He nods, looks like he’s trying to place me.
“You pay that much for tuna tomorrow or the next day?” I ask.
“Depends on fish,” he says. “Sometimes more, sometimes less.”
“How much less?”
“Eight dollars a pound for skinny fish. Eighteen for nice fat fish.”
“Thanks.”
“Where’s Big Skiff? You his son, am I right?”
“He’s sort of retired for a while.”
“Retire? He young man. Too young to retire. Big Skiff, he the best harpoon. Always strike good fat fish! Tell him I say ‘hi,’ okay?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll tell him.”
I mean it, too. But when I get home, Dad is passed out on the couch with a whole new load of empty beer cans. Maybe he used to be the best, like everybody says, but right now he couldn’t catch a tuna if it jumped in his lap.
But I’m thinking maybe I can.
WHAT that tuna does, it gives me a whole new way of thinking. I been moping around and feeling sorry for myself, but maybe Tyler done me a favor. Work my butt off all summer hauling traps? Make money a dollar at a time? Why bother, when all I got to do is catch one measly tuna!
Okay, not measly, exactly. Has to be a big tuna. Five hundred pounder would be nice. Tuna get as big as a thousand pounds, but I ain’t greedy. Five hundred will do. Then I’ll have so much money, I can buy all kinds of stuff. First thing, the rebuilt motor for Rose. But I deserve a new bike, right? Fancy mountain bike even better than Tyler’s. And a new vacuum cleaner so the house don’t get so dirty. New curtains for the windows, like Mom was planning on. Whatever we need, we’ll get it.
Amazing, when you think about it. A bluefin tuna is going to change my life. Maybe change my dad’s life, too. Wait till he hears that new motor purring in Rose — he’ll want to get back fishing and acting like normal again. Me and him will be partners and a little pip-squeak like Tyler Croft won’t dare cut Big Skiff Beaman’s traps, no siree, not if he wants to live another day.
One fish, that’s all it takes. One big fish!
I’m too excited to eat supper. Too many things to do. First is check out the line situation. There’s a tub of heavy line in the bait shack that don’t look too bad. I pull it out and walk it back and forth along the dock to measure it. Six hundred feet, more or less. Should be plenty.
Takes me an hour or so to coil it just so in the tub, the way I seen my dad do when he was harpooning tuna.
That’s what I’m aiming to do, see. Harpoon me a bluefin tuna! One that’ll be so fat and juicy, it’ll make Mr. Nagahachi reach for his wallet. One that’s rolling around out there right this minute, waiting for me to show up. Big fish with my name on it. Try and catch me, Skiff Beaman!
Anyhow, first things first. Got the heavy line coiled in the plastic tub. Next thing, a keg to attach to the line. Because that’s how they do it. You stick the tuna with a harpoon. The harpoon dart is tied to one end of a line and the keg to the other. Line runs out and the tuna pulls the keg around until it gets tired. Then you grab the keg and pull, and on the end of the rope is a big fish. Easy as falling down.
Takes me another hour or so to locate a keg that looks the right size. Not too big and not too small. Too big and the dart will pull out of the tuna. Too small and the tuna won’t get tired quick enough. Heard Dad say that many times, back in the day. Gotta be exactly right, and there it is, the perfect keg, hiding behind the tool chest.
I drag the tub of line and the keg along the dock and lower it into my skiff. Haven’t figured out what to do for a harpoon yet, but I will, eventual.
Next is fuel for the outboard. I grab a couple of empty gas cans and walk to the gas station and fill them up and walk back home. Round trip about a mile. Harder on the way back, with the gas cans yanking on my arms. Don’t know how much gas I’ll need, but more than usual, that’s for sure. Takes two trips to fill the tanks. So there’s another hour and a half gone.
Bait. I get my last bucket of salt herring from the cooler in the shack and put it under the middle seat in the skiff. Might come in handy if I need to put out a chum slick — bits of cut-up bait that put the smell of food in the water.
It’s full dark by the time I go back in the kitchen and make a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fill a jug of water. Provisions for the trip. I ain’t hungry now, but sooner or later I will be, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich always hits the spot.
After the food gets squared away, I check on my dad. Still passed out, or sleeping heavy. I turn off the TV and collect up the beer cans real quiet.
He rolls over, groans.
“Rose,” he mutters, “that you?”
Moment later he’s snoring away.
Part of me wants to leave him a note, let him know where I’m headed and what I intend to do. But the other part says don’t be a fool. What if he wakes up in an hour and reads the note? He’ll try and stop me for sure, or raise a fuss with the Coast Guard. Either way, no big fish. No big wad of cash money from Mr. Nagahachi. No rebuilt motor, no fancy mountain bike, no nothing.
Can’t risk that.
I hang out by the dock until the tide goes slack. Time to move. I know what I need to do about the harpoon, but it’s shameful, so I don’t want to think about it. Just do it.
I’m about to untie the skiff and get going when I remember the compass. Never needed a compass hauling traps because I was always in sight of land. But going offshore in the dead of night is different. Got to know which way is east.
“Hey, Rose?” I go. “May I come aboard?”
The Mary Rose shifts a little as she takes my weight. I know a boat ain’t really alive, not like a human being is alive. But sometimes it seems like the Mary Rose knows me almost as good as I know her.
“Rose, you mind if I borrow your compass for a little while? I promise to bring it back, good as new.”
Rose don’t mind. I unscrew the compass and take it back to the skiff and screw it down to the middle seat. Mighty big compass for a small boat. Compass like that you could steer all the way to Portugal. I ain’t going near so far. Just thirty miles, more or less. Thirty miles seems like a mighty long way to go in a ten-foot skiff, but compared to Portugal it ain’t much.
Thirty miles out to sea. Thirty miles to where the big fish live. Thirty miles to the end of the rainbow and the pot of gold. Thirty long miles in a very small boat, in the dark of night, alone.
Best get moving.
AT the bend of the creek I shut off the outboard and get out the oars. Rowing soft and quiet as I come around the curve. Last thing I want is for Mr. Woodwell to see me. Not that he will. The lights are out in his house. Old man like him goes to bed early, I guess. Unless he’s sitting on the porch in the dark.
Soon as I think about the porch I can feel him looking, wondering what I’m up to, coming in so sneaky. ’Course it’s just my imagination — he’s probably sound asleep and dreaming of the boats he made. Plus he can’t see so good anyhow. Must be dead to the world by now. Stands to reason.
But just in case, I come up on the far side of the dock, out of sight from the porch. Nudge my skiff on the bank and stand ankle-deep in the cool water listening to the quiet. Even the birds gone to sleep. Only sound is crickets and peepers and the hush of warm summer wind.
I take a deep breath, ease it out.
There’s a hot blush on my cheeks. Always happens when I’m about to do something bad. Once when I filched a cookie from the jar, Mom called me the Blushing Bandit, on account of my red face. You know what? Having her laugh at me was worse than getting spanked. Made the cookie taste like dirt. Then she grabbed me up and said something that made me feel better. I don’t remember what exactly because I was only four, but knowing Mom, it was funny and sweet and sassy.
Mosquito lights on my neck. I squash it real quiet. Then I’m up the bank to the far side of the boat shed. Seems bigger in the dark. Big as a castle from a storybook. The high windows look like dark
eyes watching me, and the shed doors are a giant mouth.
Tell myself, don’t be stupid. It’s a boat shed, that’s all it is. An empty boat shed. Get a grip.
My head feels light with knowing what I got to do. Which is exciting and scary all at the same time. I slip up to the shed and lean against the outside wall. The boards are rough and smell of rain and old wood. Feel my way along the boards until I get to the big iron latch.
Here’s where I got to be extra quiet. Mr. Woodwell may be halfway deaf, but a squeaky door will get inside your sleep. I ease up the latch and feel the weight of the big door. It wants to open and let me in. Big, old hinges don’t squeak, they make a deeper sound like ohhhh nooooo. Or maybe like an old man clearing his throat.
I slip inside and pull the door shut. Take another deep breath and taste the smell of fresh wood shavings. Kind of a green smell that feels good inside your nose and down the back of your throat, like spearmint candy.
At first it’s so dark in the boat shed, it’s like a soft blanket settled over my eyes. Then I can make out the shape of the high windows and a smudge of starlight. Still can’t see much, but enough to make out the farthest wall. On the way I stub my toe on a sawhorse, but manage to swallow the ouch.
Serves me right, sneaking in like a thief.
Try to tell myself what I got in mind ain’t stealing exactly. But if it ain’t stealing, what is it?
Feel along the back wall. Finding tools hung on pegs, splinters, knotholes. What I’m after is out of reach, so I drag over a sawhorse and climb up on it. Kind of holding my breath as I reach up.
There it is, right at my fingertips. My father’s harpoon. The one he made and gave to Mr. Woodwell. I lift it off the pegs, expecting heavy, but the harpoon is light. Long and light and balanced where you hold it. The surprise of that makes me dizzy, I guess, because the next thing I’m on my back in the sawdust and I can’t breathe. Got the wind knocked all the way out and it takes awhile to get it back, a little at a time.
When I’m breathing again I worry some more about Mr. Woodwell. What’ll he say if he finds me taking his harpoon? What’ll I say back? Can’t think of nothing that makes it right, but that don’t stop me doing it. I been over it in my own head and there’s no way around it. The fish are out there right now. Tomorrow or the next day might be too late. So I got to head out tonight and be there when the sun comes up, ready to strike the first big fish that rises. Need a harpoon for that, no two ways about it.
It’s not like I can ask to borrow the harpoon. Tell the old man I’m headed out to the tuna fishing grounds and he’ll rope me to a chair and call my dad, or worse. So I tell myself Mr. Woodwell will understand after it’s over. After I got my fish and the money and everything. But mostly I try not think about how wrong it is, stealing from Mr. Woodwell, who’s been so good to me.
In the end he don’t wake up, or anyhow he don’t come out to the shed to see what’s making all the noise falling down and squeaking the doors.
First thing I notice outside the shed is a swarm of lightning bugs shining like little stars in the tall grass. Like they’re pointing the way back to my skiff. Figure that has to be a good sign, when the bugs want to help you find your way.
I scurry down the bank to where my skiff is waiting. The harpoon is longer than the boat. So long, it sticks out over the bow like the emblem on an old car. Big old harpoon is meant to be used, ain’t it? What’s the point of making a thing like that if it never gets used?
Once I’m out on the creek I stop worrying about Mr. Woodwell and start thinking about the giant fish. The big bluefin. I can almost hear it talking. Sassing me like a bully in the schoolyard. Come and get me, lobster boy. Come and get me if you dare.
DOWN the creek I go, with the dark all around and the trees watching and the water shining black. Down the creek and past our little house, where my dad is passed out on the TV couch. Down the creek to the river, where the current is fast and the water is deep. Down to the river and out to the harbor, where the lighthouse stands on a hunk of bare rock, tall as a giant with a head of light.
The only sounds are the slap of water on the hull and the mutter-putter of the outboard motor. And me whistling soft to keep myself company.
At this time of night my skiff is the only boat on the move. All the other boats in Spinney Cove are sleeping at their moorings. I’m wondering if the bluefin tuna sleep, too. Some fish sleep, others got to keep moving. Probably your big blue is the keep-moving kind.
Once I asked my dad how fish see way down deep where it’s always dark. He told me a fish has got special nerves under its skin so it can feel the shape of things moving in the water. Little fish twitches, the big fish feels it, good as we can see with our eyes. You mean like magic, I asked, and he thought about that and said, no, it’s not magic, it’s just Nature’s way to give one creature advantage over another.
That’s when Mom chimed in to say the main advantage of being human is the brain, so use it or lose it, young man. She was big on that, wanting me to think about things, and do good in school, and read books and stuff. Sometimes in the middle of my head I can still hear her going, “Show the world what you’re made of, Skiff Beaman.”
Couldn’t hardly get through the kitchen without her saying that. Or reminding me what the three rules were. Mom’s Three Rules. Rule Number One, think smart. Rule Number Two, speak true. Rule Number Three, never give up. First two I’m always forgetting. The third one, that’s why I’m out here. Only thing, what if never giving up means not thinking smart or speaking true? Does it cancel out?
God gave you a brain, Skiff Beaman. Use it.
Okay, Mom. I’m trying. Honest.
Honest? You just stole a harpoon from that nice old man!
Had to, Mom. Can’t give up, remember? Rule Three.
You smart-mouthing me, Skiff Beaman?
No, ma’am.
All right, then. Can’t change what’s already been done. But you be careful.
I’ll be careful.
You know where you’re going, and how to get there?
Yes, ma’am.
Stay in the boat. Whatever happens, you stay in the boat. Promise?
Yes, Mom. I promise.
Tide carries me past the lighthouse.
Put the light behind you and steer for the big red buoy.
My dad said that the first time he ever took me out in the Mary Rose. Sat me on his lap and let me steer for the buoy. He was always doing that, explaining which way to go, what rocks to stay clear of, and where the channel markers were. So I know which way to go, once I clear the harbor. Flat east for thirty miles. Couldn’t be simpler. Just head into the sunrise, that’s where the fish are waiting. Piece of cake. Any fool can find the Ledge. Why not me?
When I pass the big red buoy it sighs at me. That’s just air going up and down inside as it rides on the swell. But it almost sounds human, and mournful, like it thinks I’m making a big mistake. Maybe I am. But I can’t stop now. No way. For the rest of my life I’d be sick thinking on what might have been. Sick on missing my big chance.
Think fish, I tell myself. Don’t think about how big the dark is, or how small the skiff feels, or how scared you are. Scared from the inside out, from the pit of your stomach to the tips of your fingers. The kind of scared that makes you tingle all over.
Think fish. Big fish shining like a lighthouse, showing you the way. Big fish gonna change your life.
Big fish, big fish.
Thinking on that big fish so hard, I almost forget to check the compass. Lucky for me it glows in the dark, and I line up the “E” and stick to it.
Trust your compass. That’s another thing my dad was always saying. Trust your compass because you can’t trust your instincts in the dark or the fog. Without a compass a man will steer himself in a circle, nine times out of ten. Give up on the compass and you’re lost for sure.
Every once in a while I look back, and each time the lighthouse beacon gets smaller and fainter. After a while
it’s only a glow on the edge of night. Then comes a time it ain’t there at all. Which means I’ve gone at least five miles. Five miles out to sea.
Twenty-five miles to go. Should take three, maybe four hours.
Nothing to it. Piece of cake. Nothing to be scared of, so long as I stay in the boat and trust the compass.
Still, I keep thinking how much water there is. Black, black water. Water so dark and deep, it takes your breath away. Water so everywhere and all around, you can’t tell it from the sky, or the sky from the water, or whether you’re rising or falling.
Don’t think about that. What does it matter how deep the water is? Think about steering east. Think about getting there. Think about big fish. Think about what you’ll do with the money. Think about the Mary Rose as good as new, and your dad as good as new, too, and Tyler Croft with the outhouse song dying in his stupid throat.
Steer east.
Steer east.
Steer east and think about what happens when the sun comes up and the big fish rises.
I’m steering east and pretty much over being scared to death when the motor up and quits.
NOTHING like a quit motor to put a lump in your throat. I got so used to the sound of it that the sudden quiet almost hurts.
Ain’t just the quiet, though. Without a motor to push a boat along, the sea takes over and does what it wants. Soon as the motor quits, the big swells start to turn the skiff around. Turning me like the wind turns a leaf in a puddle, making the compass spin from east to west and round again. Feels like I’m going down the drain.
This is bad, real bad.
I yank on the cord. The motor sputters and dies. Yank again and again. Nothing. What went wrong? Could be a hundred things. Bad spark plug. A broken wire. A gummed-up carburetor. Maybe the miserable old motor finally died of old age — and no way to know for sure in the dark.
I’m so mad and scared, I almost cry. Almost but not quite. Finally I think to check the gas tank, which I should have done right away. It’s bone dry! I switch the fuel hose over to the next tank, squeeze the primer bulb, and yank on the starter cord, thinking, pleasepleaseplease start.
The Young Man and the Sea Page 6
