Bonefish Blues

by Steven Becker

  Chapter 1

  Joey Pagliano opened the trunk and pulled the body onto the gravel driveway.

  “That’s the third one this month,” Eli Braken said as he puffed furiously on his cigar to cover the smell of the bloated body. “We can’t keep dumping your trash out there.”

  Pagliano ignored him and went to the storage room. “Did you get the ice like I asked or are you just going to stand there and preach?” He emerged with a large canvas bag used to preserve tournament fish.

  Braken opened the trunk of the Cadillac and removed two bags of ice and set them next to the body. “Just saying. We have plans for that island. You keep bringing bodies down here and someone finds out it could blow the whole deal.”

  Pagliano tried to control his temper. Dumping bodies in Miami had gotten tricky. In the past he had taken his victims out to the Everglades but the once deserted swamp had turned into an eco-tourist park in the last few years. Cement shoes had gone out of vogue as well with South Beach’s resurgence. You couldn’t get out one of the cuts leading to the Atlantic without a tourist training their binoculars on you. Even the backwaters of Homestead were constantly patrolled by Fish and Game officers.

  The Gulf side of the Keys was too vast to patrol and tourists rarely ventured onto the unmarked shoal ridden shallows. Flamingo Key was the best option whether Braken liked it or not. The deserted island with it’s abandoned septic tanks was the perfect dumping spot.

  “Cody’s out on a charter. We won’t be able to dump it until tomorrow.”

  “Just shut up and help me,” Pagliano said as he dragged the body toward the bag. Braken reluctantly came over to help stuff the body in. They added ice and lifted it back into the trunk. “It’s not like he’s not dead already.”

  ***

  The fin sliced through the water as the fish cruised the flat. Will saw it before the man did, his view from the poling platform of the flats boat giving him an advantage. “There,” he whispered, as if the fish could hear him from fifty feet. “Lead him with the fly.”

  The fly line was pooled on the deck around the man’s feet. Will grimaced, already knowing the outcome but unable to correct him, as the man lifted line off the water and swung the rod back over his head for the back cast. The cast went too far back and snagged in the mangroves lining the shore of the small island known as Flamingo Key. Frustrated, he looked at Will, “I can’t get this right.”

  Will poled the boat toward the bank to retrieve the fly, shaking his head; the fish was gone. “It’s hard. But when you hook that first fish, it’ll all be worth it.” The boat edged toward the bush where the fly was hooked and he gently reached over, pulling the offending branch toward him and removing the hook. Pole in hand, he moved the boat toward the feeding fish. “Let’s do a couple more practice casts off to the side. Get your rhythm back.”

  He moved the boat further away from the mangroves and nosed it into the current. Another boat, all too familiar to him, was fishing a quarter mile off the point. It had the familiar outline of a cuddy cabin probably Cody Braken’s Grady-White. Will wondered why Cody fished that spot so often. He had checked it out; the bottom was sandy there, barren of the rocks or coral that attracted fish. He knew Cody was lazy, but there was no way someone with his experience as a charter captain would fish there. He squinted into the sun and watched them; rods bent over, rejoicing as the fish came over the side of the boat. He shrugged his shoulders and wondered again what made that spot so special.

  The line snapping back and forth as the man practiced brought him back to the present he released more line with each cast. Will watched with feigned interest. He’d been here and done that with rookie anglers for years. Fly fishing was not rocket science, but it took practice. A thousand good casts and you had a chance at being somewhat competent. It was playing the law of averages. He knew the man would eventually get a good cast to the right spot, and — fish gods willing — hook the fish. He looked up at the cloudless sky, the color a pale blue, perfectly accenting the water, and hoped the gods had heard his plea. As if on cue, the man pulled back on the rod, lucky not to pull the hook from the fish.

  “Got one!” he said.

  Will’s eyes followed the fluorescent green fly line to where it disappeared in the water. He watched several feet of line peel off the rod as the fish ran. The dorsal fin rose as it dove attempting to shake the hook. Satisfied it was hooked well, he moved his gaze toward the rod. The nine-weight rod was bent double but was suitable for the task.

  “Easy, don’t yank on it. It’s a nice fish, and you’re going to have to fight it on the reel.” The man looked at him, confused, line pooled at his feet. “Loosen up your right hand and let him take some line if he wants, while you reel the extra line on with your left hand.” Often smaller fish could be brought in by hand-lining the loose line. In this case, Will knew the angler would need the assistance of the drag the reel provided to tire the fish enough to land it.

  The man returned his gaze to the reel. His right hand, holding the line pinched against the rod, eased slightly, allowing the fish to take some line and run instead of meeting resistance and either breaking off or shaking the hook.

  Will noticed the fish start to sense the lack of pressure. “A little harder, and bring the rod to the side a little, not overhead.” He watched as the man followed his directions. It would be a constant adjustment of give and take until the man had the line on the reel and the mechanical drag could take over. Until then, the inexperienced angler would have to sense when to loosen and tighten the line against the rod as the fish moved. Either too loose or too tight, and the fish would be gone. Slowly, the man got comfortable with his right hand and started winding the line on the deck onto the reel with his left. Will breathed a sigh of relief once all the line was on the reel and the angler was able to fight the fish with the reel’s drag.

  “Got him now,” the man exclaimed, relief evident in his voice.

  He adjusted the drag and started to bring the fish toward the boat. Now, when it wanted to run, the drag set on the reel would handle it evenly. It took several long minutes before they could see a flash of silver come parallel with the boat, and when it did, Will kneeled on the deck and reached both hands in the water.

  “OK, step back with the rod and bring him to me.”

  The man took two steps backward as the fish slid over Will’s waiting hands. Once the creature was above both open palms, he raised them and plucked the fish from the water, then grabbed the mouth of the twenty-four-inch fish and held it for the man to see. The reddish scales glittered in the sun, the dark spot above the tail easily identifying it as a redfish.

  “Wow. Nice fish, and dammed more fun than catching it on a spinning reel with a shrimp on the end of the line.”

  Those were the words Will longed to hear that made his career as a charter captain worthwhile — justification for everything he did bringing novice fly fishermen out, tying their flies on the line, managing tangles and removing wayward hooks. He held the mouth pinched between two fingers and went to his belt for his pliers. The fly pulled easily from the fish’s mouth, and he handed it back to the happy angler.

  “Lefty’s Deceiver. Works every time.” With that, the fish went into the box. Flats fishing in the Florida Keys brought in both edible and sport fish, the redfish a very desirable catch. A quick look to the west showed the sun about a hand and a half above the horizon; roughly an hour and a half until it set.

  The man followed his gaze, grinning. “That made my day. We can head in anytime.”

  Will knew better than to push too far. Pulling the plug and heading in after a catch was the best way to end a charter. If they continued, the man would quickly forget the thrill of the catch after another inevitable mess of tangled lin
e ensued; and that would certainly ruin the day.

  He breathed out, knowing they’d been fortunate to hook up this close to slack tide. The twenty two foot push pole used to move the boat through the shallow water was vertical in its deck fitting, anchoring the boat against the gentle current, the water barely making a wake against it. He secured the pole in it’s holder, went to the console and started the engine. One hand pushed the throttle forward as the other turned the wheel toward the west. Seconds later, the wind blew through his hair as the boat went onto plane, skimming over the small waves. The flats of Flamingo Key receded behind them.

  Russell Key was the first landmark, with Stirrup Key jutting out in the distance. Will held the course straight from the shallow flat off Bamboo Key to Stirrup Key. There he turned the wheel to the left and ran parallel with the mainland. Once past the airport, he slowed the boat and turned toward a small canal. The man-made canals, blasted in the 1960s and 70s, provided access to many of the areas that had been previously landlocked by shallow water.

  “Got a couple of beers in the cooler,” he shouted to his client.

  “Sure, sounds good,” the man said, gratefully reaching down and grabbing a dripping can of Yuenling. “Took me a while to get the hang of it, but that was everything I expected and more. What a rush.”

  Will let the man revel in his victory as he navigated the canal. The boat idled to the dock where he skillfully cut the engine, reached over for the line sitting on the dock and tied the boat off. He repeated the procedure on the stern and hopped onto the dock.

  Chapter 2

  The Grady-White pulled in too fast, the wake from the twenty two foot boat rocking the boats in the marina. Will was thrown off balance and his customer off his feet, almost over the transom. The Kraken in bold letters stared him in the face from the stern of the offending boat

  “What’s with the jerk?” the angler asked.

  “Never mind him. Let’s go on up to the shade and settle up,” Will replied.

  “Y’all catch anything?” Cody yelled as he swung his boat toward the dock. “Yo, Matt, grab the line dude.” He tossed the bloodstained line toward a boy on the deck. “Tie her up. I’ll toss up the fish.”

  Matt tied the line to the forward cleat and waited for Cody to toss the stern line. Instead, Cody reached into the cooler. “To the victors go the spoils.” He recited the standard line as he handed beers around.

  The tide pulled on the boat, moving the back end away from the dock, but Cody was passing out beers - not aware of the movement. The boat was almost perpendicular when he realized what was happening and tossed the other line out. It flattened on the water, falling two feet short of the dock. Matt got on his belly, reached out for the line, and pulled the boat in.

  “Hurry up. Got a cooler full of fish for you to clean.” Cody reached into the fish box and started tossing carcasses onto the dock. Matt lined up the assortment of Grouper and Snapper in size order setting up for the requisite picture. He picked the two largest for the men to hold.

  The men helped each other onto the dock, each swaying slightly. Another epic day on Cody’s boat to tell their friends about. They grinned and bumped fists as the boy laid the catch out.

  “What the hell, boy?” one asked as Matt started throwing fish into the water.

  “They’re short. Snappers’ve got to be twelve inches, groupers twenty.” Three more fish followed.

  “You could hurry your ass up and just clean them. Toss the carcasses, nobody’ll be the wiser,” Cody said as he hopped to the dock, catching himself on a piling to break his fall.

  Matt ignored him and handed each angler a larger fish. “Be happy to take a picture for you. Won’t take long to clean them after that.”

  Bellies poked out of shirts and well-chewed cigar stubs hung from their mouths as the men pushed their hats back, took off their sunglasses, and smiled.

  “What’s that all about?” the man with Will asked as he handed him two hundred dollar bills.

  Will peeled the perfect filet off the back side of the redfish and tossed the translucent spine to a waiting pelican. “Here you go.” He handed the bagged filets to the man. “Good fishing with you.”

  The man looked down at his catch, then glanced toward the scene on the dock. Will followed his look knowing he had some buyers remorse. “There’s no skill in that. Anyone can go out, drink some beers, soak some bait, and bring back fish. Catching them on a fly, just taking what you need for dinner … I’d say that’s a whole lot more honorable. Those guys don’t respect what we’ve got here. Without sportsmen like you, this place’ll be wiped out in a few years. Damn shame.”

  The man shook his head and walked toward the dock, passing Matt as he navigated the narrow gangplank separating the seawall from the floating dock. Will watched as he walked up to the group, accepted a beer, and listened intently to their tale. He hung around for a while, finally taking a business card from Cody.

  “Never mind that. You’re doing it the right way.” Ned put a cold soda on the cleaning table and watched Will as he finished hosing off the table’s surface and deck below. The old man had been around the Keys for years. A former college professor turned marina owner, he was the go-to guy for any local knowledge. He’d been there, done that and now held court at his dockside seat, liberally spreading his advice to anyone who would listen. “Takes a while to build a reputation here. I’ve been watching them come and go for thirty years.” He pointed to the dock. “That boy—” He tilted his head toward Cody. “Without his daddy, he’d be cleaning your fish. The old man puts the customers in his boat.”

  “Sometimes it looks like I have to do everything the hard way,” Will said.

  “There’s only two ways, and the hard way is usually the right way. Besides, I don’t see you drinking beers and talking trash like that six days a week. That’s no way to live.”

  Matt walked up holding a basket full of fish in his hands, “Can I take that table?”

  “Sure. I’m finished.” Will stepped to the side.

  Matt set the laundry basket of fish on the deck, grabbed an empty bucket, and set the hose in it. While it was filling he took the sharpening steel to the worn fillet knife. One at a time he skillfully cleaned the fish, placing the fillets in the bucket of water, popping the eyes out of the carcass and tossing them to the waiting birds.

  “Take the soda.” Will pushed the unopened can toward him.

  Matt wiped the sweat from his brow and cracked the tab. “Thanks, Will. My dad only has beer on the boat.”

  Will and Ned watched the boy finish cleaning the fish. He hosed the table off, wiping the remnants through the drain hole, and carefully took the fillets out of the bucket. Separated by species, he started to bag them, sucking the air from each bag before sealing it.

  “What are you being so careful for?” Ned asked. “Not like those guys’ll appreciate the effort you’re taking.

  “Just hoping for a big tip. Saving up for a car.”

  ***

  Will watched as Cody and the two men approached. Matt handed them the bucket, baggies neatly stacked on the bottom. “Here you go, sir.”

  He waited, looking up at them expectantly.

  “Go on down and clean the boat now,” Cody told him.

  The men ignored Matt’s glance as he headed down toward the dock, and Cody turned back to Will.

  “Yo, Will. Didn’t do so hot today. Just a red?”

  “Released a couple of nice bones and a small tarpon.”

  “Don’t have much interest in that whole release thing.” Cody elbowed one of the men in the side. “Know what I mean, boys? That there’s a good day’s fishing.” He looked at the bucket. “Maybe ought to tip the boy something for cleaning them for you.” He accepted a twenty, and exchanged handshakes and fist bumps with his two clients. “See ya’ll at the bar.”

  Then he turned back to Will and Ned. “Another banner day, boys,” he said. He winked, pocketed the bill, and headed towards the boat.

/>   “You going to pass that on?” Will called, referring to the bill in Cody’s pocket.

  “Don’t think that’s any of your business. It’s my boy. You looking to clean my fish? Maybe pick up a few extra bucks? Charters ain’t exactly lining up for you.” Cody glanced toward the dock, scowling. “Tell the boy I’m not waiting for him. I’m heading for the bar. He can walk over when he’s done. Tell him I’ll let him practice his driving on the way home.”

  Will shook his head. “Yeah, I’ll tell him.” He watched Cody with disdain as he walked toward the dock. Matt had his shirt off, sweat mixing with soap as he scrubbed the boat. “Hey, take a break and let it soak.” He looked over the bloodstained deck and frowned. “Raw water sprayer not working? Wouldn’t be half as bad if he sprayed it down a few times when they’re out there.”

  Matt put down the brush and picked up the soda. He took a long sip. “You know the old man. Says it’s all part of the effect.” He put down the drink, picked up the brush, and started scrubbing again.

  Will checked his dock lines. His twenty one foot Action Craft flats boat sat still in the water, the tide slack. He hopped onto the deck and started stowing gear. A quick freshwater spray, and the boat was clean. He was religious about spraying after each fish, although that wasn’t as often as some of his charters would like. It burned him that the man from today had taken a card from Cody. He’d read the guy wrong. Maybe should have chummed up some snappers and let him take a limit. You could still catch them on the fly. Maybe his business would be better if he let the anglers catch limits, but conservation was wired into him, his reputation built on catch and release and he often wrongly assumed his charters knew that before they went out. The two months of tarpon season were different. He was the man then; tarpon season was different, a release only fishery ~ even Cody wouldn’t take tarpon — wouldn’t even fish for them. He was booked solid during the season, but slower the rest of the year. It seemed that since the economy had died, folks had lost interest in catch and release. They were all about filling their freezers. Bonefish and permit, the other catch and release only fish, were sought by a more exclusive, though dwindling group. He thought about his bank account, currently as low as a spring tide.