by John Morano
“It’s a lure.”
Kemar just stared.
“You’ve never fished with a rod and reel?”
Kemar shook his head.
“Really? You’ll have to come with me one day and try it. It’s the only way to fish. One on one.”
“How does the plastic catch the fish?”
“This probably wouldn’t catch any fish right now, but when I’m done with it, it’ll work just fine.” Al tossed the plastic up and down in his hand while he walked.
“What will you do to it?”
“You see that boat out there?”
Out on the horizon, where the curve of the planet dipped the sea from sight, a white speck bounced on the water. It flashed as it danced, the sun reflecting off its brass and glass.
“Rich people fishing,” the boy commented.
“Rich people fishing with rod and reel. Some fishermen. They can’t find the fish, tie a leader, or clean their own catch themselves. There’s really no skill or sport in what they do. Fishing’s about eating, not terrifying and exhausting some creature.
“They lose tackle all day. When they get back to the dock, they buy more. The more they buy, the more they lose. The more they lose, the more I find. The ocean carries everything I need—lures, sinkers, hooks, leaders, swivels—right to the beach.”
“But it’s all broken and tangled.”
“You pick it up, clean it off, paint it, attach another hook or two, and it works just fine.”
“That’s a great way to save money. I’ll bet you could even sell some of it.”
“It’s not about money.”
The boy pressed, “You just said it was. You said that they buy and you get for free. That’s about money.”
“It’s not the main reason I do it.”
“Well,” Kemar said with a grin, “why do you do it if not to save money?”
“Every time I pick up a plastic plug, a lead weight, a rusty hook, I remove garbage from this beautiful beach. No bird will get tangled in that line. The beach is a little cleaner, and the wildlife is a little safer. And if I reuse this stuff, I’m not asking the planet to produce more. Again, less waste, less consumption, less pollution. If I happen to save a couple of bucks in the process, that’s fine too. You can do well by doing good.”
“And if all this reduces your needs,” the boy said, following the logic, “then you will have to fish less often to fulfill your needs. So you use less fuel, kill fewer creatures, and your equipment lasts longer.”
Al nodded. “Less is more. I’m telling you, Kemar, this island is a regular education. I didn’t always—”
The boy raised his arm in warning, a gesture that required no elaboration for Al. The veteran froze, his senses heightened.
The Cambodian quietly dropped his bag, moving swiftly and silently across the sand. He knelt at a tidal pool, leaned to his left, and thrust his hand into the cloudy water. His other hand followed in a flash with a splash. And when the boy stood up, he displayed his prize with pride.
“Nice octopus,” Al said while he untied the sack.
Kemar nodded. He held up the octopus for a moment as he recalled the day in the ocean when he’d let go of the scare line and later when he dropped the hand net. And then he dropped Binti into the wet sack.
The first thing that struck Binti was the darkness. Her eyes, much more sensitive than those of her human captors, adjusted quickly. She realized that she was a prisoner and that her only hope was to escape. But how?
Then she noticed that she shared her confinement with crabs, lobsters, clams, a snail or two, and mussels. Had she been in any other situation, she would have been in octopus heaven, stuffed in a container with all her favorite foods. They had nowhere to run. Unfortunately, the same was true for Binti.
As she was carried along the beach, the mussels and clams settled beneath her. The crabs and lobsters backed into corners and locked onto each other in some strange pursuit of security. Occasionally, one would nip at Binti. Everything was clamoring to breathe. The only relief came when the bag was lowered into a pool. The animals fought to breathe the water while the human gathered another creature.
Binti thought, I finally find my shell, and this is what happens. Feeling a sense of doom, the octopus pondered her life. She’d never mated. She’d never mothered. She’d never even surprised Ebb. As an octopus, Binti felt that she was an utter failure. To make matters worse, she’d likely perish out of the sea providing sustenance for the man-tide. She would rather die in the jaws of a moray eel than end her life like this.
Binti tried to position herself so that she could get ahold of the canvas with her beak and bite a hole into the bag. But the constant bouncing of the human’s gait and the heavy load inside pulled the sack taut, preventing her from getting a grip with her beak. She looked up. The top was held closed. There was no way to get out.
The octopus felt something against her skin. It wasn’t anything in the bag. It was something from the outside that touched her—light. In the bottom corner of the sack, under the crabs, beneath the lobsters, light somehow found its way in through a small hole. Binti crawled to the hole. Most of the crustaceans moved away easily, preferring the false security of the darker corner. The octopus used her suckers to move the clams and mussels out of the way. All the while, she clung to her precious shell.
Binti watched several insects fly in and out of the tiny hole. For these little creatures, the space was wide enough to fit a family through, but as Binti settled into the corner, she saw just how miniscule the opening really was. There was plenty of room for insects and light, but an octopus was another story. The smallest mussel in the bag couldn’t fit through the hole. The lobster would have trouble getting a claw into the opening. And even the clams were too wide to reach the beach below the bag.
But Binti had something going for her that none of her sackmates could claim. The octopus had neither bones nor shell to speak of. All she really needed was an opening large enough to fit her beak through. The rest of her flesh would squeeze out somehow. There were, however, two other problems. Binti would have to accomplish her escape before the humans reached their destination, and she would have to exit the sack without being noticed.
Wasting no time, the octopus began pressing one of her arms through the opening. It went through smoothly. When she felt the hot sun on her flesh this time, she was overjoyed. Five other arms reached out of the pouch in succession. The hole seemed to widen a tiny bit. Then she dragged her mantle through. She held onto the bag from the outside, hid under it, turned dark green to match the canvas, and was careful not to touch the human. Soon, she had only one arm to remove. That was the problem.
In order to pull it free, Binti would have to relinquish her shell. The shell was too big for the hole. It was the moment of truth. She would die with a shell or live without one. And then the bag came crashing down on her. Binti was pinned under the sack, which had been dropped onto the sand. It was the perfect opportunity. If she slipped free now, the human would probably not notice the loss of her weight when he lifted the bundle once more.
The human opened the sack and dropped in several more shellfish. As he picked it up, Binti made her decision. She released her shell, pulled her arm free, and slipped into a small puddle. Binti turned brown and hugged a shaded wall. She didn’t grasp the irony that she’d escaped because she had no shell and the others were doomed because they did have shells.
The octopus’s next decision was an important one: hide or flee? Had there been a corridor of water or a wave washing over, Binti would’ve risked fleeing. But the puddle was stagnant, and she didn’t know what was beyond, so she waited.
Eventually, the octopus began her journey back to the coral. She thought about Elaber as she crawled from pool to pool. One by one, they got deeper and larger, and the water became cooler until Binti was in the surf, jetting toward home. The shell was gone, but perhaps its effect wasn’t.
Just before dawn the next morning, Kemar
was in a boat, heading back to the fishing grounds. The craft chugged along steadily. Using a sharpening stone, he put a fresh edge on a fillet knife so he could cut bait. Kemar was happy to be on the ocean again. He was happy to be fishing. And he was happy that he’d chosen to leave Bao.
Bao arrived just as the sun rose to the low branches of the treeline behind him. It was early enough for him, but for Al and Kemar, the day had begun hours earlier. And when Bao saw that Kemar wasn’t waiting at Meela’s shop, he became suspicious.
“Where boy?” the anxious fisherman asked.
The old mechanic lifted her head out of a crate of parts and answered, “Your motor’s almost ready.”
“Where boy?” he asked again. “Need mount motor. Need start fishing.”
“You miss your helper? You can’t work without him?”
“Not Meela concern what boy do with Bao. He not work for you now.”
Meela smiled. “You’re right, and you’re wrong.”
“Boy not work for Meela,” Bao countered.
“I told him he could help me clean up the heavy stuff in the evenings. And he could sleep here and watch the place at night. Who knows, I might even teach him how to overhaul an engine.”
Forgetting about his percentage of Kemar’s pay and irate that Meela would be Kemar’s employer, Bao bellowed, “Don’t care of that. In day, boy fish with Bao. Boy owe that.”
“See, there’s where I think you’re probably wrong. And here’s why I say that. You see, it’s day right now. Do you see Kemar?”
“Boy do what Bao say.”
“Kind of tough to do that since he’s not here. He’s actually out fishing with—”
“American!” Bao hissed.
“Precisely. I’m guessing that he’ll be doing that for a long time. I’m also guessing that you won’t want any problems with me . . . or Al. So why don’t you just mount your motor yourself? Spray your poison and throw your grenades yourself.”
“Ah, Meela, now you right and wrong. Right Bao take motor. Right Bao not want trouble with old soldier. Wrong Bao afraid of Meela. Only you and Bao here now. Old lady easy to step on. Brittle, like dried driftwood. Could die anytime.”
“I see what you’re saying. It’s a good point.” With her back to Bao, Meela continued working. She leaned into another wooden box, removed a length of copper pipe, and laid it on the ground. She dropped an aluminum rod on top of it. Still rummaging through the crate, she said, “Here it is. Glad I saved this.”
“Why keep working? Will not finish.”
Meela laid her find on a workbench and untied the burlap that covered what looked to be two more lengths of greasy pipe. “I had a feeling this was here. It may not look like it, but I know where everything is in this shop.” When she turned back to face Bao, she held a vintage double-barreled shotgun in her hands. It looked twice as old and nearly as big as Meela, who leaned against her bench to support herself. Her arms shook, and her hands trembled with the weight of the weapon.
Amused by the sight, Bao asked, “Meela shoot Bao?” He began to laugh. “Meela can barely hold gun.”
“I’ll pull the trigger before I drop it.”
A little more concerned, possibly because he realized that she was serious, possibly because it dawned on him that there weren’t many on Makoona who would care if he disappeared, Bao said, “Cannot aim. Will shoot own boat.”
“So you think my shaking makes me less dangerous? I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never fired one of these before. Does that make you feel safer? You know what? I’m not even sure the gun’s loaded. What do you think?”
“Put gun down before Meela hurt Meela.”
“Now you’re worried about me? How sweet. But you should worry about yourself. You see, my inexperience should make you very nervous. It means I’m unpredictable. I could hit anything. For an old person like me with such poor aim, I imagine a shotgun can be very forgiving.” Meela wedged a dirty lifejacket behind her back. “You know, I’d never admit this to anyone, but I’m not only shaky, I don’t see as well as I used to. So when I pull this trigger—wait, there’s two of them? That’s great. Looks like I get a second chance.”
Bao tried to appear relaxed, but by this time, he, too, was shaking a little bit and sweating quite a bit.
Pow! The shotgun went off. Bao slammed his eyes closed, turned his head away from the blast and raised his arms to ward off the flying lead. The pellets exploded a large container of grease, which flew in every direction, covering the left side of Bao’s face and torso.
“Sorry about that,” Meela said. “It just went off. I guess that’s what they call a hairtrigger. Packs quite a punch, doesn’t it?”
Bao was frozen in the doorway.
“That’s okay. No need to answer. I have good news, and I have bad news. The good news is I only have one shot left. The bad news? Looks like the shotgun is loaded. Hey, now you know what it’s like to be a fish that has a hand grenade exploded next to it.”
Bao screamed, “Crazy old witch!” He spun around and dove out the door.
As he ran into the mangrove behind her shop, Meela admitted, “Maybe I am crazy.” Then she called to him, “Tell you what, I’ll let you keep the motor if you leave Kemar alone! We’ll call it even!”
Bao stepped out from behind a tree. Meela lowered her weapon as he approached his motor. He laid the outboard into his boat without bothering to mount it. Quietly, he pushed the boat into the lagoon and rowed off. Meela heard him mutter, “Tianoboto,” a Makoonan word for crazy.
The mechanic replied, “You just better hope that motor runs forever. Thanks for stopping by. This was a lot of fun. I’ll tell Al you were looking for him.”
Chapter Six
Fishing for an Answer
Al piloted his small boat to the ocean side of the reef. The water was a bit choppy, but Al knew it was a good spot for snapper and black jacks. He was also hoping to hook a tuna or an albacore without going too far out to sea. The fast ocean swimmers often chased baitfish along this part of the reef. As he slowed the outboard, Al pointed to a blue jug that bounced on the surface. It was almost the same color as the water and could easily be overlooked. Kemar glanced back at the American, puzzled.
“Grab it and tie us up,” Al said.
“Why not just drop anchor?” Kemar questioned.
“There’s coral down there, buddy. You know what anchors do to coral?” As the boy tied the line, Al asked, “Why would I want to destroy something that makes fishing easier? That stuff down there is a fish factory.”
“Coral never made fishing easier for me,” Kemar countered. “Fish hide in there. Nets get caught and ripped. It gets in the way.” He wanted Al to see that he was experienced in these matters, that the boy really was a fisherman. But the more he expressed a lack of concern with what lived below, the less he impressed Al.
“Yeah, they hide in coral. And sometimes it slices right through my line, but the bottom line is the fish need the coral. They breed and grow and live in there. What’s more important than that to a fisherman? So whenever I find a good spot, I run a mooring line, secure it to the bottom, and tie the end to a jug or two that floats on the surface. No more anchor effect down below.”
“If you used bigger orange jugs, you could find the spot even easier.”
“So could everyone else. For every jug that’s floating in a good spot, I got two set up in horrible spots, just to throw off any squatters.”
Kemar rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “It’s a different way.”
“It’s the only way.”
Al selected a pole and handed it to the boy. He tied some tackle on the line, explained the reel mechanism, and had Kemar make a few practice casts. He explained that he used a lighter sinker than he really should have because sinkers smash coral too. Then he showed the boy how to hook strips of squid that Kemar would use as bait. The American pointed out that their color, smell, and action in the water would attract a lot of attention. Al added
two small orange beads above the hook to dress it up a bit more.
He cautioned Kemar to keep the tip of his pole up and to make sure he didn’t rest the rod on the rail. Next, Al demonstrated the proper way to set the hook, relaxed the drag a touch, and invited the youngster to “wet a line.” Then the American did the same.
Just as fishermen had done since two humans first shared a raft, Al and Kemar talked while they bobbed on the swells.
For many, the ocean has a soothing effect. People become calmer, more contemplative. And although they’re often more quiet initially, the ocean soon spawns discussions about dreams, philosophies, beliefs, feelings, and memories that gather dust in the closets of the mind. It was as if the waves washed inhibition, insecurity, and distrust from the soul. On a boat, surrounded by the shimmering sea, truth flows out like surf finding shore.
“Have you ever seen Cambodia?” Kemar asked the American. “Have you ever seen my past?”
“I’ve seen more of Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam than I ever thought I would. I know a little about what you left behind, just as you probably know a bit about what I saw, what I left.”
Kemar nodded and asked, “Why are you here and not in America?”
“I’m not sure I know, but I’ll tell you this. Makoona is the only place I’ve been to since the war that I didn’t feel like running away from.”
“Yes,” the boy agreed quietly. Even though he’d only been on the island briefly, he believed he understood what Al felt. And while Al hadn’t really answered his question, Kemar didn’t press any further. It was part of the unspoken etiquette of conversations in a boat, as much a part of fishing protocol as not getting tangled in your companion’s line.
Then the jacks began to hit. Powerful swimmers with powerful jaws, they often hunted in small schools or packs, somewhat like wild dogs of the sea. Kemar enjoyed the challenge of trying to hook and land the fish.
