Dead In The Hamptons (26 page)

“He’s got a smaller boat, and he’s still willing to take us out tomorrow.”

“And the bad news?” I asked.

“He can only take two passengers,” she said. “He said it’s just a little runabout. It’s not big enough for more, not for fishing.”

Jimmy’s eyes flew open.

“That’s good news.”

They both looked at me. Jimmy stretched an arm out and rolled it from side to side. We could all see that even though he’d accumulated a crop of freckles since June, the skin underneath was still red and tender. It looked as if it might blister at any time.

Barbara marched over to me and took hold of my wrist. I let her stretch my bronzed arm out. We all looked from my arm to Jimmy’s.

“How come when other guys get a world class tan like mine, all that happens is they get the girls?” I complained.

Jimmy grinned broadly.

“You’re getting my girl.”

He put both arms behind his head and leaned back, conspicuously relaxing. Barbara leaned closer and dropped a smacking kiss on my temple.

“I know,” I said with resignation. “You owe me.”

Dowling had said we had to leave by nine in the morning to catch the ebbing tide. I guess it increased our chances of finding the fish at home. I didn’t fancy several hours in a small boat with Barbara and no fish. By 8:30, she was loaded for bear.

“What have you got there, pumpkin?” Jimmy asked. He would drop us at Dead Harbor, where the boat was docked.

“Sun hat, sun block, a towel in case I get wet, a sweatshirt in case I get cold,” she said. “Rubber gloves in case I have to touch the fish. An LED flashlight in case we get stuck and have to signal, you know, if a fog rolls in.”

“There isn’t a cloud between here and Rhode Island,” Jimmy said. “I checked the forecast and looked out the window.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Dowling has a fog horn on the boat,” I said. “And radar and a radio.”

“Sounds like it’s been a while since you took a boat ride,” Lewis said. “Nowadays it’s a GPS and a cell phone.”

He poured himself a mug of coffee and joined us, shaking his head as Barbara packed a paperback mystery, a plastic bottle of hand sanitizer, a box of Band-Aids, two pairs of socks, and a bathing suit in her backpack.

“You’re going fishing, not running away from home,” I said.

“He’ll have life jackets, won’t he, Lewis?” she asked.

“Sure, all the boats carry them. The old timers like Dowling aren’t so big on wearing them, but you can if you want.”

“It’s supposed to go up to the low nineties, petunia.”

“It’ll be cooler on the water,” Barbara said. “I like to be prepared.”

“Yes, dear,” Jimmy said. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

“You know how to get there?” Lewis asked.

“Back toward Amagansett,” Jimmy said. “He told me a couple of landmarks to look for when it’s time to turn. If we get to Napeague Harbor, we’ve gone too far.”

“We may have gone too far already,” I muttered.

Ms. Eagle Ears heard me.

“Cut it out, Bruce,” she said. “Forget you’re an ACOA today. No martyrdom by fun.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I won’t be a party pooper. How about a trade? No whining if you don’t catch any fish.”

Barbara hoisted the backpack and settled the straps across her shoulders.

“I don’t whine! And who says I won’t catch any fish? I’ll catch more fish than you.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jimmy said. “Can we go now, please?”

Nothing like a lively exchange with Barbara to perk me up in the morning.

Dead Harbor looked deserted in the golden morning light. Two wooden docks ran out into an inlet rimmed with bright green grasses. The still boats lined up along both sides of them were paired with their mirror images in the glassy water. On a sandbar out beyond the channel marked with red and green buoys, a white egret with an S-shaped neck stood on one slim black leg, either meditating or contemplating its breakfast.

“Which boat is Dowling’s?” I asked.

“I thought we’d see him,” Barbara said. “Now what?”

Before either of us could answer, a pickup truck rattled around a curve in the road and pulled up next to Jimmy’s Toyota. The door swung open. Not Dowling, but Mrs. Dowling emerged.

“Good, you’re here,” she said briskly. “Dowling couldn’t make it. Let’s go. Don’t want to miss the tide. Catch ’em while they’re running good.”

She made for the farther dock as Barbara whispered, “I don’t think we’re going to hear any stories about Captain Kidd.”

“On the other hand, this is positively chatty for Mrs. Dowling. You’re not going to suggest she can’t drive a boat and fish as well as Mr. D., are you?”

“Are you kidding? May feminists dance on your grave if you so much as think it!”

“Is it okay if I leave?” Jimmy asked. “Will you be okay?”

“Come on, now!” Mrs. Dowling called over her shoulder from halfway down the dock. “Whichever of you is coming, let’s get moving. Fish don’t stand still and wait around, you know.”

“We’ll be fine,” Barbara said. She gave Jimmy a quick kiss, and I punched him in the arm in a display of male affection I thought Mrs. Dowling would respect.

“You’ve got your cell phones, right? Call me if you need me.”

“We’ll be fine, dude,” I told him. “Come on, Barbara. We’re going fishing.”

Mrs. Dowling was already moving around a small white boat. Barbara trotted down the dock and clambered in. I stopped to take a look before I boarded. There was not much to it.

“What kind of a boat is it?” Barbara asked.

“It’s a Pursuit, a twenty-two-foot runabout,” Mrs. Dowling said. “Come on, come on,” she urged me. “If you want to make yourself useful, you can cast off before you come aboard.”

I managed to figure out she wanted me to unloop the rope tethering the boat from a cleat attached to the dock. I climbed over the side into a cockpit maybe fifteen feet long. In the stern was a heavy outboard motor. At the bow, the open part ended in the folded back door to a low cabin, just big enough for padded bunks that curved around three sides in a truncated V or pinched-together U.

“Where can we put our things?” Barbara asked.

“In there.” Mrs. Dowling indicated the cabin door.

I had nothing to throw, but Barbara tossed her backpack onto a bunk.

Two high padded stools with low backs stood before a dashboard and a clear plastic windscreen. A blue canvas canopy provided shade. I hopped onto the left-hand seat. It swiveled. Just like a barstool. Mrs. Dowling took the right-hand seat. The boat was set up like a British car, with the ignition, wheel, and gearshift on the right. She turned the key, and the engine came to life.

“Where do I sit?” Barbara asked.

“Here.” I got up and patted the seat. “I can perch on the side if I need to. For now, I’ll look over your shoulder.”

“Once we start fishing,” Mrs. Dowling said, “you won’t need a seat. You won’t catch any blues sitting on your duff.”

“What are the two little screens?” Barbara asked.

“This one’s the GPS.”

“What are the dotted lines?”

“That’s a trail of breadcrumbs.” Mrs. Dowling didn’t crack a smile. “They mark the route.”

“So you use it to navigate.”

“Not really.” The engine purred as we moved slowly between the ranks of sleeping boats. “I’ve got these waters in my head.”

“And the other one?”

“Depth recorder,” she said.

Barbara peered at the screen.

“It says we’re in six feet of water now. How deep will it get out in the bay?”

“Twenty-five, more or less.” She nudged the stick forward, and the engine hummed louder.

“You use the gear shift to accelerate?” Barbara asked.

“That’s right.”

“Where are the brakes?” Barbara asked. “How do you stop?”

“Put her in reverse.” Mrs. Dowling turned and plucked a fishing rod out of a cylindrical holder behind her at the side of the boat. “Let’s get these rods set up, and I’ll show you how to cast.” The boat continued moving as she unhooked a red and white length of plastic like a bitten-off cigar from a small loop halfway down the rod. No hands on the wheel.

“You don’t have to watch the road?” Barbara asked.

“Ha! No road.”

I looked around. The only boats in sight were far away: a string of sailboats to the right of a distant headland, a couple of motor boats cutting across the horizon.

“What if a boat or a jet ski comes our way?”

“Damn jet skis. I’ll hear it long before it gets near us.” She handed a fishing rod to each of us and ducked down into the cabin to get one for herself.

“No live bait, thank God,” Barbara whispered.

The rod felt comfortable in my hand. I gripped the cork handle and swished it a couple of times. It was very light and flexible. Barbara unhooked her lure and started waving her rod around.

“Watch out with that,” I said. “Those hooks are nasty.”

She caught the dangling end and examined the lure.

“Ew, poor fish,” she said. “A triple hook at the end and another in the middle, and they’ve got barbs on them.” Holding the freed lure between her thumb and forefinger, she looked around the bare deck. “Where do we put the fish we catch?”

“Compartment under your feet.”

Barbara jumped, as if she were stepping on fish rather than just a hatch cover flush with the deck.

“That one’s got water in it, keep ’em fresh,” Mrs. Dowling said. “The others hold equipment, and one is for live bait, which we aren’t using today. Now, hold your rods like this: two fingers above the grip, and hook a bit of line through your finger. Next, you open the bail.” She flipped a U-shaped piece of metal from one side of the reel to the other. “That frees your line. Make sure your lure is about a third or half way down the rod and isn’t caught on anything. Now watch what I do.”

She tipped the rod back over her shoulder, then flipped it expertly forward. The line, an almost invisible filament, played out and disappeared far out over the water.

“And now we reel it in. You can flip the bail back or just start reeling. Can you see the lure?”

“No,” I said.

“Where is it?” Barbara asked.

Mrs. Dowling, reeling rapidly, nodded out in the direction of the cast. “You’ll see it skipping over the surface of the water, coming toward us. The bluefish think it’s bait because of how it moves.”

“There it is!” Barbara crowed.

I saw it flashing for a second, skipping toward the boat. Then it disappeared as the tip of Mrs. Dowling’s rod curved forward.

“Ha! Come to Mama, you twisty little thing.”

I raised one eyebrow at Barbara. She stifled a giggle.

“You’ve got to play it,” Mrs. Dowling said. “Keep on reeling steadily, but not too fast. Sometimes they slip off the hook. But even if that happens, don’t stop reeling. They’ll go after it again.”

We watched the silvery flashes in the churning water as the fish tried to free itself.

“What do they think it is?” Barbara asked. “I mean, what kinds of fish are bait fish?”

“They’ll take all kinds,” Mrs. Dowling said, still reeling. “Bunker, or they call ’em menhaden. Snappers, even— baby blues.”

“Ew, they eat their own babies?”

“If they need to.” A triumphant smile spread across her face. “And here you go!”

She flipped the bluefish onto the deck. It flopped and twisted wildly. “Watch out, it’s got sharp teeth and a nasty disposition.” She bent to grasp it firmly by the middle and disengage the hook. “Open the trap.”

Barbara stepped hastily off the hatch cover, and I flipped it back. Mrs. Dowling tossed it into the compartment, where it wriggled a few times in the shallow water, then lay still.

“Sorry, fish,” Barbara said as I lowered the cover back down. “Too bad for you we’re higher up the food chain.”

Mrs. Dowling made us practice casting for a while. Neither of us caught a fish. I got into an easy rhythm after a couple of tries. Barbara hooked the side of the boat, my fishing rod, the canvas canopy, and her own hair.

“If you can’t learn to cast properly,” Mrs. Dowling said, “you can troll. Just stick the rod in a holder at the stern and let the boat pull the line along till something bites. But I wouldn’t call that fishing.”

“I’ll learn.” Barbara set her jaw and swung the wicked little barbs so close to my chest she snagged a loose thread on my T-shirt.

Finally, Mrs. Dowling was satisfied. She pushed the engine into gear.

“Let’s go find some blues.”

Mrs. Dowling was a competent guide in a minimalist sort of way. As we plunged farther into the blue bowl of sea and sky, she had us scan the area for birds hovering above the surface. If we saw a flock, that’s where we’d find a school of blues feeding on a school of bait fish. We passed the forbidden paradise of Gardiner’s Island and sailed in shallow water over the hump called the Rip that lay between the island and the ruined fort on its own small isle. Barbara thought the layered slabs of gray stone and crumbling arches looked romantic. Mrs. Dowling told us it had been used for bombing practice during World War II, when Japanese submarines had lurked off Montauk.

“My husband could have told you more about it,” Mrs. Dowling said.

“Maybe he can tell us—” Barbara began.

“Two o’clock!” Mrs. Dowling exclaimed.

We looked at our watches.

“Direction,” Mrs. Dowling said, deadpan. “Twelve is straight ahead.”

The boat swung slowly two notches to the right and nosed forward. We could see quite a commotion on the water. Black and white terns wheeled and dove, while flashes of silver churning up the water marked the bait fish fleeing and the bluefish feeding. The thrill of the chase and the tussle with the beleaguered fish took hold of us. After a few crossed rods and a couple of Barbara’s hooks in my hair, we both got the hang of it. We flipped our rods back and flicked them forward, flung our lines far out over the water, and reeled in the blues. Mrs. Dowling, casting beside us at twice our speed, used a pair of pliers to remove the hooks. Her fingers were deft, her arms thin and ropy. She didn’t get those muscles at the gym. They came from real work.

By the time we had a dozen fish sloshing in the compartment under the deck, I wanted a cigarette badly. If Mrs. Dowling smoked, I’d seen no sign of it. I knew that Barbara wouldn’t appreciate it if I puffed smoke at her in the close quarters of the cockpit. And even I didn’t want to fumigate myself by lighting up in the tiny cabin.