Looking Through Water Page 5

  “Hi, Cole,” his father said.

  Cole must be our fishing guide, William thought.

  After shaking hands with his father, Cole removed his sunglasses and looked William up and down the way the gang leader in Rebel Without a Cause looked at James Dean before their knife fight at the observatory.

  Finally Cole spoke. “Leo, what’s this?”

  “That, Cole, is my son,” William’s father said calmly.

  “What the hell is he wearing?” Cole asked, continuing to speak as if William weren’t there.

  “I think they’re called tuxedos, Cole. They’re worn sometimes by civilized gentlemen.”

  “Is he a secret agent, Leo?” Cole asked, bringing on laughter from the other guides standing nearby.

  “Doubtful,” William’s father answered.

  “Well, then, is he retarded?” Cole asked.

  The laughter subsided and William felt his fists begin to clench.

  Before his father could say anything, a chubby, balding guide with a brace on his wrist across the parking lot yelled over, “Hey, Cole, what’s with Mr. Tux? Is he a waiter or your prom date?”

  The other guides laughed again.

  Cole shouted back, “Hey, Bobby, what’s wrong with your wrist? You get that whackin’ off between divorces or what?”

  Everybody roared, including William, happy to be at least temporarily out of Cole’s range of fire.

  Just then a flashbulb went off as a short guy in a straw hat took a picture of Cole standing on one side of Leo with William on the other.

  “Team name?” he asked William’s father.

  “McKay, M-C-K- A-Y,” he answered.

  “Okay. Good luck out there,” the little man said, moving on to the next grouping of men.

  Leo looked at William, then pointed to the Florida Key Outfitters next to the dock. “Kid, go over there and get some duds. You look like an idiot.”

  William couldn’t argue with that. As he turned and walked toward the shop, he overheard his father say to Cole, “C’mere, kid. I want to talk to you.” Maybe he’s going to tell him to behave, William thought.

  The Outfitters was a far cry from the old tackle shop in Saranac Lake that William’s grandfather had often taken him to visit as a boy in the Adirondacks. Instead of dark and musty, this shop was bright and air-conditioned. Bait tanks were replaced with islands of colorful flies and attractive fishing clothing with lightweight shirts in pastel colors . . . aqua blues and greens and coral colors that an old-timer in upper New York State wouldn’t have been seen dead in.

  Large rod racks held rows of tall, elegant, tapered fly-fishing rods instead of the spinning rods and bait casters of William’s youth.

  The walls were painted white, instead of stained wood, but still served as the background to a variety of pictures of men and women standing in boats or wading shallow water, showing off their prize catches. Gone, however, were the dockside pictures of fishermen posing with their day’s catch of twenty-five dead fish. William knew that in today’s world, catch and release was replacing the old adage of catch ’em and cook ’em.

  Written with an artist’s touch, over a rack of men’s clothing, William read the words:

  THE CHARM OF FISHING IS THAT IT IS THE PURSUIT OF WHAT IS ELUSIVE BUT ATTAINABLE, A PERPETUAL SERIES OF OCCASIONS FOR HOPE.

  —JOHN BUCHAN

  Yeah right, William thought to himself as he gathered up an armful of fishing shorts and shirts. I hope that I’ll find some charm in this three-day fishing tournament.

  Next, he walked over to the revolving countertop carousel to check out sunglasses. A woman’s voice from behind him said, “If you’re fishing, you should get polarized lenses so you can see through the water.”

  He turned to look at her. She was stunning. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, about five foot eight, dark-brown hair cut short, a bronze tan, a slender figure, and a beautiful smile. Her wide brown eyes were the darkest he’d ever seen.

  “Can you show me?” he managed to say.

  She spun the carousel and picked out a pair with amber-tinted lenses, then slipped them on his face. He noticed her long manicured fingers.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “Handsome?” he asked.

  “No, just nice,” she said, smiling.

  “Do you charge a consulting fee?” William asked, and she smiled again.

  “That’s a pretty nasty cut on your forehead. It could use a stitch or two,” she said.

  From outside, a voice on the loudspeaker said, “Anglers and guides to your boats! The blessing of the fleet will begin in five minutes.”

  “Gotta go,” she said, turning for the door. “By the way, the tux? Handsome.”

  William bolted for the changing room, deciding that he would not throw the tux away as he’d planned. He scrambled into some of his new togs, transferred his clunky mobile phone into a pocket of his shorts, and put everything else in a bag that he’d pick up when they returned to the dock.

  Heading outside toward Cole’s slip where his skiff was docked, William noticed a wooden sign with a carved quotation posted by the boardwalk.

  THE GODS DO NOT DEDUCT FROM MAN’S ALLOTTED SPAN THE HOURS SPENT IN FISHING.

  Man, William thought, folks down here really love their fishing quotes.

  He looked up to see Cole approaching with two old cardboard boxes of fish guts, dripping a line of slime as he went.

  “Cole, do you know—?”

  It’s a Babylonian proverb,” he answered. “I put it there myself.”

  “Hey listen, Cole,” William said, “maybe we got off on the wrong foot before.” He extended his hand. “I’m Will McKay.”

  Cole shoved the open boxes of chum into his hands. Stinky goo started dripping down William’s new clothes.

  “I know who you are,” Cole said. “Now pitch those and get in the skiff.”

  His father was already on board, spreading suntan lotion on his arms. “Here you are, son,” he said, handing William the tube. “It’s gonna be a hot one today. Our fly rods are stowed under the gunnels, and our lunches and drinks are in the ice chest. I’ve got lots of water, iced tea, Cokes, and a few beers for the ride in.”

  Cole came back to the boat, finishing a cigarette that he butted in a designated can of sand on the dock, untied the line, stepped to the center console between William and his father, and fired up the engine.

  As they motored out to join about eighty other boats collecting in Lorelei’s little harbor, William looked around Cole’s skiff, which was spotlessly clean. What he lacked in manners, William thought, he apparently made up for in good housekeeping. Otherwise, it was about identical to the others. Seventeen and a half feet long, it was made of fiberglass and had a bench seat amidships behind the console for the two anglers and captain. Immediately in front of the console was an ice chest with a padded top, no doubt for a third angler if there was one on a chartered trip. The bow of the boat offered a large, smooth platform for the anglers to stand on. A stainless-steel platform was built over the rear-mounted outboard so the guide could look for fish as he propelled the boat around the flats with the eighteen-foot fiberglass push pole that for now was fastened to the top of one of the gunnels.

  In the center of the now crowded harbor, Cole cut the engine and drifted among the fleet of boats, each with a captain and two anglers. The sun had risen well above the bordering palm trees that swayed gently in the northeasterly wind. Congenial insults bounced back and forth among fellow competitors, most of whom seemed to know one another pretty well, or well enough to belittle one another’s skills, chances of winning, and occasionally their heritage and aberrant sex life or lack thereof. Some of the stuff was directed at William’s dad, who had obviously become a well-accepted member of this community of anglers.

  Suddenly, an air horn went off, silencing the chatter and drawing everyone’s attention to a busty redhead, probably in her fifties, standing on the dock, a microphone in her hands.

&
nbsp; “Who’s that?” William asked his father.

  “That’s Mrs. Reno.”

  William couldn’t help but notice the smile that crossed his father’s lips. “She’s our mayor and magistrate. She also owns the most popular gin mill in town.”

  “She also gives your old man an occasional knob wash,” Cole chimed in.

  “That’s enough of that, Captain.” Leo seemed to blush.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Mrs. Reno boomed. “Welcome to the first annual Islamorada Father and Son Charity Grand Slam Fly-Fishing Tournament!”

  A huge cheer went up from the assembled anglers.

  “Here are the rules,” she said, “Rule one is to have three days of fun.” More cheers from the crowd. “Rule two, only fly rods, no bait.” The anglers quieted. This was the serious part. “Rule three, your target species are bonefish, tarpon, and permit. Rule four, first team to catch one of each wins the tournament. But remember, each angler has to catch at least one of the three. Rule five, International Game Fish Association rules apply and no leader can exceed fifteen feet.”

  “What’s a leader?” William asked his father.

  “That’s the monofilament line we connect to the end of the fly line,” he said.

  Mrs. Reno continued, “Regardless of when any boat releases all three species, fishing goes on for three days. Cast at every species you see and photograph your catches before you release them. Please photograph tarpon in the water. This is a catch-and-release tournament and we want to see all of our caught fish live to fight another day.

  “And again, have some fun out there and do some father–son bonding. Here are some icebreakers: Fathers, ask your sons if they’ve ever gotten lucky. Sons, ask your fathers if they’ve ever smoked a joint, but remember that they’ll probably lie. Lying is what all fishermen do best!”

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  “Finally, and seriously, all of your entry fees are going to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation for research to find a cure for that dreaded childhood disease, so thank you all very much. Now everyone shut up for the blessing of the fleet.”

  Silence fell over the fleet of skiffs. Some of the participants took off their hats, some stood, and some bowed their heads.

  “Great God and Father of all fishermen,” Mrs. Reno began, “we ask for your blessing on this fleet. Keep our captains patient and our anglers humble, the beer cold and the fishing hot, and more than anything else, give us this time to enjoy the beauty of Your creation and to also remember why we are here . . . to help find a cure that will save the lives of our most priceless catch, our precious children. Please bless this fleet and bring them all back safely before sundown. Amen.”

  Amens were murmured from the boats.

  “Lines in whenever you wish, but out of the water by three thirty p.m. So without further ado, gentlemen, start your engines!”

  Eighty outboard motors sprang to life.

  “Now I need a starter’s pistol,” Mrs. Reno shouted. “Anybody out there have a gun? No, forget I asked that.”

  Everyone laughed. (William had left his locked in his father’s truck.)

  “On my voice then, take your mark . . . get set . . . go fishing!”

  Almost as one, the skiffs turned toward the hundred-yard channel that led to the Florida Bay. The captains were not allowed to give their engines full thrust as the harbor and channel were no-wake zones, but there was a lot of jockeying for position and a renewal of jokes and curses.

  William stood up in front of his seat to get a better look at the fleet. When they got to the end of the channel, Cole turned his baseball cap around and said to William, “Hey, waiter, you better hold on.”

  “What?” William asked just as Cole jammed the throttle forward.

  The nose of the skiff shot up in the air and William got knocked back to his seat, barely able to grab hold of the stern poling platform to keep from falling out the back.

  The nose of the boat came down as the skiff planed out then jumped ahead as if it had been shot out of a cannon. The resulting rush of wind caught the bill of William’s new hat and blew it off his head into the waters of the Florida Bay. Guess I’ll just fish hatless today, he thought.

  At first the skiffs were packed in tight, creating a sea of turbulence with their wakes. Then the fleet thinned out as the captains headed off in different directions, racing to get to their favorite fishing spot on the rising tide.

  Cole’s skiff literally flew over the shallow aquamarine water at fifty miles an hour. They were heading due south, hugging the markers on the right side of a wide channel. They’d completely broken away from the pack when Cole threw the boat into a steep sliding right-hand turn to the west and into the beautiful Florida Bay that William had flown over just a few hours earlier.

  They ran in silence for about twenty minutes, skimming over the shallow, calm waters with the rising sun on their backs. Their charging boat startled meandering fish and resting seabirds. William was consumed with the beauty of the place. He felt a million miles away from the mean streets of New York, the cold, the treachery, the banquet, the scene, the embarrassment, the gunshot, the lost love. They all seemed to dissolve now in the wake of the speeding skiff.

  They ran for another five minutes or so until Cole pulled back the throttle, turned his hat around, wiped his sunglasses with the red bandanna he wore around his neck, and stood up to scan the water.

  Cole unfastened the push pole and put one end in the mud as he climbed up on the poling platform for a better 360-degree look around the boat.

  Leo said, “Whatcha got, Cole?”

  Cole pointed toward the horizon directly in front of the skiff, “Pelicans diving pilchards at twelve o’clock.” He turned ninety degrees right. “Dolphins rounding up mullet at three o’clock.” Cole turned again and looked at William. “An ignorant rookie who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground at six o’clock.”

  Leo tried to suppress a chuckle and failed.

  Cole turned right again. “And a couple of big pushes up on that long bank at nine o’clock.”

  “What’s he mean, Dad,” William asked his father, “about three out of four of those things?”

  “You don’t know nothing, do you, waiter?” Cole said.

  “Quit it, you two,” Leo barked.

  “We lay the boat out like a clock, William, with the bow being twelve o’clock. That makes it easier to point out fish,” his father explained. “Big fish drive small baits like pilchards to the surface and birds dive on them for something to eat. That was twelve o’clock. Porpoise school up larger baitfish like mullet, then take turns eating them. That’s what he saw at three o’clock. Six o’clock you know, and at nine o’clock directly to our left, bonefish push up onto the shallow flats to find crabs and other crustaceans, and my guess is that’s where we’re headed.”

  “Right on, Leo,” Cole said. “Grab that eight-weight rod with the small crab pattern fly on it and let out some line.”

  Leo did as he was told and turned to William. “You ever cast a fly before, son?”

  “Once,” he said. “For a few hours on a business trip, I went fishing with the governor of Montana and—”

  “Oh God,” he heard Cole say.

  “So I’ll take that as a no,” his father said.

  Cole chuckled.

  “Okay,” his dad said, “see that cooler over there? Sit on it.”

  Leo walked up to the bow of the boat with the fly rod as Cole held the boat steady with the end of the pole. The old man reached into his pocket for a handful of change and tossed it into the water.

  “What was that for?” William asked.

  “Nothing in life is free, kid,” Leo said. “You gotta pay the fish.”

  Leo unhooked the little brown crab fly and pulled about fifteen yards of fly line off the reel.

  “Fly fishing is made up of three parts,” Leo said. “Presentation or casting; retrieval or stripping; and then catching. If you don’t get the first a
nd second right, you won’t do much of the third.

  “First, on presentation, unlike the governor of Montana’s stocked trout stream, we have to cast long distances in saltwater, sometimes eighty, ninety, a hundred feet, often into the wind. Where we land the fly is important. We want to land it in front of the fish so that we can draw it through his field of vision. We never want to land it too close to the fish unless the water is muddy or it will spook him. Behind him, he won’t see it, and if you hit him with the fly, he’ll bolt.”

  Leo began moving his right arm back and forth in a series of casting motions. “You use your entire arm, as opposed to just your wrist, to create a loop in the air with your line. Once you’ve formed a good loop, the weight will pull itself out. Then you pick your target and let it go.” He stopped his graceful forward motion and let the fly land about fifty feet from the boat.

  “Now that you have your distance and have made a good presentation, point your rod tip down,” Leo said, “and you are ready to work on your retrieval.

  “The flies we use are all designed and tied to look like food that saltwater fish like to eat—minnows, small eels, worms, or crustaceans, like the crab pattern we’re using this morning. All these critters have two things in common. They never move toward a predator . . . always away . . . and none of them stay still for long when they sense danger.

  “The point of the retrieval is to make the fly look to the fish like its real-life counterpart. Unlike other kinds of fishing, we don’t retrieve line with our reel, but with our free hand. This is called stripping in line and gives us the chance to vary our speed, length, and rhythm to try and fool the fish. A long strip makes a minnow fly appear to be swimming, while a choppy strip with small delays makes a crab fly appear to be jumping.”

  “What do I need to know about number three—catching?” William asked.

  “If you don’t do number one and number two right, you won’t get a chance to do number three. Also, catching is all about concentration, not how strong you are. Good catchers are the best concentrators. Relax your mind or lose your concentration, and you’ll lose your fish every time.”

  Leo handed William the rod. “Now you try some casts.”