by David Athey
My heart sank when Angelo walked past boat after boat that seemed barely seaworthy. Finally, at the end of the dock, he disappeared as if he had walked the plank.
"Where did Angelo go?" Jig said, staggering toward me with a cooler and a bucket of bait. "Did he fall overboard already?"
I stepped forward and peered over the end of the dock. And there was Angelo, sitting in a small brown dinghy. It was hardly bigger than a canoe. It looked like a coffin built for two.
"We're not going out in that, are we?"
"C'mon," he said. "It'll be fun."
"Fun? I don't think so. We're going to need a smaller ocean."
"Don't worry. It's going to be a calm day."
"Perfectly calm?"
"Yes, Danny. I know what I'm doing."
"But what if there's a sudden storm? What'll we do?"
"We'll flap our arms and fly above it."
"What?"
Angelo sighed. "Danny. Do you want to sing with the band?"
"Yeah."
"Do you want to catch the king?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think God brought you to Paradise in order to kill you?"
"Maybe."
"Really?"
"I don't know. I don't know what God is thinking."
Jig pushed me into the boat. The vessel wobbled but didn't tip.
"Bon voyage," Jig said.
With the help of a twelve-horse motor, Angelo and I sailed down the waterway. Angelo maneuvered the dinghy toward the inlet while a dozen bigger boats nearly swamped us. I had a bad feeling about this fishing trip, and my mind flashed back to Holly and the time her innocent face had begged me to go to the Boundary Waters with her, and I hadn't the strength, and Jon was lost in a cloud of smoke, and we all let her down.
A few minutes later, Angelo and I were at the mouth of the inlet, gliding into the welcoming ocean. It smelled like the first day of planting season in Iowa, or maybe like the first day of creation. Sunlight danced along the surface and dove down into the deep. Blue sparks shot up.
"Flying fish!" Angelo said as a scintillating flock filled the air. Flapping their fins like wings, as quick as hummingbirds, they flew for a hundred yards or so and dropped back into the brine.
Angelo smiled. "This is the life. Hey, look over there."
On the starboard side were two sea turtles. They swam side by side into the great blue, instinctively devoted. The turtles seemed out of place and perfectly at home, just swimplodding along. I turned around to watch their gracefully awkward movements, wishing them well as their glistening shells became tiny specks of light, trailing far behind us. I wasn't sure if the sea turtles were a sign or a wonder. All I knew was that I loved them. And I thanked God for creating them.
Angelo guided the boat southeast toward the sun, and then eventually cut the engine. "We're a mile out," he said, in ninety feet of water. This is where you'll catch the king, if you're meant to catch him. See that tarp by your feet? Unwrap it. There's your fishing rod. Hand it to me, Danny, and I'll bait your hook."
"Angelo," I said, laughing, "I've been fishing before. I can bait my own hook."
When I was seven and ion was ten, we went fishing for Adam the Catfish. We had heard about Adam ever since we had ears, because all the farmers, including my father, talked about having hooked him at one time or another; but nobody had landed the fishy beast.
The summer morning was green and golden and full of birdsong, and on my first cast into the pond behind Grove Baptist, I hooked something that nearly tugged me into the water.
"It's Adam! It's Adam!"
And when I pulled the great fish in to shore, Jon said, "Congratulations. You've caught Walt."
It was just an average ten-pounder. Jon patted me on the back and helped me carry Walt home to Grammy Dorrie, who said, "You're a born fisherman, Danny." And she cut the meat into thick chunks and spiced them and smoked them in a covered barrel. After the fish was smoked and cooled, Grammy took the chunks into the kitchen and dipped them in a golden wash of eggs and cream and honey, followed by a coating of fresh bread crumbs. Then she placed the succulent morsels into a skillet and fried them in butter, turning each piece over and over until perfectly crisp.
That night, we ate dinner on a picnic table covered with a checkered tablecloth. Father said the catfish was the best thing he'd tasted in weeks, except for Mother's lips.
Holly, with bread crumbs all over her face, said, "Danny, catch more Walt!"
Angelo watched carefully while I baited my hook. "Okay," he said, "let out your line, one arm length at a time. Count out thirty lengths and you'll be down in the realm of the king."
I did as he said. Very carefully, I let out the line. The sardine sank, glowing brightly and then softly until it faded into the depths.
"Keep your hands relaxed," Angelo said, "or they'll cramp up during the course of the day. It might take hours and hours for the king to bite. Relax. Be patient."
Although the ocean appeared calm, there was a rhythm of rising and falling. Rising and falling. Everything felt free and yet perfectly connected. Me to the boat, the boat to the water, the fishing line to the deep, and the deep to the heavens.
Above us a pelican mulled over the phosphorescence of the sea. The bird mulled and mulled, and then descended fast. She hit the water with a crashing splash, and I thought: how can she survive that? The poor bird will be dazed, and easy prey for sharks or other predators down there.
The pelican resurfaced near the boat, her bill brimming with life.
Angelo grinned.
I asked, "Aren't you going to fish, too?"
"I don't think so. This is your day."
For the next hour or so, we kept our thoughts to ourselves, watching my line and taking in the sun. No matter which way I turned, there was no escaping the light from above and all around. It seemed like the whole world was on fire. My sunglasses were almost useless.
Angelo cracked open a beer. "Want one?"
"No thanks. Got any flaxseed oil and yogurt?"
"Sorry."
"Anything other than beer?"
"Yeah. Jig packed some water. Here. Catch."
"Thanks."
I opened the bottle and took a long drink. "Ahhh, that's good spring water."
"It probably came from a swamp, Danny, or from Lake Okeechobee, which is full of alligator pee."
"Hmm," I said, draining the bottle. "I like it."
"You can have it," Angelo said, sipping his beer.
We fell silent again, bobbing gently in the blue. I had forgotten how wonderful it was to simply spend time fishing.
After another hour of nothing, I asked Angelo, "Is that your real name?"
He shook his red head, scattering droplets of sweat. "No. My real name is Olaf."
"So you're really a Norwegian?"
"One-hundred percent."
"What about Gloria's mother?"
A faraway look filled his eyes. There was a depth of emotion welling up that I hadn't yet seen. Olaf had to clear his throat several times before he could speak. "My wife's name was Marian. She worked for Nordic Fillets, a large fishing corporation. One day she called home very late-I was already asleep-and she left a funny message on the machine. `Holy mackerel, I've convinced the haggis-loving Scots to eat more fish. A million pounds sold, Olaf! Fluff the pillow, honey, I'm coming home."'
Olaf fought the tears and continued. "Marian was a safe driver. In fact, she said it was a serious sin to risk other people's lives by driving recklessly. So I'm sure she was being careful on the way home, when she got hit head-on. The airbag didn't deploy. And she was killed."
"I'm so sorry."
Olaf wiped his eyes. "During the funeral, Gloria began having panic attacks. She saw devils flying in the air. It was horrible. She couldn't stop the hallucinations."
"Maybe they weren't hallucinations."
"During the next several years, I took Gloria to doctors, psychiatrists, all sorts of specialists, but they didn't help. Al
l they did was dope her with drugs. So we started moving around. Denmark, Holland, France, but the devils and panic attacks followed us everywhere. Gloria would be fine for a month or two and then suddenly start trembling. She would fight the fear as best she could and then begin crying uncontrollably. Day after day, she'd suffer the devils and the attacks. She wasn't able to attend a university, even though she's brilliant. Finally, we moved to the States. To Palm Beach. For three years now, the devils have been gone from her mind. It seems like Gloria's been healed. I mean, she still lives in a world of make-believe in which I'm her guardian angel named Angelo and she's a princess, but that's better than living in hell."
I gave Olaf a knowing nod and said, "There are some things that are make-believe, and other things that make you believe."
Olaf wiped his eyes again and smiled bravely. "Gloria's beginning to fill out applications for universities."
"What does she want to study?"
He laughed. "The history of love."
"Who offers those courses?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Gloria will devise her own major."
Being out on the ocean with infinity in every direction seemed to make our souls more kindred. I began to see Olaf in the light of my father, so amazingly strong-a king of creation-and so utterly fragile. I whispered, "Have you had the chance to mourn for your wife?"
He shook his head and took a deep breath. "I let God do the mourning. Marian and I weren't good about going to church, but I know she had a great devotion to Jesus. Some people at the fish company made fun of her sometimes."
Olaf glanced at the sky, and I wanted to ask him about his own devotions, but he suddenly asked, "Danny, have you ever lost anyone?"
I stared at the water. "I've lost almost everyone."
"Parents?"
"My father died of cancer. And my mother ... fell."
"I'm sorry. Do you have brothers and sisters?"
"One older brother. Jonathan."
"Just the two of you?"
"We had a wonderful little sister. Holly. The best sister in the world."
"What happened to her?"
"She drowned."
"Danny, I'm so sorry."
"Me too. I'm always in mourning, even when I'm happy."
Olaf was quiet for a while, staring at my fishing line, and then he continued to search out my soul. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
I shrugged. "I'm not sure."
"What do you mean?"
"I had a fiancee. Rachel Golding."
"Pretty name. What happened?"
"I lost her."
"She died?"
"I don't think so. But I haven't been able to contact her since the attack. Rachel lives in New York, and she didn't call me, even though 9/11 is our shared birthday. She always calls on our birthday. I tried to call her a hundred times, but there was no connection. Do you think I should drive to New York and try to find her? I don't even have her address."
Olaf spoke in a fatherly voice, deep and calm. "I'm sure Rachel's fine, Danny, but you need to give her space. Everyone in New York is probably taking stock of their emotional lives. Rachel's going through a very difficult time, and you have to wait for her to get through it."
"I know."
"And, Danny, you might have to accept the fact that she'll never contact you again."
I shook my head. "Rachel and I love each other, even if we never get married."
"Well, that kind of love is possible. But Danny, she may not be the same person anymore. Who could be?"
"Yeah, I can understand that. But I still believe she'll call. Maybe she's called me already. If I weren't such an idiot, I'd know how to check my home phone messages."
We sat still for a while, and I reeled in the line to check the bait. The sardine was gone. I started to put on another, and Olaf reached around and did it for me. "Here, Danny. Hook it like this."
I replied half jokingly, "Thanks, Dad."
He smiled. "You're welcome."
I lowered the line again, and we patiently stared at it. We blinked and rubbed our beards and contemplated the depths as the time slipped by. My mind drifted from random memories of the farm and the Gospel Family concerts to the scene of Will Bentley and me falling from the pool table, and it suddenly occurred to me that I should have prayed for Will before we hit the floor. Better late than never, I thought, or maybe there is no late or never when it comes to prayer. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done...."
Olaf cleared his throat. "Nothing seems to be biting. Oh well, we can try again another day. You know, Danny, I was just thinking about you and Gloria. Perhaps the two of you-"
The line twitched, just enough to catch my attention. "Is that a kingfish?"
Olaf shook his head. "I don't think so. The king doesn't nibble. He strikes."
Suddenly the rod lurched forward and bent into a perfect arc of tremendous weight.
I shouted, "Does that count as a strike?"
"Ha! Good boy, Danny! Reel him in!"
I strained, but the fish refused to budge.
"Pull him up! Reel him in!"
The fish would not move.
Olaf huddled beside me. I thought he might take the rod, but instead he began to lecture. "It's not enough to catch the king. You have to land him, Danny. And eat him. He has to swim in your blood. Then you can join our band and sing."
My arms were trembling, my lungs gasping for breath. "Angelo, why don't you take over for a while?"
He laughed. "The mermaids on the roof have caught the king a dozen times. Mrs. Concher has caught him a hundred times. I've witnessed a nine-year-old girl reel him in, and now she wrestles alligators. Come on, Danny, get a life."
I gritted my teeth and pulled. The fish budged. I pulled and pulled, and the king was moved. I reeled him in, slowly, my arms aching, my brow dripping sweat.
"You're making good progress," Angelo said. "Now, don't make a mistake. Keep steady. What are you doing? Don't stand up!"
"I've got him, I've got him, no problem."
The king lurched, making a run for deeper water, and he pulled me right out of the boat and into the blue. Down, down, the fish dragged me as if I were nothing. I kicked at the water and tried to rise but only lost my sandals. In less than a minute, I must have been halfway to the bottom of the ocean, still trying to reel in the line.
The fish turned and was now shooting up from the depths. He swam to my eye level and I could see why he was such a prize. The king circled around, showing off his fiery skin of red, green, and blue, flickering and flashing. I let go of the rod and reached out to touch his side, and he swam away in a swirl of sparkling bubbles.
He swam away with Angelo on his tail.
I laughed. It was uncontrollable. Seeing the fat redhaired giant chasing a fish in the ocean was the funniest thing I'd ever seen in my life. I gagged on the salt water, my lungs burning, and down I went, choking and drowning.
How could God allow me to die when I hadn't yet finished my penance, the writing of my life story? Drowning in the waters of Florida was not the ending I'd imagined. My story had to end in Iowa, where it began, with a song.
I gave the ocean a kick. And another kick. And one more.
And I began to rise. Slowly, I began to ascend from darkness to blue. I was rising, but too slowly. I had no energy left to save myself, and it felt like a cruel twist to be rising into my death. I began to see stars, or just one star bursting, and then darkness again.
When I awoke, my eyes opened to a blinding light. I was lying on my back, my outstretched hands touching the wooden sides of what I was sure was a coffin. A dull droning filled my ears and I could smell the stench of blood. And fish. I turned my head and saw the king lying beside me. Dead, but still shimmering, and staring into my face.
"We caught him," Angelo said from the back of the boat. "It was a crazy fight, but we caught him."
I sat up and shielded my eyes. "Where are we?"
"Near the marina. How are you feeling?"
I coughed. "Salty."
He handed me a bottle of spring water. "Drink it slowly."
We didn't speak again until we made it to the dock. Jig was there waiting for us, swigging a beer. "Well, well," Jig said, looking at me and talking to Angelo. "Did our boy catch the king?"
Angelo reached down and grabbed the colorful fish. He hefted it chest high.
Jig was impressed. "That's a good one."
"Yes," Angelo said. "With this king, Danny will be the star of the party tonight. It'll be a feast and everyone will get a good taste."
Jig clapped his callused hands. "I'm gonna eat, drink, be merry, and dance with Mrs. Concher. And if the spirit moves me, I'm gonna propose marriage!"
We all laughed. And then we lifted the fish out of the boat and marched down the dock, our three hands working together to make the king almost weightless. There were whispers and pointing among some tourists standing near the FISH R US sign, and one young woman said, "That fish isn't so great. It doesn't need three people to carry it."
The afternoon sunlight filled the king with more shimmer, and we carried him to the parking lot and tried to fit him into Grease's cooler. The tail stuck out as if the fish were diving down.
Jig said, "Hurry home and keep him on ice. Don't cut him up until just before the meal."
"Okay," I said, trembling.
Angelo grinned. "The grand hotels and mansions of Palm Beach will be hosting parties tonight. The Season is in full swing. The rich and famous will be all dressed up for their charity balls and fancy shindigs. And we'll be having the greatest time on the roof of a condemned building."
"Cha cha cha!" Jig said, slapping me on the back.
"Go easy on him," Angelo said. "Danny has to sing tonight."
Jig's crusty old eyes suddenly grew wistful. "Sing lots of love songs. I want Mrs. Concher to get in the mood for marriage. Inspire her to become Mrs. Jig."
Angelo bellowed with laughter.
