Lord of the Deep Page 3

  “Mikey? The rods?” Bill said.

  “Oh. Right.”

  When they’d gone out past the lighthouse, Bill brought the throttle down to trolling speed. He set the wheel on automatic pilot, then squatted below the bunk across from the table. He pulled out a drawer and went about choosing his lures.

  Mikey came back in and watched closely. There was so much to learn, all of it steeped in mystery. Especially choosing the lures, which Bill called plugs. How they worked made no sense at all to Mikey, because none of them looked like any fish in the sea. They looked like toilet-paper holders. Fish ate fish, not toilet-paper holders.

  Bill said the plugs weren’t supposed to entice fish to eat them. They were supposed to enrage them. Marlin, especially, hated them and attacked them mercilessly. It made no sense at all, but it worked.

  Bill picked out two straight-runners and two chrome-headed jets. He handed one of the straight-runners to Mikey. “Feel that.”

  Mikey took it. “Heavy,” he said.

  It was a lure that Bill had made himself. Mikey wouldn’t have chosen it in a million years. It was nothing but a shiny chrome tube filled with lead. A wire leader ran to the hooks through a hole bored in its center. Its face was flat, looking kind of like a roll of silver dollars with a rubber skirt on it. Why would any fish want that? Why would it enrage them?

  “See this flat head?” Bill said. “That keeps the plug running below the surface on a straight track, like a bullet. Not very many fishermen have faith in a plug like this, but it works.”

  “Works for what? Marlin?”

  “Ono,” Bill whispered. “They strike at anything, but straight-runners are their favorite. That’s our secret, huh?”

  Mikey nodded.

  “Hit this thing like a lightning bolt, you watch.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Bill grinned. He checked the hooks and the rubber skirting that hid them. “Look. Here’s the thing. The angle of the line and the flat head keep it digging in the water. That’s what makes it run straight.”

  Mikey stored that away. Another secret.

  He stood and followed Bill out onto the stern deck. Mikey staggered a bit as the boat lurched in the gentle swells.

  The sun’s glow brightened the sky behind the mountain. It wouldn’t be long before it spilled over the top.

  Mikey attached the two jets to the swivels on their leaders. Bill did the others, all the time studying the water.

  Mikey was aware of the girl watching him. He wondered what her name was. Ali? Cal had called her that. Why hadn’t anyone bothered to introduce her to him?

  Focus on what you’re doing, Mikey told himself.

  Think. Learn something new.

  Mikey watched every movement Bill made. When Bill stared into the wake, Mikey stared into the wake. “When you look at the water, don’t just see water,” Bill said. “See color for depth. See current, how it’s moving. Read it, listen to your gut.”

  Bill set out the flatlines first, the chrome jets, dropping them one by one over the transom. There was some exact distance he wanted them to run behind the boat, and Mikey knew that was part of what made a skipper great—or mediocre.

  Then Bill held up a straight-runner and checked the two giant hooks hidden in the rubber skirting, then checked the skirt itself, one more time. When he was satisfied, he dropped the plug overboard and let the line free-spool out. After a moment or two, he shut off the run, set the clicker on, and yanked one last bit of line off the reel.

  “Watch it work in the wake. You’ll know when it’s placed right. You’ll get a feel for it.”

  Mikey squinted. He couldn’t even find the lure, let alone watch it. He thought he could see the little spurts of white water that looked like the lure. Maybe.

  Bill set the other long line, then rubber-banded it to the stinger line on the outrigger and let go. The outrigger hoisted the line up and away so the shorter flatline could work under it and not get tangled.

  Mikey wanted to ask when the lures should run straight. Or zigzag across the wake. Should they make bubbles? Should they dive and jump, or run deep and not come up at all?

  But he didn’t want to ask now and look like he didn’t know what he was doing in front of Cal and Ernie, and especially the girl. He’d watch, do what Bill did. Learn like that.

  Bill clipped a safety line from each rod socket to each reel. If a rig went overboard, they’d be able to haul it back. Then he went back to the wheel and took the boat off autopilot.

  Mikey stood with his knees braced against the transom. He tried to study the action of the lures, but the girl was still on his mind.

  Talk to her.

  But what about?

  Nothing came to him.

  He crossed his arms and studied the wake. It was hypnotic, flowing out and out and out, roiling with bubbles, smooth in the center, and the plugs making little spurts of ocean every now and then.

  The sun broke over the mountain and dropped color down onto the sea. Mikey turned his face to the warmth.

  The engines droned.

  He glanced into the cabin.

  Cal and Ernie had taken out a deck of cards. Cal was shuffling them, bridging them in the depths of his palms and releasing them, then banging the edges on the table and doing it all again.

  The girl now stood in the aisle, facing aft.

  Her eyes met Mikey’s.

  She tilted her head, slightly.

  Mikey smiled and looked away.

  He turned back.

  She was still looking.

  CHAPTER 4

  MIKEY TURNED and scowled at the lures. “Take one,” he whispered to the fish wandering the depths below.

  Bill needed something to happen.

  Something these guys could take home and talk about.

  Mikey thought he saw a glistening black shape dart across the wake. He unfolded his arms and squinted.

  Nothing.

  But he was sure he’d seen something.

  They trolled north, two miles offshore. The shape didn’t return. It was one of those mysteries that would haunt him for hours, Mikey knew. Unless something hit the line; then every thought in his head would vanish instantly. That was how it was on the water: either it was so quiet and boring you just sat around trying to stay awake, or it was so exciting you almost forgot to breathe.

  That was deep-sea fishing.

  Mikey went into the cabin, passing Cal and Ernie and the girl, who was now sitting on the bunk across from them.

  “How you doing, honey?” Cal said to the girl. “Feeling okay? Not getting queasy, are you?”

  “Why’d you think I’d be getting queasy?” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know, just that you’re a . . . you know . . . you’re . . . you’re not used to boats, and all.”

  She shook her head and looked back down at her book, which lay open in her lap.

  Ernie said, “Ah, lighten up, Ali. Hey, listen. You hear about the idiot who got a camera for his birthday? He just got his first set of pictures back—twenty-four shots of his left eye. Bwahahahahahah! ”

  “That’s lovely, Uncle Ernie,” the girl said. “Was your next roll like that, too?”

  Ernie laughed harder, slapping the table. Even Cal smiled. “Come on, Ernie, stop yakking and deal.”

  “All right, all right.”

  Mikey thought it was weird the way the girl talked back like that. These people were really strange.

  Mikey checked the depth recorder. Forty-eight fathoms. While he watched, it jumped to seventy, then back to fifty-one. He figured Bill was following an undersea shelf. He made note of the coastline, looking for rock formations or tree clusters that he could use to pinpoint this trolling spot again, this shelf. A fisherman needed all the secrets he could collect.

  He sat in the seat across from Bill with his back to the window. The hull rose and fell over the mild, easy-moving swells. He breathed deeply.

  Bill glanced over and nodded.

  The
engines droned.

  Bill dug out a chart and studied it, his forehead furrowed. He reached over and turned on the shortwave radio, which spat static over a small, faraway voice. Some Honolulu boat, fishing out near Penguin Bank.

  Cal and Ernie played blackjack. Drinking slow morning beers. Smoking cigars. The smell was sharp and strong, but Mikey didn’t mind it.

  After a while, Ernie placed his cards facedown on the table and sat back. He took a deep pull on his cigar and let the smoke out around his words. “So, Billyboy, I’m kind of wondering where that action is. Can you give us a clue?”

  “It’ll come,” Bill said.

  “Marlin?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Cal put his cards down, too, and turned in his seat to face Bill. “Guy at the hotel bar last night told me a story about some skipper here whose swordfish stuck its bill in the bottom.”

  Bill nodded. “That was a strange one, all right. He fought that fish for hours. Finally, it got so enraged it sounded, went straight to the bottom and stabbed its sword into the sand. Got stuck there.”

  Bill shook his head.

  “Of course, on board they didn’t know that. All they knew was the line was stuck. Well, that skipper was stubborn. Most guys would just cut the line and move on. But he didn’t like losing a fish like that. So what he did was he pulled out his Aqua-Lung and went down to see what was going on.”

  “Not,” Mikey said. He couldn’t even imagine doing that.

  “It’s true,” Bill said. “He went down to look. What he found was a dead marlin. Probably died of exhaustion and pressure. So the guy dug the sword out and went up and pulled the marlin aboard. It weighed in at over four hundred pounds. Now that’s stubborn.”

  “What boat was that?” Cal said.

  “He’s long gone. That was a while back.”

  Cal pursed his lips. “Too bad.”

  “That kind of stubborn is what it takes, ain’t it?” Ernie said.

  Cal picked up his cards. “Yup.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE CHROME CLOCK above the companionway clanged the half hour. Mikey watched the minute hand click forward. One stiff step, then another.

  He glanced back at the girl.

  She was sitting cross-legged on the bunk. The notebook she’d brought was a sketchbook. The purselike thing held pencils and a black-ink drawing pen, which she was using now. Mikey couldn’t see what she was drawing, but he watched her movements, loose and fast. Was she any good?

  She glanced up just as he stretched his neck to get a better look.

  He shifted his eyes, pretending to look beyond her. At the rods, maybe. Or the lures, jumping in the wake.

  “Why we staying so close to shore?” Cal said suddenly, now back to his cards.

  “Philosophy,” Bill said, and grinned.

  Cal looked up. He gazed over his shoulder at Bill. “What the devil’s that supposed to mean?”

  Bill turned down the radio static.

  “Some guys like to race on out to the marlin grounds. Set out the lines when they get there, start trolling. Go straight for the big ones. But they do that, they miss out on some of the best fighting fish you can find in these waters. They’re just smaller, is all. But they give you your money’s worth, all right.”

  Cal humphed and turned back.

  Ernie, hunched over his cards, said, “Well, I guess we’re in the right place, then, because we could sure use our money’s worth.”

  Bill said nothing.

  The skin at the corner of his eyes was already cut with the lines of permanent squint. Real fishermen fish. Fake ones wear mirror sunglasses and white hats. Bill never wore a hat, or sunscreen, and sometimes not even his T-shirt.

  Cal slapped some cards on the table. “Gimme three.”

  Ernie gave him three cards.

  “You boys know what an ono is?” Bill asked.

  Ernie said, “It’s a wahoo, right?”

  “That’s it. Looks like a barracuda. Good fish to fight, good fish to eat. You find those right around here, close to shore. But the best fighting fish in these waters is mahimahi. That’s a fisherman’s fish. In my opinion.”

  “Marlin,” Cal said. “That’s a fisherman’s fish. In my opinion.”

  Bill nodded. “We’ll give them a shot, too.”

  “Hey, boy,” Ernie said. “Grab me a beer, would you? And not one of your local rotguts.”

  Mikey jumped up, went aft, and dug around in the cooler for one of the Mexican beers, buried deep. He liked the Spanish printed on the label. He pried off the cap, wiped the bottle dry with a towel, and took it to Ernie.

  Just as Ernie reached for it, one of the reels screamed. The rod bowed out over the water, jerking and jumping in its holder.

  Bill throttled down, then leaped out of the pilot’s seat and rushed aft. Mikey leaned into the table to let him pass, then raced after him.

  Cal and Ernie dropped their cards and scrambled out of their seats. The girl hugged the sketchbook to her chest.

  “Mikey!” Bill shouted.

  Mikey knew what Bill wanted and ran to release the stinger on the port outrigger. He started reeling in the lure, keeping the rod in the rod socket.

  It was the port flatline that had been hit. The pole leaped and bobbed. The clicker kept screaming, the wailing oh so sweet in Mikey’s ears.

  The boat rocked in the sea, inching slowly forward while they got the lines in. The noise of the engines had dropped to a gurgle. Exhaust bubbled up into the cockpit, making Mikey’s stomach turn.

  The girl came out and stood one step up on the chrome ladder to the flying bridge. She held her hair aside with one hand.

  “Who’s up first?” Bill shouted.

  Mikey knew Bill was anxious to get someone to take up the rod and start working the fish before it took half the line off the reel.

  “Ali,” Cal said, turning to the girl. “You take this one.”

  She backed up the ladder. “I don’t want to.”

  Bill madly reeled in the starboard flatline to get that lure out of the water. He glanced over his shoulder. “Someone take the rod out and sit in the chair!”

  The girl didn’t move.

  Cal grabbed the rod and pulled it out of the socket. He yanked it back to strike the fish, sink the hook deeper. “Come on, Ali. It’s why we’re here.”

  “I said I don’t want to.”

  The reel jumped in Cal’s hands, as if alive. He spread his feet apart and braced himself, the clicker still wailing.

  Mikey finished bringing in the port long line. He dropped the lure onto the gunnel, out of the way, then started in on the starboard flatline.

  Bill shoved him aside. “I’ll get this. You watch the wheel.”

  “Ali, for heaven’s sake, give it a try,” Cal said.

  The girl shook her head.

  Mikey ran in and slid behind the wheel and turned the boat so the line was directly off stern.

  “Good God, give it to me,” Ernie said.

  He grabbed the rod from Cal and wrestled it back. He fell into the fighting chair and set the base of the rod into the chrome cup between his legs.

  Mikey kept his eyes pinned on the action, looking back over his shoulder. It was his job to keep the line directly off the back of the boat.

  No mistakes.

  Ernie fumbled with the drag on the reel. The clicker was making a terrible racket as the fish ran with the bait. Bill stopped reeling in the flatline and reached over and shut the clicker off.

  “Lot of line going out,” he said, hoping Ernie would take the hint and start working the fish.

  Ernie put his back into it, pulling, then reeling as he fell forward.

  The initial run was fast and furious. But after Ernie started working it, the fish slowed. In minutes it seemed to have lost some of its fury. But its strength showed on Ernie’s pinched and sweaty face when he turned to Bill. “What is this? Fights like a pit bull.”

  “Yes sir,” Bill said, grinning. />
  Finally, the Crystal-C was producing.

  Cal stood beside the chair, coaching. “Pull with your back, Ernie. Use your legs, that’s what they’re there for.”

  “I know what I’m doing!” Ernie snapped.

  The fish ran to port. Mikey wheeled the boat to starboard, keeping the line where Bill wanted it, straight back. Some fishermen liked the line off to the side. Some even liked to wander around the boat, standing with the butt of the pole in a waist cup.

  But Bill liked it this way.

  While Mikey guided the boat, Bill grabbed the fish glove and the gaff, a three-foot pole with a barbless chrome hook on it, for pulling the fish out of the sea. He set them on the gunnel.

  He stood at the transom, waiting.

  Ernie worked the fish closer, pulling and reeling, pulling and reeling, taking line in inch by inch.

  Ten minutes later the fish gave up.

  As the leader rose from the water, Bill reached out and grabbed it with a gloved hand. He pulled the fish closer, hand over hand.

  Mikey put the throttle in neutral and ran back.

  Bill, and now Mikey, leaned over the transom, looking down into the depths. The gleaming blue and silver ono paced back and forth, swimming on its side with the line running up from its mouth.

  “Got you a fine wahoo,” Bill said.

  Cal peered over the stern between them.

  “Stand back,” Bill said. “This fish has razor-sharp teeth. I don’t want anyone getting cut up.”

  Cal moved back.

  Ernie, still in the chair, pulled his feet up.

  The girl climbed one step higher on the ladder.

  Bill tugged the ono closer.

  He gaffed it just behind the head, near the gills. The ono went crazy. It writhed and shook, churning the water white.

  Bill dropped the leader and picked up the billy club. He lifted the fish out of the water just far enough to club its head—one, two, three, four times, good solid thumps.

  Whock! Whock! Whock! Whock!

  An ugly, hollow sound.

  Whock!

  One last time.

  A live ono flipping around on deck could be big trouble.

  The fish shuddered, and died.

  With a grimace, his muscles wet and bulging, Bill hefted the ono up and over the transom, holding the gaff in both hands. He laid it on the deck so all could see.