Looking Through Water Read online

  She turned to walk back to Mrs. Reno’s house, stopping for a moment to say, “Thanks for the turtle.”

  His head was spinning. He hardly remembered walking back to his dad’s house. The porch light was on and the couch was made into a bed. He turned the light off without taking off his clothes and, with a now familiar favorite song in his head, fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 12

  DAY TWO—THE TARPON

  “Up’n at ’em, son,” Leo said as he tried to shake William to life. The smell of bacon frying aided his father’s mission. Lying on the couch on his stomach, William turned his head toward his father’s voice and peeked out with one eye. The early-morning sun streaming through the living room window hit him, causing him to groan.

  “Don’t you fishermen ever sleep in a little?” he asked his father.

  “Not and catch fish we don’t,” Leo said. “C’mon, shake it off, go on into the john and freshen up. I let you sleep as long as I could, we’ve got forty-five minutes to eat some breakfast and get to the dock. Still like your eggs scrambled, a little runny?”

  “How did you remember that?”

  “I remember a lot of things,” his father said as he walked out the door.

  To save time, William stripped down to his underwear, splashed some water on his face, checked to see that his bandage was still in place, brushed his teeth, and sprayed on some deodorant. He had a bad case of bedhead but decided he’d let it go till later.

  He walked out to the living room barefoot and put on the other shorts he’d bought along with the T-shirt that said ISLAMORADA—A SMALL DRINKING TOWN WITH A BIG FISHING PROBLEM.

  His father laughed when he read his shirt.

  “Do you have an extra baseball cap I can borrow?”

  “Sure,” Leo said, “you’ll find a few hanging on the living room door. I’m going to leave old Dorado locked up in the backyard today. He’s such a beggar around the marina, and those damn tourists can’t resist him. French fries are his favorite. Even has his own bowl of water by the bar. Sometimes the boys will fill it up with beer. The old hound just loves cold Budweiser, almost as much as I used to.”

  His father had prepared a big platter of scrambled eggs to go along with bacon and a bowl of grits. He also brought out a small basket of biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. William cleaned his plate twice as though he’d never seen food before.

  They left the dishes in the sink before turning Dorado loose in the backyard. William grabbed a wide-brimmed fishing hat. His father brought out his favorite tarpon rod and they put out a large bowl of water in the backyard for the dog before they headed for the marina.

  On the way, William’s father told him a little about tarpon. “We call them silver kings. They’re our biggest and fiercest target species in the backcountry. They range up to two hundred pounds . . . ugly prehistoric fish with a protruding jaw and huge eyes. They’re tough as hell to hook because their mouths are as smooth and hard as the porcelain bowl of a toilet.

  “When you’re lucky enough to hook one, they go ballistic and spend more time outta the water than in it. They’re tireless fighters. People come from all around the world to take one on. Just seeing one jump is enough for a lot of anglers.”

  They pulled up at 7:45 a.m. Cole was busying himself loading up ice, water, and the lunches. He managed a muffled “hello” when they said good morning. Progress, William thought, as Cole assured Leo that he’d already picked up a score sheet and tourney-supplied camera.

  They motored out to the harbor for their 8:00 a.m. departure. As they sat among the other boats waiting for the send-off, Bobby yelled over, “Hey, waiter, can I borrow your mobile phone? I need to make an important call.”

  Everyone within earshot laughed, including William.

  Mrs. Reno walked on the dock with Jenny beside her, looking lovely in white shorts and a blue spaghetti-strapped blouse.

  Mrs. Reno cleared her throat and spoke into the microphone. “Welcome to day two of the tournament. To give you the leader update, we’re privileged to have with us one of the tournament founders, a doctor, International Game Fish Association record holder, and a woman Saltwater Magazine described as one of the finest anglers in the world, Jenny Hunter!”

  The crowd cheered and whistled and someone let out a huge catcall.

  “Behave, boys,” Mrs. Reno said, handing the mike to Jenny.

  Jenny smiled and waved to the rowdy anglers. “Thank you all for participating in this tournament.” A few more whistles ensued before Jenny started up again. “Yesterday was a good first day, but no team caught more than one of the targeted species, though I did hear through the grapevine that yesterday numerous barracuda, bonnethead sharks, and even a Northeastern mobile phone were released.”

  The skiffs erupted with laughter. God, William thought, is there anyone in Islamorada who hasn’t heard about my mobile phone?

  “At present,” Jenny continued, “thirty-nine teams are tied for the lead with one qualifying fish. It’s anyone’s game. So good luck to you all and don’t forget the party tonight at Mrs. Reno’s and catch ’em up. Tight lines!”

  Mrs. Reno gave a blast on her air horn and yelled, “Go fishin’!”

  Idling out in the channel, William said to his dad, “She’s pretty special, isn’t she?”

  “Jenny?” he asked. “Yeah, I’ve known her for a long time. She used to come down here with her dad, a retired doc. He pulled a hook out of my thumb one day at the dock. Didn’t hurt a bit. Cole used to take her and her dad fishing.”

  “Far and away the best woman angler who’s fished on my boat,” Cole said. Then off they went, only this time William remembered to stay seated and to turn his borrowed hat around.

  Today they ran south for an hour to a place called Nine Mile Bank. Leo told William it was a great place to ambush tarpon. They might see some bonefish or permit there, too.

  Arriving at Nine Mile, Cole turned off the engine and climbed up on the poling platform with his push pole in hand. He pushed the boat forward over the flat. Reaching the edge, where a six-foot-deep channel ran by the bank, he stuck one end of the pole into the sand and tied the other to a line attached to his platform.

  “Don’t we pole around and look for them?” William asked him.

  “No, we stake up here and wait for them to come to us,” Cole said, scanning the horizon as two other skiffs pulled in, being careful to keep their distance so as not to interfere with each other. The boat next to them belonged to Bobby.

  Leo stood up, stretched, and pulled his tarpon rod out from under the gunnel. William stood, too, and assumed his usual position sitting on the cooler.

  “Not today,” Leo said. “Get up here and take this rod. You’re the angler today.”

  William stepped up to the bow and started pulling off some line as he’d learned the day before. This rod was much heavier than the one they’d used yesterday. Slowly and awkwardly, he started practicing his casting with Cole looking on from the poling platform and his father standing just behind him.

  “Don’t rush your release,” Leo said.

  William tried it and the line got caught up on itself, dropping into the water next to the boat.

  Bobby yelled over, “Hey, Cole, forget about changing flies, you better change your angler!”

  “Hey, Bobby,” Cole said. “I think I might have left a pair of handcuffs at your house. Ask your wife if she knows where they are.”

  Bobby flipped Cole the bird and Cole growled, “Leo, take the goddamn rod back and let the cooler bitch sit his ass back down on the ice chest.”

  “You know the rules, Cole,” he said, “he has to catch at least one of the qualifying fish.”

  “You both know I can hear you, right?” William said.

  “Just relax, kid,” his dad said. “Take a breath and start over again.”

  As William practiced, Cole continued to scan the water. They were there for an hour before they saw anything. Three southbound tarpon swam by them, bu
t over along the far edge of the channel, too far away and moving too fast to cast at.

  So it went for another hour as the hot sun beat down on Team McKay. Finally, Cole said, “Let’s move, it’s not happening here today. I want to check out Schooner.”

  “Where’s that?” William asked.

  “It’s another bank about six miles from here,” Leo said. As Cole prepared to leave, William noticed that several of the other boats staked up near theirs were coming to the same conclusion and preparing to leave.

  The wind was beginning to pick up out of the northeast. Leo told William that was good for fishing. “In most fisheries, west is best,” he said, “because it’s the prevailing wind direction. Here, our prevailing winds are out of the northeast and that’s when our fish are most comfortable and eat best.”

  Schooner Bank was quiet as well. If these fish were getting comfortable with anything, it seemed to be avoiding them. William used the time to practice his casting on the bow.

  Cole said, “Let’s slide over to Ox Foot. It’s a little closer to the ocean and gets some good fish this time of the year. Just gotta watch those big sharks over there.”

  As they made their move, two boats jumped in behind them in their wake. One of them was Bobby. They reached their destination and poled onto the shallow edge of the channel. Once again, Bobby poled in right next to them.

  “Boy, Cole,” William said, “that guy loves spending time with you.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said. “He knows I know where the fish are, and if they’re not around, he just likes to give me a raft of shit. He’s a real pain in the ass.”

  As Cole climbed the tower, Leo sat on the cooler and insisted that William get back on the bow. “I’ve got a good feeling,” he said.

  William went back to practice casting while Cole scanned the water. Thirty minutes into his vigil, he shouted out, “Two tarpon coming at eleven o’clock!”

  William struggled to retrieve his line, some of which had become tangled in his feet.

  “Come on, kid, straighten out that mess,” Leo said. “Where are they, Cole?”

  “One’s already gone, but the other is laid up at ten o’clock about fifty feet out. Leo, hurry that guy up for Christ’s sake. This fish is going to bolt.”

  Finally, William got his line untangled. Leo said, “Cast now”—he pointed toward nine o’clock—“right there.”

  William closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. As he started his casting motion, he began to sing “Unforgettable” under his breath.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Cole asked.

  “I think he’s singing,” Leo said.

  Ignoring them both, William had his line forming a perfect loop in the air. Staying with the rhythm of his song, he cast his line to exactly where his father had pointed and watched the large yellow fly drop safely in the water.

  “Oh my God!” Cole said.

  His fly sank right in front of a six-foot tarpon suspended about three feet below the surface. Its large silver scales gleamed like radiant armor in the refracted sunlight. William thought he saw its eyes scanning for movement in the water.

  “Start stripping line in, but not too fast,” Leo said.

  Still singing, William began to strip line. He could see the big tarpon look right at his fly. Then, suddenly, like a silver torpedo, the tarpon’s body surged forward. Opening its large, gaping lower jaw like a bucket, it inhaled the fly.

  William’s rod jerked in his hands as the tarpon exploded vertically out of the water and thrashed the air twenty feet away from the skiff.

  “Holy shit!” William said.

  “Lower your rod tip!” Cole shouted. “Lower your rod tip!”

  William did so as the big fish crashed back into the water.

  “Whenever he jumps, lower the tip,” his father said.

  “I thought I was supposed to keep it tight?”

  “You are,” Leo said, “but not when he jumps. He’s too big; he’ll break you off in the air. You point the rod tip down to give him some slack till he’s back in the water. It’s called bowing to the king.”

  The tarpon surged and jumped again. William lowered the rod tip and his father said, “Good.”

  The tarpon started to run, taking back line as it went. William noticed that everyone in the nearby skiffs was paying attention.

  As line flew off the reel, he asked, “What do I do now?”

  “Nothing,” his father said, “just keep the rod tip up to keep some pressure on him. He’s still green and you can’t stop him. We’ll go after him.”

  Cole pulled up the push pole, jumped off the tower, and stowed the pole on the gunnel. Then he started the engine, put it in gear, and began following the tarpon as the knobs on William’s reel spun and line continued to fly off.

  “Get ready to reel as fast as you can,” Cole said. “We’re going to give you some slack as we catch up with him.”

  All of a sudden William’s reel stopped turning. “He’s not running anymore,” he said.

  Cole and Leo looked at each other and in unison said, “Reel, reel, reel.”

  “Feel anything yet, any pressure?” Leo asked.

  “Nothing yet,” he said, still reeling frantically.

  Cole turned off the engine and climbed back on the tower to see what was going on.

  “He’s charging right at us,” Cole yelled. “Keep reeling! Catch up to him! Faster! He’s almost here. Leo, grab the camera. I may get a chance to touch the leader, qualifying it as a catch.”

  Then it got frantic. With Cole and Leo scurrying around the boat, William reeled in line as quickly as he could. When the line grew tight, he lifted the rod.

  Looking into the water, he said, “Oh shit,” as he saw the big fish streaming right at them. At the last moment, the tarpon exploded out of the water and smashed into the bow of the boat. The impact caused William to lose his balance, and he fell overboard. Bobbing to the surface, he could see Cole grabbing the leader and his father taking a picture of the dazed fish as it lay momentarily by the side of the boat.

  “That’s an official catch and release!” Cole shouted.

  The dazed fish came to and surged away from the boat again. Feeling pressure on the rod in his hands, William yelled, “He’s still on, he’s still on!”

  Several of the anglers and guides in the nearby skiffs, including Bobby, let out a great cheer.

  “Atta boy,” Leo said, “you’re doing good. Keep on lifting up and reeling down.”

  “We got the catch,” Cole said, “break him off.”

  “No way,” William said, “I want to land this fish.”

  Suddenly, the dark dorsal fin of a bull shark sliced the surface of the water off the bow and swam right past William in hot pursuit of the tarpon, which had revived and was now pulling out more line.

  “Shit,” Cole said. “That must have been what turned him around.”

  Leo leaned over the side of the boat toward William. “Give me your hand, let it go.”

  “Fuck the shark,” William said. “I’m gonna land this fish!”

  “Give me your hand right now!”

  William turned his back to the boat to face the fleeing fish and felt four strong hands grabbing him out of the water, tossing him onto the gunnel near the stern of the skiff.

  “Get your feet inside this boat!” Leo said. William scrambled to his feet, still holding the rod. He felt the fish begin to rise and watched as his tarpon jumped high in the air, its silver scales flashing. But this time it didn’t matter that William bowed to the fish. As its magnificent, elegant body hit the water, it was torn in half by the jaws of the bull shark.

  “No!” William shouted. Blood erupted and clouded the brilliant water as the huge bull shark seized and shook the tarpon’s thrashing remains.

  William dropped the rod in the boat and pushed past Cole to grab his push pole. He saw the dark eyes of the shark as it finished off the tarpon. It seemed to look at William.

  “You s
on of a bitch!” William shouted. “That was my fish!” He started stabbing at the shark with the sharp end of the pole. He kept on stabbing him until it was gone, leaving only a pool of red blood in the water.

  He stood, panting and soaked to the bone. Cole and Leo and the men on the other boats were silent, all eyes on William.

  “What’s the matter?” William asked, breaking the silence.

  “Nothing,” Cole said. “Nothing at all. Good catch, I guess. We got our tarpon.”

  “Yeah,” Leo said extending his hand. “Good job, son.”

  “Had enough for the day, Leo?” Cole asked. “Wanna head in?”

  “Good idea,” Leo said. “Let’s head for the dock.”

  William was shivering with cold on the way in as they flew over the sea of grass that was called the backcountry. But his adrenaline was still pumping, and it felt good. It wasn’t till then that he realized that he’d lost another hat.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE BLOOD KNOT

  William and Leo drove home together, not saying much. William knew that his father was happy but didn’t think he looked well. His coloring was poor and he was coughing a lot and rubbing hard on the inside of his arm.

  “You all right, Dad?”

  “Just a little tired, I think.”

  “Me, too,” he said, “and I can’t wait to get out of these damp shorts. The boys got wet and they’re itching like crazy.”

  Leo laughed. “Son, you’ve got a condition that all men hate. You’ve got a case of DWB.”

  William cocked an eyebrow at his father.

  “Dreaded Wet Balls.”

  They were still laughing as they pulled into the driveway. Leo was looking better.

  William made a beeline for the shower and came out of the bathroom feeling much better. He found his dad sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette and tying up some fishing line.

  “You know, Dad,” William said, “maybe in deference to your health, you ought to quit smoking.”

  “Kid, that’s why I quit the booze. Can only stop one thing at a time. Maybe I can get to cigarettes next.”

  “What are you doing with that fishing line?”