South of the Pumphouse

by Les Claypool

  Beyond the rock wall that protected the entrance to the harbor, they turned north toward the San Rafael Bridge, a few miles ahead. Past the Standard Oil tanker piers and the island of Red Rock, the bridge stood like a huge, serpentine iron beast, awkwardly stretching some five miles across and linking the Chevron refinery on the east bank to the San Quentin federal penitentiary on the west. The bridge had never been known as one of the more attractive structures in the region, but it was the definitive dividing landmark between the San Francisco and San Pablo bays.

  And then came the islands—the Brothers and the Sisters. The Brothers were larger and to the east, while the Sisters, to the northwest, lay nearer to the Marin shoreline. As kids, Ed and Earl marveled at the old lighthouse that stood on the larger of the two Brothers.

  As they journeyed onward, Ed reflected on these random pieces of the past and began to feel the effects of the psilocybin mushrooms. A telltale tingle rippled along the sides of his tongue, around his temples, and on the back of his neck. He shuddered. The colors of the beautiful autumn day became more and more vivid. As the boat approached the first of several markers that flanked each side of the channel, Ed chuckled to himself at the enhanced glow he was experiencing from the florescent reds and greens that differentiated the port and starboard markers.

  With the dominant din from the engine box at the center stern of the vessel, there had been little chitchat between the three men during the journey. Occasionally Earl pointed out a landmark, and Donny shouted a few random commentaries into Earl’s ear, evoking laughter from both men. Ed continued to drift undisturbed with his thoughts as they made their way north.

  When the boat approached the fifth channel marker, Earl veered to the west, aiming toward a distant grouping of pilings that stood alone in the vast openness. For Ed, the Pumphouse was a familiar image, one that he saw many a weekend as a kid. As they drew closer, he noticed a group of fishing boats almost the same size as Earl’s, about a mile or so south. He could see the Pumphouse more clearly now, and by Ed’s memory, it didn’t appear to have changed much in the decade plus that had passed since he last spied it.

  Earl pulled back on the throttle as they approached the Pumphouse, circling round for Ed’s benefit.

  “Well, there it is, Ed,” announced Earl, and then asked rhetorically, “Does it look any different?” Earl pushed the throttle forward when they finished the circle, and they headed back south toward the other boats. Eyeing the water, they cruised slowly. Earl made a wide swing to point the bow north into the flow of the outgoing tide, then he pulled the controls into neutral, bringing the boat to a stop.

  “This looks like the spot.” Earl shut off the motor and stepped forward to drop anchor. “Oh yeah, lookin’ good today; lookin’ good today,” he muttered to himself. He let out the rope until he was satisfied it would hold, then tied it to the cleat on the bow. “Well, boys, let’s get us a stur-geee-own! Rig ’em up.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together in excitement.

  “’Bout damn time,” said Donny, taking the final swig from his beer and throwing the bottle loudly into a five-gallon bucket lying to stern.

  Earl looked around and pointed toward the small fleet of boats in the distance. “There’s Red’s boat.”

  Earl had deliberately chosen to fish several hundred yards north of the fleet. Ed remembered that this had been a routine tactic of the boys’ late father, and he wasn’t surprised to see his brother follow suit. Donny was less enthusiastic, however, complaining that they should fish where everybody else did so they could “gang up” on the potential prey.

  But Earl, like his father before him, had a different theory. “On outgoing tide, fish above the fleet; on incoming tide, fish just below.” Ed remembered the phrase from his youth, and he understood its meaning. Any sturgeon on the move would have to pass by their bait before it reached the others’.

  By this point, Ed had started to fiddle with some of the fishing gear. Normally, he knew exactly what needed to be done to prep a rig, but in his progressively altered state of mind, he wasn’t so sure. “It’s been awhile, bro,” he muttered, rod and leader in hand. “You might have to help me out here.”

  “Same shit as it used to be,” said Earl, reaching out and unraveling the leader line from the tip of Ed’s pole.

  Donny reached over and pulled a two-piece fishing rod and reel from one of the side pockets. “Hey, Earl, you got a leader for me there, bud?” He connected the two pieces.

  “I got plenty of poles rigged up and ready to go. Just grab one.”

  “Fuck that. This is the lucky dog here!”

  “What are you talkin’ about? You ain’t caught shit on that thing since you bought it.”

  Pulling the line through the eyelets, Donny rebuffed, “What about the Granddaddy?”

  “Granddaddy. It don’t count if it’s a fuckin’ stingray.”

  After digging through his tackle box, Earl grabbed a steel sturgeon leader and handed it to Donny.

  Donny snatched it. “Stingray! Shit. That was pure Granddaddy diamondback!”

  Earl smiled at his brother. “He fought it for ten minutes and lost it. It never surfaced.” He turned back to Donny and continued, “That thing didn’t even fight. It looked like you were trying to pull up a piece of plywood!”

  Earl and Ed laughed.

  Tying the leader to his line, Donny grumbled, “Shee-it!”

  “Sturgeon don’t fight like that. They take off, man. Jump out of the water and shit. Right, bro?” Earl winked at Ed.

  “Yep.”

  “What the hell do you know, Pee Wee? You ain’t even been on the water in ten years.”

  Ed started baiting his hooks with grass shrimp. “I seen plenty of fish caught in my day. Hell, we used to go out with Pops nearly every weekend when we was kids.”

  “Yeah? That must’ve been before you turned queer.” Donny jabbed Earl in the ribs and they both chuckled.

  Ed glowered at his brother and then turned to Donny and calmly stated, “Yep, you always were a jackass.”

  Earl stopped laughing but continued baiting his hooks. “Sorry, bro. He’s just windin’ you up.”

  “Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad,” Donny said, sensing Earl’s disapproval. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, Ed.”

  After the two brothers finished baiting their hooks, they each cast out of the back of the boat, resting their poles on the engine box, pointing aft. They took their seats facing south so they could watch the tips of their rods. Earl pulled one of the seats from the stern and placed it in the middle of the boat between Ed and Donny, enabling all three men to sit abreast and face the same direction. Ed sat on the starboard side, Donny to port, and Earl in the middle. They waited for the delicate tap of a sturgeon bite. Donny still wrestled with his tangled line and was not yet ready to attach his leader.

  “Shee-it, what a fuckin’ mess,” he complained, struggling with a handful of tangled monofilament.

  Earl smiled and shook his head.

  “Got some all rigged and ready right there.”

  “No way, bud.” Always adamant, Donny continued to focus on the task at hand.

  “Suit yourself.” Earl leaned back in his seat.

  Chapter 17

  DUANE THE CHINK

  Ed felt quite content. Though the mushrooms had yet to fully kick in, his new, enhanced perspective on this once-familiar seascape amused him. He had never quite realized how vast this part of the bay really was. He could look for miles in all directions, and other than the distant shores on the horizon, there was nothing to be seen except flat water, the Pumphouse, and a handful of boats less than half a mile away.

  Donny, in the meantime, had continued working with his tangled mess and had finally reached the point where he could bait his hooks and get on with the fishing. He poked around in the bait bucket and pulled out a handful of shrimp.

  “Grass shrimp?”

  “Hell yes, son,” answered Earl.

  “That’s why you
ain’t caught shit this year. Duane the Chink says him and ol’ Chan been catching ’em on mud shrimp.”

  “Shit, look at you. We’ve been here damn near half an hour and you ain’t even got in the water yet. Pissin’ around with that damn piece of shit pole of yours. Don’t tell me nothin’. I’ve always got ’em on grass shrimp.”

  “Well, why haven’t you got shit this year?”

  “Today’s the day. Today’s the day. We got lucky bro here,” announced Earl, patting Ed on the shoulder.

  “Shee-it! I been out with you damn near every weekend for the past two months, and we ain’t caught shit on grass shrimp,” countered Donny, reaching for another shrimp.

  “Mud shrimp are the shits—messy, nasty, smelly bastards. You gotta wrap ’em with string and shit. No thanks.”

  “Pus. What’s wrong with a little stink on your finger?” Donny laughed. “Shit, you should smell my peter right now.”

  Donny and Earl laughed out loud, as Ed chuckled halfheartedly. Donny finished baiting his hooks, cast his line, and plopped down in his chair. He then reached into the ice chest for a beer.

  “Yep, damn near wore it smooth last night.”

  “Yeah? I thought you looked a little more weathered than usual this morning.”

  “Shit, if you shot as much protein out the end of your pecker as I did last night, you’d be tired too,” roared Donny. “It was wild.”

  “Yeah?”

  “W-I-L-D, wild.”

  “Really?” said Earl, showing both surprise and interest. “That’s saying something, coming from you.”

  “Hey, they don’t call me the El Sobrante Slammer for nothin’. Swingin’ meat, that’s me!”

  Earl and Donny laughed.

  “Meat-head, don’t you mean?” muttered Ed.

  “Whoa!” Earl cackled.

  Donny eyed Ed for a moment and then took a swig of beer. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro 100’s. Putting the pack to his mouth, he drew a cigarette between his lips and lit it, exhaling a large plume of bluish smoke.

  “Eddy boy,” Earl continued, “you’d be surprised at the tales I’ve heard out here on this bay. Ol’ Donny here pulls these gals left and right, believe it or not. I’ll be damned if I know why.”

  “Charm, boy, I keep tellin’ ya. It’s all about the charm,” Donny asserted, flicking his ash.

  Earl and Ed eyed at each other with slight grins.

  “Ya see,” continued Donny, “sure, I’m an obnoxious prick. We all agree on that. But women love that shit. Tell it like it is, that’s what I say. If I got me a boner goin’, I say so. If I think some gal has got a nice round ass, I let her know it. Hell, you can’t hit the ball if you don’t swing the bat, and I been swingin’ my bat around this town for long time now!”

  Donny and Earl both laughed.

  “Well,” Ed piped in, “I hope you’re putting condoms, on that ‘bat,’ cause I’d hate to imagine you breeding.”

  “Oooh, good one there, Pee Wee,” Donny responded, taking a drag from his cigarette, followed by a pull from his beer. He then let loose a loud, wet, smoke-filled belch.

  The sound resonated through Ed. He leaned back, smiled, and looked out across the water.

  Chapter 18

  WHO YOU LAUGHING AT?

  They were fishing relatively close to the Pumphouse, probably less than fifty yards by Earl’s reckoning. He usually didn’t like to fish too close to any type of structure. There was always the possibility that they would hook into a hog, as they called the larger sturgeon, and Earl didn’t like to chance the fish wrapping the line around a piling on a long run. Today, however, he decided to fish in tight to allow his brother to get a good sense of being at the Pumphouse.

  Earl had learned over the years how to read the water. Any seasoned fishermen could use the elements at hand to make a calculated decision on where and when to fish. In making his calculations, Earl knew how to figure in the tide, the temperature, the depth and color of the water, whether or not it had recently rained, the brightness of the sky, even the texture of the water’s surface. Intuition also played a role in Earl’s deciding where and when to fish, sometimes placing him in the right spot at the right time for no other reason than the feeling that fish were present. More often than not, Earl knew, intuition was the determining factor between a consistently successful fisherman and an unsuccessful one. Most people simply interpreted it as luck.

  The three men sat staring out the back of the boat. Earl watched intently for any twitch at the end of his rod. He was always on his game, usually noticing the movement on another person’s rod before they did. Ed looked off into the distance, spying an aircraft heading in the direction of the boat. He could see the reflection off the water of the marine layer overhead, giving the surface the impression of polished chrome. The plane cut through the sky, leaving a long grayish-silver trail. As it came closer, Ed suddenly realized that it wasn’t an aircraft at all but a large gull gliding low on the water. It swooped to starboard, twenty yards or so off his left shoulder. Ed followed the bird’s movement as it passed, locking his gaze to its massive left eye. The depth of the eye and the intensity of the stare made the small hairs on his right forearm tingle. He subconsciously stroked his skin as if to brush away some small insect. The gull gave one mighty flap of its wings and swung around the bow, gliding toward the Pumphouse and eventually landing on one of the pilings.

  By this point, Ed had turned completely around in his seat and was staring at the perched seagull. The bird gave off an enormous squawk that reverberated in Ed’s ears. He continued to stare at the bird in earnest. The eyes of man and bird were fixed on each other. Ed was convinced that the gull was fully aware that he was on psychedelic drugs. For a moment, he even toyed with the notion that the magnificent bird was sent to this remote spot by some divine spirit to spy on him during his mental journey. The bird grinned at him as if it was about to make a sarcastic remark. Instead, it gave out a short but aggressive cackle that cut through Ed like the laugh of a sinister old villain from the Creature Feature films that he had watched late Friday nights during his childhood. He pondered for a moment and then narrowed his eyes on the bird in defiance.

  “Who you laughing at?” he muttered.

  The gull flew off, leaving a colored trail. Satisfied that he had prevailed in his confrontation with an obvious herald of the spirit world, Ed turned back in his seat, once again facing aft.

  Chapter 19

  LOUISIANA HOT LINKS

  To be produced by such a massive creature, the evidence of a sturgeon bite on the tip of a fishing rod is surprisingly subtle. Many times, a sturgeon will slurp up the bait and sit motionless. If an angler is attentive, he will detect the bite and forcefully haul back on the rod, lifting over the shoulder to set the hook into the leathery mouth of the mighty fish.

  “Here we go,” muttered Earl as he leaned forward, holding his hands low with his fingers around, but not touching, the butt of the rod. He eyed the tip, waiting for another sign of movement. He sat poised like an old western gunslinger, ready to draw in an instant.

  “’Bout fuckin’ time,” muttered Donny.

  The rod tip bounced again and Earl pulled, leaning far back in his chair and looking straight up to the tip. He paused and started to reel in. The pole was bent slightly.

  “You get him?” asked Ed.

  “Yeah, fuckin’ bullhead,” Earl said flatly. He stood up to reel.”

  Donny took a swig from his beer and then piped in, “Yeah, you know the rules. The guy with the smallest peter has to stick the first bullhead down his pants.” He backhanded Ed in the chest. “I guess that’s you Pee Wee!”

  The sound of Donny’s laughter bit Ed between the eyes. He grimaced and then leaned back further in his seat, putting his feet up on the stern.

  “Oh man, this is gonna be a long day.”

  “Cheer up, Pee Wee! Want a beer?” Donny pulled a Coors Lite from the cooler.

  Ed loo
ked at the bottle. “Ah, no thanks, man. I’m not down with the Coors.” He got up to look into the cooler for a beverage a little more to his liking. As he rooted around in the ice, the alarm on his wristwatch sounded off and reverberated out of the plastic cooler, which amplified the beeping. He pulled his hand from the chest and pushed the button, turning off the watch.

  “What the hell kind of watch is that?” asked Donny. “Looks like a damned spaceship.”

  “It’s a running watch.”

  “Running watch? What the hell is that?”

  “It tells you how long you’ve been running, how far, shit like that. It keeps going off every couple hours for no reason, though. I haven’t got it quite figured out yet.” Ed returned to digging in the ice chest.

  “Well, fuck me. That’s the damnedest thing I’ve seen in a long while. Sure got that piece of shit watch of yours beat, Earl,” said Donny with a smirk.

  Earl looked at his wrist. “Yeah, it does the trick, though.”

  “Let me see that,” said Ed.

  He eyed the watch as Earl held it up to him. The chrome of the timepiece shined brightly. For Ed, in his mental state, the effect was almost blinding. The digital red numbers beamed into his pupils with such intensity that, when he closed his eyelids momentarily, he could see the image of 10:47 a.m. still glowing as if it had been burned into his retina. As the image faded from behind his lids, it was replaced by a vision of his late father.

  Ed opened his eyes and asked, “Isn’t that Pop’s old watch?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where the hell did you find that?”

  “It was in an old Folgers can. I found it when we was cleanin’ out his garage. Put a new battery in it. Works fine. Remember? We got it for him for his birthday.”