Spartina (9 page)

He kept his foot on the bill anyway as he ran his knife from anus to throat. The stomach was full of bait fish. He gathered the innards in both hands and dumped them. Dipped the fish once to clean the blood out of the cavity. Took it below to put it on ice. Sloshed a bucket of water across the deck and scrubbed off the slick.

Parker slipped the two hoops of inner tube onto the wheel spokes and came aft to give him five. Then back to work.

The plane showed up, but didn’t spot anything during the morning run. The plane went home for lunch when the tide began to run hard. Dick took a two-hour nap.

When he woke up, the boat was rolling more. The southwest
wind had picked up, and there was some sea running but not too much chop. In the crow’s nest he could feel the motion amplified. She was not an easy boat. Two-foot seas and she was a goddamn barge. Elsie came up. Dick sent her back down when he saw she was holding on for dear life.

Dick could hear the plane, sneaked a look at it every so often. He climbed down at five. The plane could see better than him anyway.

He drowsed on deck. Parker had got Schuyler to take the wheel. Parker had left the channel open but the squelch up in case the spotter had anything to say; the crackle blended into Dick’s nap.

They’d been moving east in slow zigzags. At seven-thirty the plane wagged his wings and left. Parker got Elsie to fix canned soup with hot dogs cut up in it.

They ate in silence, were through in a few minutes. Dick said, “Better juice it on out and pull some pots. We want to be back here by morning.”

Parker said, “You want to look for a while longer? Just on the way.”

The wind had dropped, so it was a bit more comfortable aloft. Elsie came up. She didn’t say a word. After twenty minutes Dick looked at her. Even in the rich light of the late sun she looked green.

“You better go down,” he said.

Elsie didn’t say anything for a bit. Then, “On deck I can smell the bait.”

Dick had to lean near to hear. He said, “Better lie down on your bunk.”

Elsie made a face. Dick was watching her now, in between looks at the water. She suddenly leaned away from him, bent at the waist over the rail, and vomited. The pea soup and hot dogs carried on the wind, trailed across the windshield of the wheelhouse. Dick grabbed her as she retched again. She was bent over so far he was afraid she’d fall. He got his right hand on her right hip, groped for her belt. Got his other hand on her left shoulder.

She moaned weakly. He moved his left hand down onto her belt. “I got you,” he said. “Go on, just let go.”

“Oh no,” she said. “Oh shit.” She sounded terrible.

“You through?” he said. “If you’re through, I’ll get you down.” She didn’t say anything. He waited a bit, then got her onto the ladder. His feet a rung below hers, his hands on the ladder, his arms under her armpits.

When he got her down, she sagged back against him. He felt sharp tenderness for her, as though she was a little kid. He was also embarrassed by how aroused he was. He looked into the wheelhouse. Parker was laughing his head off. Pointed at the streaks on the glass. Dick shook his head at him, and turned Elsie forward.

He sat her down on the foredeck. He got her duffel from the cabin and spread some clothes under her. She curled up against the low rail. Dick put a line around her and made the other end fast.

By the time he got a bucket of water and sloshed it across the window, got a life jacket under Elsie’s head, and found her a Dramamine, the sun was too low to look anymore.

He turned in. Parker got him up at midnight. Dick woke Schuyler up, asked him how he felt. Schuyler said “Fine.” Dick got him on deck to help bait the pots. Parker took a sounding and a fix. Dick put the first line of pots over. By 2:00 a.m. they’d set the pots and headed back. Schuyler and Parker turned in, and Dick took the wheel.

Dick could just make out Elsie, curled up on her side. The boat was rolling some, but not so bad. The moon came down off the starboard bow, made a long sheen across the easy swell. The light was always there, glistening, fading, glistening, no matter how fast it seemed to be racing past.

Dick thought of how
his
boat would feel, deeper and steadier. He thought of how she would sound, the engine lower, the creak of the timbers less abrupt than this set of nervous hummings and clanks.

He kept coming back to Elsie. He should have thought to get some of those new anti-seasick tapes. The Fishermen’s Co-op had them—you stuck one behind your ear, instant sea-legs.

He saw her stir. Sit up. Discover the line on her belt. Rummage through her bag. She pulled on a sweater, stretched her arms. He could tell she felt better. She pulled her hands back through her hair and sank down again all in one motion, graceful as a passing wave. Her hand appeared and fumbled for the edge of her yellow slicker, found it, and pulled it over her shoulders.

He looked down at the compass and got back on course. There was a good reason for leaving women onshore. Being at sea opened you up. And if you wanted to do things right, you had to use all that opening up for what you were doing, for where you were, for what was going to happen.

Dick notched the engine up. He’d been lucky not to miss the skilley. He felt certain they’d see a fish tomorrow. He thought he should probably get Schuyler up to take the wheel the last hour before light, get himself a nap for an hour or so. He’d better use the wood shaft if the fish wasn’t too deep. He’d been lucky.

After Schuyler took the wheel, Dick went forward and knelt beside Elsie. Watched her until she opened her eyes.

“You okay?”

She rubbed her hand across her eyes and cheek.

She said, “I feel stiff.”

He brought a folded blanket and shifted her onto it.

She said, “I feel like such a jerk.”

He said, “No. It happens. You’ll feel good when you wake up.” He tucked another slicker around her knees.

She said, “You’re a good daddy,” and laughed.

It annoyed him. “Officer Buttrick,” he said, “Law-and-Order Buttrick. You looked about as green as your uniform.”

She stared back at him and grinned.

Dick was surprised. Damn, he thought, she likes that stuff.

Maybe that was what it was about rich kids—everything was quick little laughs, everyone amused by who gets to who. Dick said, “I guess you’re your old self again.”

He went below, turned in, and thought of nothing but swordfish, 200, 250 pounds, swimming to meet
Mamzelle.

E
ven with six hours of the spotter’ plane, they came up empty.

They headed out beyond the swordfish grounds and hauled the pots just after sunset. Schuyler filmed by the floodlight on the wheelhouse. He said to Dick, “I thought fishing was the second most dangerous job in America.” Dick kept an eye on the line coiling onto the winch, moved aside as a pot came into view. Schuyler called out, “Can’t you work a little closer to the bull?” Parker laughed and said cheerfully to Schuyler, “You can be a real asshole.”

They got a few okay lobster, a poor-to-fair haul of red crab. Dick guessed the whole haul wouldn’t bring much more than three hundred dollars. They hadn’t put out enough pots. The tender could have carried more,
Mamzelle
could have carried more herself. And they should have waited another day. Dick also wondered if they weren’t too far out for lobster but not quite far enough out for red crab. He recalculated what he’d have to spend on new pots for his own boat, recalculated what he still had to find out.

They eased back into the swordfish grounds by sunup. The weather was holding. But nothing all morning. The plane wagged and headed back in. Dick heard the hum fade. Then hold steady. He thought it was a trick of the way noise carried. No. The plane came back, went into a tight circle. Kept circling. Dick went back up, couldn’t see a thing. Parker got up to speed. When they got almost under the plane, Dick saw something. At first he thought it was the shadow of the plane. No fin, just a darkness. They got closer and he saw it was a fish. Not finning, just basking three or four feet under the surface. He’d have to use the metal pole.

He stayed up until he found which end of the fish was front, then slid down fast and got up in the pulpit. Parker came on too fast. Dick waved to him to slow down. Parker lurched into reverse. The fish was just out of reach when he heard the grinding. Dick leaned out. The fish gave one wag of his tail, veered off. Dick stuck. This time he saw the lily go in, too far back. Maybe behind the fin.

But the keg went over before he got to it, was bouncing away across the water. Then settled into a steady skimming, looked like a squat robot waterskiing.

Parker saw it, saw how fast it was going, jolted the engine into full forward.

The keg ducked under. Dick strained to see it. If it popped back up and jumped clear of the water, it meant the fish had pulled loose of it. Dick went up to the crow’s nest, still looking. He saw the keg come up, then pull under again. Still on the hook. But if the fish could hold it down that long, he was in awful good health. It’d be a long run.

They followed for an hour or so. The fish would slow down, they’d get hopeful, then the fish’d go at it again. But the lily hadn’t come loose, there was still a good chance.

The plane swept back and forth, a hum that was broken into dashes by the rise and fall of the bow, and wind across the rigging
and wheelhouse. So it was a while before Dick heard that the plane wasn’t sweeping, had tucked into another circle.

Dick came halfway down from the crow’s nest to talk it over with Parker.

Standard practice was to put a crew member in the dory, let him follow the first fish. The bigger boat went after the second fish. When the second fish was lost or won, then they came back for the dory and the first fish, if it was still fast.

But if Dick went in the dory, Parker couldn’t stick a fish, not with his arm in a cast. If Parker went, they still couldn’t count on Elsie or Schuyler to ease the boat up on the second fish.

Parker said, “Elsie can go in the dory.”

Dick said, “I don’t know.”

Schuyler had come up and joined in.

“If Elsie goes I don’t want her on film. You know—a girl out there hauling a fish.”

“She won’t haul it,” Parker said, “just keep it in sight.”

Dick shook his head. If it died before the big boat got back to her, she’d have to haul it.

“How ’bout you, Schuyler?”

Schuyler said, “Elsie might miss something on board. She’s okay with the camera but not as good as me.” He brightened. “She could tuck her hair up in a cap. Look like a fisherman in a long shot.”

Elsie came forward. Schuyler asked her if she could handle the dory.

“Sure.”

Dick said, “Jesus, Elsie. This isn’t a salt pond.” He knew right off he shouldn’t have put it that way.

Parker and Schuyler rigged the outboard and put the dory over the side. Before Elsie got in, Dick took her by the arm.

“Look. You just keep the keg in sight. That’s it. If the fish dies, you may see some sharks. A lot of sharks. If you stay clear, there’s
no problem. If sharks start tearing up the fish, don’t get in the middle of it.”

Schuyler offered to help her strap the second camera on, but Dick made her put her life jacket on instead. He ran his eye over the dory—oars, oarlocks, gaff, flare gun, water bottle. Schuyler put the camera in. Elsie cranked the motor and eased away.

“Don’t go too fast,” Dick shouted. “And don’t stand up!”

Parker veered off to head for the circling plane. Dick went aloft. He looked back. Elsie was an orange speck in the dory, the dory half hidden and indistinct in a trough. The keg blinked silver on top of a swell and disappeared on the other side.

Parker did better with the second fish. Crept up easy. Dick had a good shot, struck as hard as he could, trying for a quick kill. But the fish took off strong. Dick hoped it was just one good run. The keg kept plowing on.

When the fish slowed, it seemed to Dick it had been hours, but it was in fact only an hour since they’d put Elsie over.

Dick took in the keg and the line, got the tail gaff ready. Schuyler moved in close to him and was filming away. Dick glared at him. Schuyler said, “Don’t look at the camera.”

Dick looked at him again. “Fuck you, Schuyler.”

Dick got the noose on and ran it up tight. The fish lunged. Dick braced a foot and leaned back, almost sitting against the weight. Dick lifted the tail out of the water so the fish couldn’t swim, but he couldn’t swing him on board, not with this much life in him. He got him half up, his bill dangling down, rapping on the hull now and again.

Parker came back. “Maybe I’ll shoot him,” Parker said.

“Get the gaff,” Dick said.

Parker tried to set the gaff. The fish flipped himself in the air, almost horizontal. He swung back against the hull with a crack. Dick barely held on. The fish was half stunned.

Parker laughed and said, “I’ll stick him again. He’ll knock himself out for us.”

Parker tried again, got the gaff hook in. The fish struggled, but not so hard.

“When I swing him in,” Dick said, “you keep his head pinned. Okay—up!”