine to go with every fish.”
“What sort of wine would you order with tarpon?”
“Oh no, we’re not out here to bring a tarpon home with us. In all my forty-eight years of fishing, I’ve never killed a tarpon. They’re the most prized of all saltwater fish, and there’s a no-kill law. No, there’s no reason to kill these game fish. No one wants to eat a silver king, Vicki.”
“So, basically, we’re here to hook it and let it go? That sounds simple.”
“I wouldn’t say simple. Keep in mind that we’re aiming for tarpon, tournament-size tarpon. Nothing less, nothing more, and tarpon is what you’ll catch. They can reach more than six feet in length and one hundred and fifty pounds in weight, and no fish is more unpredictable than the tarpon.” He attached small, live crabs to a fishing line and cast it out, before handing the pole to Vicki.
It was men’s moonlight madness as boats shopped the dark, deep water, searching frantically, though displaying the calmness of men who shop. Everyone had his own space, no shoving, but fighting for the same sweater. Everyone owned part of the water. Just one more fish of the night, one more, then it’s time to go home. As if the men had pushed the mute button on the remote control, it proved a quiet sale, almost silent enough to hear a dolphin breathing or gulls calling. Vicki and Porter didn’t have to talk much. Though they were strangers, they felt comfortable with the silence of the event. She liked his comfort zone.
“There. Listen. Shhhhh - a rolling tarpon, a half mile down.”
“A what?”
“Tarpon breathe air from the atmosphere like we do. They rise to the surface, exhale, inhale, and roll under. If all is quiet enough, you can hear it.”
“I do.” In the silent darkness they could hear the tarpon rolling and crashing about, porpoising in order to breathe air into its swim bladder. The fish rolled slowly with a soft, lazy sigh, sinking two feet below the surface. The captain attached live, finger-size mullet to the line on another pole and handed it to Vicki, taking the pole she had been holding for an hour. She cast it out, and the mullet stayed on the surface. The boat kept drifting.
“I feel it! I think we’ve hooked a fish!” Vicki’s bait was sucked under, and her line went tight. She could feel the weight of something big, a tarpon tugging.
“Dip the rod to the surface to create controlled slack, Vicki.” The captain stood there, calmly calling out commands. It all happened just below the surface, softness, not jerking, almost in slow motion. “Wait for your rod to bend sharply, Vicki. Tell me when you feel the full weight of the fish.”
“Oh, dear God! I feel it. Help!” She wore her long blue skirt and white blouse from dinner, and didn’t feel like embarking on the battle alone.
“Okay, now sharply sweep the rod sideways. A tarpon’s mouth is as hard as concrete. You can do it. Steady, strong, pull on the rod. Keep constant pressure on the hook.”
“Help! I’m going to need your help!”
Something silver exploded in the black water. The tarpon jumped, stung by the hook. In a wild scene, it jumped out of the water into the air. When it hit the water again, a flying wave of salty water slapped Vicki. “Please, grab onto my belt so I don’t go overboard with this fish!”
“Okay, looks like you might get pulled. Need help now?”
“No! I can do it. I’ve got to do it!”
“Okay, ease the pressure and enjoy. You’re now fully engaged in a battle with a silver king, Vicki.”
By now the weight of the tarpon had pulled her feet to the edge of the boat. Her arms felt shaky, as if she had just lifted weights in the gym. Her blouse dripped with water, and she anticipated going overboard. A good twenty minutes passed, and she was still fully engaged in a stubborn battle with the powerful, acrobatic silver fish. The water below acted nervous as the scale-encased muscle danced around the boat. Her mind fought too. She couldn’t give up now. She felt ready to battle, ready to face her fears head-on—fears that felt too big for life, fears of death. She didn’t know how to battle her panic attacks, or her fears, but engaging in this physical battle with a fish felt good.
The captain took a Polaroid picture, then moved in to help. He took the pole over and lifted the fish to the gaffer. She could finally see its bright silver belly and sides
against its dark blue back.
“Well, how do you feel? You’ve just caught an eighty-five pound tarpon.”
“Like I’ve experienced one of the wonders of the universe. Wow! I guess that sounds pretty dramatic, doesn’t it?”
“People compare it to all kinds of things. One gentleman said it sparked the same kind of determination he needed during the interview process to land his dream job. A woman actually said it reminded her of labor and her two hours of pushing. It means something different to everyone. It’s personal.”
“Captain, why do you do it? I mean, has it ever lost that first-time appeal?”
“Every baby born to a woman is given a life. But oxygen, and the capacity to breathe, the elements of scientific living, they don’t bring a person to life. Each person must decide if they want to live. Does this make sense?”
“I’m not sure.”
“We can go through life living and breathing, but this has nothing to do with truly living.”
“Oh.”
“Dear, we all have our domains: a rider on his horse, a dancer on the stage, a pianist at the piano, a fisherman on his boat. Our domains are one thing: the horse, stage, piano, or boat. What we do with our domains is another. We gallop, dance, play the piano, and fish. Only we don’t just go through the motions. We crave it, feel it, escape to it, savor it, and forget everything else in life. We get tired, we sleep, and we wake up and long to return to our domains. Only we bring more and more to them, and we get better and better, and learn more and more about our domains. In this age of information we are only human, overwhelmed. We can’t learn it all and never will. We can, however, learn all we want about our domains, the things that make us trot, sing, dance, and catch fish. There are a lot of lost people out there, people without domains. Find a domain and bring passion to your life.”
“Captain Smith?”
“Yes?”
“I tried hard to come up with a passion back in the restaurant tonight. I searched my thoughts, and nothing came up.”
“Did we search for that tarpon tonight?”
“No, we didn’t. We sat there listening for it to breathe.”
“You want to find your passion in life?”
“I do.”
“Be still and listen.”
“How does a woman, scrambling for a job, identity, and purpose have time to sit still and listen for a passion in her life?”
“Searching for a passion runs parallel to life. Don’t make it a perpendicular search. It shouldn’t interfere, and it should never become stressful. Be as confident as I was that I knew we would catch a fish tonight. Never rush it. I didn’t start fishing until sometime in my thirties. John didn’t open his health food place until his fifties. Don’t push your life aside, just be receptive.”
Vicki understood now his reputation for being the best charter boat captain around. She assumed he had told this story to others, to people who had come from all over the world for the tarpon-catching experience. Well, maybe he told it only to people who asked the simple question, Why do you fish, Porter?
At the rusty pay phone located on the side of the boathouse, the side that stood on the dock, she squeezed her dress and let the water drip freely onto the wooden planks. “Hello, Ben. I miss you,” she said into the battered phone.
“Anything new and exciting in your life?” he asked from the hotel room he was staying at in Miami.
She slapped at a swarm of mosquitoes feasting off her arms and legs. “Yes, I just caught an eighty-five-pound silver king. We battled a good two hours before I won.” She knew she embellished the story a bit, but hey, the fish story belonged to her, her first fish tale. “I’ve got a Polaroid picture of our struggle. It looks a lot smaller in the picture. It was huge in real life, and he did back flips about ten feet into the air.”
“You went fishing? That’s interesting. I can’t picture you fishing.”
“Can you picture me working?” She looked at the ripples of water slapping against the wooden posts of the dock.
“You found a job?”
“Yes, yes I have. And it’s a unique one, quite unique.”
“Congratulations. Where?”
“Well, I’m waiting tables on a remote island in the Gulf of Mexico. You can come see me any time you want, but you’ll need to charter a boat because it’s a few miles out, and there’s no bridge, no roads, no anything. In fact I’m talking to you on a pay phone, outside on the dock.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh.” There was silence. “You’re living on this island, this remote island with no bridge, you said?”
“I am.”
“When can I see you?”
“I work several days in a row, then leave the island for a couple of days off.”
“So, you’re working and sleeping there.”
“Yes, and it’s paradise out here, really.”
“That’s nice, Vicki. I’m glad you found paradise. I guess it’s all perspective, what one considers to be paradise.”
“Then tell me, what is your perspective of paradise?” she asked, suddenly feeling as if she were playing a game of chess.
“Oh, I don’t know. You and me together, maybe.”
“Ben, I can still see you on my days off,” she answered strategically.
“Okay. Sure, give me a call before you leave for Michigan.”
“Ben, I won’t be going back there in the fall. I’ve been struggling with a decision. I’m going to Madrid for the fall semester, I think. I didn’t want to say anything. I guess I’ve been confused lately, but I realize I want to travel.”
“Well, thanks for telling me. Anything else new?” He laughed, and then there was silence.
She didn’t like where this game was going. “No. That’s all.”
His turn to move. He hesitated. “Ah, thank you for calling me and giving me this information. You take care out there, and I’ll talk to you later.
Bye.”
Ouch, she thought. I don’t think I captured the king. She wanted to tell him she cared for him, that he came so close to fitting her Mr. Right profile, but the game had ended, checkmate. She would tell him next time. He had hung up.
CHAPTER NINE
SHE SAT ON THE MATTRESS in her sandy-floored room and let her mind wander dangerously. She had lived and worked on the island for ten days, and suddenly started feeling claustrophobic, like a plastic figurine in a glass dome with fake snow falling down about her. Did those figures ever want to break the glass and escape? Probably not, she decided. The dome housed their comfort zone. A nice world for plastic figurines, that is, until some clumsy child dropped it, shattering the glass. No, she was no figurine, just a minute, insignificant being living within the intestines of Old Mr. Two-Face on a small island in the large Gulf of Mexico. And, to make matters worse, she could think of no way to get off the island.
She peered out the tiny, round window and felt like an old, grumpy woman hiding behind her dark sunglasses. She could see nothing but darkness and a small stretch of the water, lit by the moon. It made her feel that much more sequestered, isolated, remote, stranded, a prisoner on Alcatraz, a shipwrecked sailor like Robinson Crusoe, a proper British schoolboy who might revert to savage brutality in a struggle for power and survival. No, this wasn’t like what it was in Lord of the Flies. She couldn’t call this an island of survival—just an island, like Great Britain, like Cuba, like Ireland, only smaller, much smaller. But, what if she got a chocolate craving and there were no grocery stores? Or worse, what if her heart pains returned and she had to get to a hospital? She declared that dilemma a thing of the past, unless, of course, she let it return. Then it did return, proving mind over matter was a powerful thing, and she wanted more than anything to switch rooms with someone on the other side of the building.
Just the thought of heart pains gave her brain blaring signals that life-threatening danger lurked nearby. Her autonomic nervous system star
ted pumping adrenaline and cortisol, the hormones that made her heart pound harder and her fingers itch. As her arms shook, she decided they were recovering from the tarpon battle a few nights ago. She felt pain in her heart and a nerve reacting in her leg. No, it couldn’t possibly be a nerve. Instead, it was something climbing over her leg! After springing up, she reached for the light. Two red cockroaches quickly scrambled into the mattress hole near her toes. They justified her decision not to fall asleep nor to turn off the light. She swore she would bring this sanitary issue to Ruth’s attention come morning, and she wouldn’t allow Ruth to tell her that some invisible wall would keep them out.
She watched another red bug sprint across the sandy tile floor before grabbing an old coffeepot that served no purpose—it was just an accepted part of the room—and trapped the creature. Watching it jump around under the glass pot disgusted her, so she threw a dirty towel over it. That still didn’t satisfy her. She remembered her own feelings of claustrophobia and let the thing go. She felt pity for it, because it was ugly. How could people not hate cockroaches? If only it looked like a butterfly she’d make the effort to free it outside. Instead, she wanted it dead, but hated the crunching sound that had come from the last one she murdered. She wished it were a spider. They are simple to kill – a smush, not a crunch.
The music from down the hall grew louder, so she put her ear against the door and listened for words. It grew louder again and sounded like Tom Petty giving a concert in the staff house.
“She’s a good girl, loves her mama, loves Jesus and America too,” Vicki sang along quietly. “She’s a good girl, crazy about Elvis, loves horses …”
She stood with her ear to the door, relating to the words. She didn’t move. But then, after the Tom Petty song, an old favorite came on, the Gloria Gaynor song that stirred her like a cup of coffee.
She looked at the cockroaches scrambling around the floor, having fun, and she started to dance, alone in her room. She closed her eyes as she moved and sang, carefree. “I’ve spent oh so many nights just feeling sorry for myself …”
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