by Les Goodrich
“We’re not gonna make it thanks to you Mr. Omelet.”
“We’ll make it. That omelet was awesome. Orange juice tasted funny though. Not sour but something about it, right?”
“There was no rum in it.” Dolph reasoned.
“Oh. Actually I think that was it. That’s sad.”
The valet brought the car around. Colin tipped him and spun full tilt out of the parking lot.
Dolph tapped his hand nervously on the door sill.
“Does he know who you are? I mean he knows your dad. Mine too. Maybe he’d wait for us if he knew who we were. Are.”
I paid him cash yesterday. The other day. Whenever it was we drove over here. I didn’t mention Dad’s name. Just said I’d talked to him on the phone from Lauderdale. He didn’t seem to care about much. I really don’t think he’d care if we were the Prince and Duke of Wales. He didn’t say much.
“Did he say anything?”
“Yeah. He said not to be late.”
The Aston was alone on the road, nearing eighty-five miles per hour, when the arc of the Marina Bay Bridge lifted it from the Australian Pine shade skirting the shoreline. The onyx-blue car ascended suddenly into the bright morning air sixty towering feet above the water. The lift sent a startling quiver through Dolph’s lower stomach like the first run of a rollercoaster. The sapphire bay beaded with brilliant white sailboats. Any would-be topless sunbathers were surely still sleeping; they both checked anyway.
At five after seven they were running down the center dock scanning boat names for the Abscond. Most boats were idling tied in their slips. Crews were busy securing coolers in cockpits, fiddling with reels and rigging baits. Seagulls shrieked and the mingled smell of diesel exhaust and salt air hung in the harbor.
Several boats formed a slow moving single-file line through the marina and out into the narrow channel leading to the open ocean. The deep indigo channel wove its way between lime green shallow flats like India ink spilled on parchment.
An angler leaned in the cockpit of the last boat in line casting a shining silver lure sideways up onto the flats. As the boat moved forward the lure fell in behind it fluttering across the color change where the flats ledged the channel. The anxious fisherman hoped to oblige one of the giant barracudas lurking in the channel waiting for a foolish baitfish to peek out over the edge.
Colin watched the last boat and the guy casting from the back. He wondered if his money had paid for the guy to blind cast for ‘cuda.
“You don’t think he’d really leave us do ya?” he asked for reassurance and slowed to a walk. When no answer came he turned to see that Dolph had stopped three boats ago. Colin looked around to see if anyone had noticed him talking to himself. He pretended to be inspecting the other boats as he turned and walked back.
Dolph, like Colin, had been reared on maritime protocol like other kids had been taught table manners. He stood on the dock behind the boat and said hello to the captain sitting on the bridge reading a chart as the engines warmed up in a low diesel pulse and diesel exhaust mumbled then sputtered with each slight rise and fall of the transom, the boat in a gentle dockside sway. The captain did not answer but Dolph would never step onto a boat uninvited so he stood and looked to Colin walking up.
The Abscond, small and plain compared to most in the marina, was a thirty-three foot Bertram that looked like it had been fished up the River Styx and back. The neglected transom stained grey from diesel smoke. Fish blood had collected in a few corners and creases and turned black. All of the original teak woodwork had been deleted, replaced with fiberglass and brush-painted white. The bulkhead doors leading to the salon had been removed to reveal a sparse interior of fiberglass and vinyl. No carpet. No curtains. No brass sailfish sculptures. There was not an inch of the boat that could not be hosed down, not that she had seen a hose in years. Although she had not a shiny spot on her the twin engines hummed in perfect pulsing diesel synchronization as smooth as the fancy cruising yachts. Five big-game fishing rods stood in a row of rod holders that ran along a rail across the back of the fly bridge and among their brands and colors there was no agreement.
The NOAA weather report droned its familiar monotone from the VHF radio: “…bay and inland waters a moderate chop. Seas from Miami south to Key West one to two feet with a period of six seconds, winds east to southeast…”
“Captain Murphy,” Dolph said over the engines and radio voice.
The captain looked down at the two over the chart with mouth-open sarcastic surprise. His longbilled cap, pulled down tight, might have been red ten years ago. He folded the chart, stored it in a compartment under the wheel and stood. (He only looked at charts to relive past trips; he knew these waters and he knew today’s heading well.) The captain’s shorts were six pocket khaki and were identical to Dolph’s and Colin’s but for the fish blood and grease stains. His shirt was a faded blue polo type as old as the hat with the collar cut off. He leaned his sunbaked face over the rail squinted directly down at Dolph and said nothing. He turned to watch Colin walk up to the boat, stop next to his friend and look the boat up and down. He looked up at the captain and realizing his silence he looked to Dolph thinking it his turn to speak in a conversation that really was not happening. He opened his mouth to ask what was up but was interrupted by the captain.
“Five more minutes and you two would’a been left. I’d be cruising the bay with a few sexy ladies right now.”
“Not likely,” Dolph mumbled.
Colin smirked. The captain smirked back.
“But now I gotta go chase the big ones with a couple of yanks. Well, whatcha waitin’ for, an engraved invitation? Let’s go.”
“Where’s the mate?” asked Colin as he stepped aboard.
“Congratulations,” the captain said. “You just got the job. Now scurry up front and untie us. Can you handle it?”
“I’ll scurry up that ladder and handle your face,” Colin muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?” Captain Murphy asked smiling. He loved to get under people’s skin.
“No problem,” Colin said as he made his way forward along the gunnel as sure footed as a sailor but still mumbling, “You old skin cancer bastard.”
He crossed the bow just as Dolph freed the spring line and threw it up onto the side dock. Dolph then crossed the cockpit and unleashed the port stern line from its cleat mounted low in the boat’s rear corner. He coiled the slack and leaned out over the transom to toss the line up onto the dock in the spot where he had recently stood; hot droplets of salt water from the gurgling exhaust sprinkled his face.
Colin untied the forward lines casting the first untied coil over its piling perfectly, glancing up to Murphy knowing he was watching.
“Luck,” said the captain.
Colin slipped the second line under the bow rail, coiled the slack and lobbed it side-arm with the casual motion of a frisbee toss. He watched it hook onto the piling rope stay before looking up to Murphy again.
He cocked his chin up at the captain and said, “Skill.”
“No doubt,” Captain Murphy agreed and put the boat in gear bumping the throttle just enough to make Colin stumble as he pulled Abscond out of the slip.
Dolph was just cocking his elbow to throw the second stern line dockside and the sudden motion pulled his arm straight and he had to fumble the line to keep his arm from tangling. The nested ball of nylon plopped into the water. He swung to look up the bridge expecting a sorry or at least a smart remark. Instead he caught Murphy in a just-looked-away stillness, like a schoolboy caught making a face. His back shook with internal laughter. Captain Murphy had definitely not graduated from the same school of boat etiquette that his father had put him through. Dolph thought that he must be one hell of a good fisherman for Colin’s dad to charter him more than once.
“He’s a real charmer, huh pal?” Colin joked in his best Don Johnson voice as he stepped down into the cockpit.
“Baits are in the red cooler,” Murphy barked o
ver the engines as he steered around the end of the dock. He put the boat into a brisk idle and motored out of the marina.
“Rigs are in that port bulkhead locker. Let’s have a few ready before we get to Cuba. Or if you guys can’t rig somebody come steer this thing and I’ll do it.” He looked down and back over his shoulder.
Dolph sat on the cooler and Colin on an upturned bucket. They rigged six ballyhoo onto pre-rigged wire leaders that sprung around the deck like popped guitar strings. They cleared the marina jetty and Murphy increased the throttle to bring the craft up to a steady plane.
Colin and Dolph stayed in the cockpit for the ride. They talked about fishing and the shabby boat. They generally ignored the captain. Both of them commented on the boat’s kind ride in the light chop. They hit deep water after a twenty-minute run. Murphy backed off the throttle unannounced and sent Colin sliding on his bucket into the bulkhead.
“Damnit,” Collin demanded but the captain ignored him and set the boat into a slow trolling speed.
“You boys came to fish. Put some baits back there or do I have to come put the worm on the hook for ya?”
“How do you like them?” Colin gritted.
I like the flatlines up close. Just back enough to skip in case we get one behind a teaser. Run the riggers on that third wake and put the center line way back and I do mean way back. Might pick up a wahoo.
“Finally a straight answer,” Colin was surprised. “No sarcasm. Unbelievable.”
He and Dolph set the five lines and checked drag on the reels. The captain let out two teasers from fixed reels on the bridge. The well-rigged baits skipped steadily behind the slow trolling boat. The hookless teasers darted, skipped and dove leaving white effervescent bubble trails in the deep blue Gulfstream water.
The old boat, despite her run-down looks, moved surely through the moderate chop. She tracked a straight line and the bait spread fit neatly in her wake. A tidy presentation. The engines hummed quietly at trolling speed unlike some boats the boys had fished on whose trolling speed came at a notch too loud volume or a maddening throb.
The more they thought about it the more they realized that despite the ornaments or cleanliness it lacked it was likely the most no-nonsense fishing rig they had ever been on. No show and all go as they say with a captain who cared not for the opinions of others. There was no doubt that Captain Murphy was a true fisherman. The boys realized this at the same time and acknowledged the fact with nods.
Here is a guy with real contempt for the floating condos that masquerade as fishing boats these days Dolph thought. Here is a guy who refused to take out lazy rich jerks who sat on their asses waiting for a reel to sing and the mate to hook into something so they could reel it in and brag like a warrior back at the dock. Dolph understood the lack of a mate. He understood the captain treating them like punks because he had pegged them as rich kids off the bat. He wondered about the times Murphy had been stuck babysitting teenagers while their old man did whatever it was he did back on dry land. So Dolph was right about the mate. No free lunches on this ride. You work for it or you don’t catch it. It was a boat for fisherman and not much else. Dolph liked that.
Colin turned and looked flatly at Dolph, then spoke.
“The guy’s an asshole.”
Chapter 8
The majority of the morning was eventless. The boys stayed in the cockpit for the most part watching for signs of fish and continually freeing baits of seaweed. Captain Murphy sat back in the helm chair steering with his feet, flicking cigarette ashes into the cockpit and standing now and then to scan the horizon for birds or to get a better look when anything on the surface caught his eye. He had excellent eyesight. Dolph fought a barracuda to boat-side, close enough for Colin to grab the hook with pliers and release the fish. A school of bottlenose dolphin visited them and swam alongside the fishing boat, darting under and around the boat as it trolled, animating the otherwise uneventful day. Dolph watched a dolphin swim just below the surface and it seemed as if his tail did not even move; the dolphin seemed to just glide. Dolph leaned over the gunnel to be closer and watch this intelligent being glide through blue diamond water. Silver skin that gleamed like chrome. A heart that beat fast and strong. Dolph thought about how wonderful their life must be. No jobs. No taxes. No homes to build or buy or sell or maintain. They wore a perpetual smile and roamed the ocean eating fresh fish everyday. He knew they were more intelligent than humans.
Finally Colin hooked a sailfish twenty minutes before their seven hours of fishing time was up. If they fished past two p.m. they would have to pay for an additional half day. Dolph was amazed at charter boat captains and their ability to let customers catch trash fish all day then drive the boat over a sailfish just before the end of the trip. Skill.
The fish’s bill broke water behind a port bait just as Colin looked up from a bent leader he was fiddling with. He grabbed the rod as the fish churned the water white behind the skipping ballyhoo. Adrenalin pumped Colin into exhilaration.
“Fish! Right there right there. Port flatline.”
Dolph jumped to the other flatline and reeled it furiously. He moved up to that rigger then the port rigger and in a minute had all the other lines reeled up and out of the way to avoid a tangle.
Colin stumbled over rods, coolers, a bucket and Dolph following the fish sideways and cussing the whole way. The fish lunged at the bait again and Colin freespooled the line dropping the bait back to allow the fish to take it and run. He felt the freespooling line slow as the fish swam slowly perpendicular to the direction of the boat. He watched the tight monofilament slice the slick surface tension of the salty Gulfstream. The fish stayed on the surface for a fleeting second then turned and headed for the bottom.
Colin consciously got his balance, pushed the lever drag forward on the reel, reeled twice, watched the curving slack draw tight and reared back firmly reeling another two turns at the peak of his lean. He bent his knees and stepped back with his left foot as the line stretched. He felt the line quiver through the water. The fish turned and sped to the surface. Dolph saw water droplets spring from the tightening line; he watched the ripping intersection of line and water move farther and farther from the boat. Silence.
The silver and gold sailfish, his sail tucked tightly away, exploded from the ocean like a missile shot from a nuclear submarine.
Dolph yelled out. The captain put the boat into a faster gate and turned slightly toward the direction the fish seemed to be headed: away and to port. When the fish surfaced again seconds later he was so far away that they all thought it was a different fish. He had easily covered three hundred yards and when the fish jumped twice more causing the reel to sing out twice in a row the captain realized the situation.
“Damn that’s a fast fish,” the captain said as he pushed the throttle forward and fought the wheel against the torque of churning props. Engines groaned and churned water. The boat stepping up to chase the fish and Colin, pressed to the stern, reeled with fury. He hoped like hell he had set the hook.
The fish landed on its side and shook his head wildly agitating the water into aqua static. The mangled ballyhoo, hook and leader shot from the whitewater. The sudden release let Colin fumble back like the victim of a tug-o-war prank.
The boys starred at the settling patch of sea. A thin fizzing foam spread across the face of the water as waves rolled it up and down where the fish had danced so briefly and was gone.
“Well,” Murphy bellowed and Dolph looked up but Colin stayed looking off portside.
“Well what?” asked Dolph.
“Well that’s what you get when you don’t pay attention.”
“Meaning what exactly?” Colin spoke as he reeled in the spit back bait. He took the captain in stride still in shock from loosing the fish.
“Plain and simple Dumbass. You fucked it up and lost a nice one. You didn’t drop back long enough. You should always drop back at least twelve seconds.”
“Goddamnit that’s it,” Coli
n exploded as the rod came down in a clatter behind him and him on his way to the ladder. In two steps and a pull from his strong arms he found himself on the flying bridge for the first time that day. He was face to face with Murphy.
“Where did you read that you son of a bitch? In a damn how-to book?”
“Screw you ya damn punk. I’ve wrung more salt water outta my socks than you’ve fished across in your whole life.” He leaned into Colin. Murphy was leathery and tough but he was old and ravaged by years of scotch and cigarettes. He was no match for Colin’s strength. Colin exploded when Murphy’s chest bumped his and he shoved the sailor into the steering console. Murphy, the wind knocked out of him, held one hand to his chest and the other up in surrender.
“Okay,” trying to find his breath. “Don’t take it so personal. You did fine on the fish. You read him fine and reeled like a champ. I thought you’d have him on the gunnel in twenty minutes.”
Colin wore a confused face that dropped his eyebrows and parted his lips.
“What the hell is your problem Captain? I’m trying real hard to figure you out.”
“I got shit on my mind. I’m stressed out man. I mean like you don’t wanna know type shit.”
“You’re right. I don’t wanna know. Can we go home and get drunk now?”
Dolph watched, listened and stowed rods then climbed the ladder with two beers pressed to his chest under his left arm and a third in that hand. He handed a beer to the captain and thanked him for a nice day fishing in a way that sort of ignored the fact that he had not spoken to the guy once all day. Colin twisted his mouth, narrowed his eyes and shot Dolph a look that read like fatigue.
Murphy pushed up the throttle and brought his old girl to a comfortable gate. A high pressure front had ironed the seas into a mirror from the horizon behind them all the way around to the island dots floating on a mercury thread that was the horizon before them and the small boat pushed across that slick surface and it looked like the boat flew through the sky with cotton-white battleship clouds above them reflecting portrait-like on the glassy water below them.
