The fish took line hard and fast and Dave fumbled with the star drag. “Leave that drag alone, you,” Vince yelled. Vince watched the rod and knew that Dave had hit into a stray king. The king mackerel had gone north. This was a stray, and like most strays from the king schools, a respectable fish. Dave played it poorly. Vince left the motor at dead slow, took the gaff and went to the stern. He saw it at the surface sixty feet back. It was a good one.
He said, “Work him slow. Let him get tired. Then bring him back here where I can gaff him.”
Dave grunted and sweated and pumped the rod. The king made a circling run and came in, fighting for each inch. Vince got a better look and figured it at close to forty pounds. A fine king. Hell, the record was fifty something.
Dave, like a fool, was pointing the rod tip down when he got the king close astern. “Hold your rod up!” Vince yelled. Dave snapped it up just as Vince made his lunge with the gaff. He saw the big head shake, saw the spoon twinkle away as the king got enough slack to throw it. The gaff hook caught. Vince tried to snatch the king aboard. The hook wasn’t set right. The king came up out of the water and then the gaff pulled free. The king rested, near enough to touch, for a long half second, then flicked away in the depths, hurt a bit, but not badly.
Vince straightened up. “Bad luck. You shoulda—”
The back of the beefy hand caught him flush on the cheek. He pinwheeled back, falling heavily, the gaff turning end for end, falling into the sea. Vince’s head hit the rail and he lay stunned for a moment, and then picked himself up slowly, ashamed of the tears of pain and anger that stung his eyes.
Dave bellied toward him, indignantly. “I shoulda! I shoulda! Don’t you know how the hell to bring a fish aboard? I ought to smack you another one.”
“Let out your line,” Jerry said, “Maybe there’s some more around here.”
Dave went back toward the stern. Vince moved his tongue around inside his cheek. His teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. He spat over the side. His face throbbed.
The men fished intently for a few minutes and then relaxed. Dave said, in his high voice, “That’s the second mistake, wouldn’t you say, Jerry?”
“Yes, that was a real mistake. Too bad.”
“Certainly is. Cap’n Vince, you know what that first mistake cost you? It cost you exactly ten bucks.” Vince didn’t answer.
Jerry said, “And you just cost yourself another ten bucks. It looks like you don’t make much profit out of this trip.”
Vince said thinly, “You promised.”
“Who the hell promised what? You heard me, boy. I said we might give you a little present. We changed our minds. Let’s find us another school of those macks. How about another beer, boy, before it gets too warm to drink?”
Helpless, Vince groaned silently; he wished he still had the gaff. He wanted to bang them on the head with it. He opened two cans of beer and took them back. Jerry gave him a quick hard look.
“No hard feelings, eh, boy?”
Vince didn’t answer. Jerry said, “You better say it, or maybe Dave will slap you around a little. Dave, he don’t like soreheads.”
“No hard feelings,” Vince said, his voice barely audible, feeling humiliated and ashamed of himself.
He found some more mackerel for them. The day seemed to be lasting a hundred years. He wished he could get them both standing up close to the stern rail. Jam the throttle forward and they’d both go over. He looked at their broad shoulders. Pink was turning inevitably to red. Apparently they were too tight to feel the pain. The sun was sucking the natural oils out of their skin, burning deep into the under layers. There was one satisfaction: They both stood a good chance of spending a pretty uncomfortable night.
It took his idea quite a while to develop. He considered it from all sides, and found it good. He cheered up at once, and began calling them “Sir,” and brought another beer, the last two cans, without being asked.
He went astern with a rag, and opened the bait well and dipped it in the salt water and carefully rubbed it on his arms and forehead, saying, “Sun sure is hot.”
Jerry stared at him. “What you doing that for, boy?”
“Well, it’s kind of a trick. It’s how come we tan good down here and don’t burn much. Not many people know it.”
“Salt water?”
“Sure. It takes all the burn out. You tan quick. I never use anything else. Before I found out about it, I used to be red as a cherry all summer.”
“You sure got a nice tan now, kid.”
No use urging them. He turned away. Jerry said, “Hey, toss me that rag, boy. I’m getting sore as hell.”
“It’ll fix you up,” Vince said. “You got to do it about every ten minutes or so when the sun’s hot like this. It dries off so fast.”
Jerry doused himself liberally. He gave the rag to Dave. Dave did the same, and then they helped each other, doing each other’s thick shoulders and back.
“It does feel good,” Jerry said. “Glad to know about it, kid. We’ll go back with a tan that’ll knock ’em down, hey, Dave?”
At three o’clock Vince was half-starved. The men had drunk too much beer to feel hungry. Vince had eaten a half a box of soggy crackers, and he was still hungry. But every time he looked out at the two men, he forgot his hunger. They had used the rag a half dozen times. In Vince’s mixed emotions, the strongest feeling was awe. The astringency of the salt had removed the rest of the protective oils and they both were a purplish-red. The bait well was nearly full of fish.
Jerry hunched his big shoulders and turned to Vince. “Kid, it’s getting chilly out here. Let’s knock it off and get on in. You ready, Dave?”
“I’ve been ready.”
“Okay,” Vince said. “Reel in.”
The men reeled in. They put on their bright shirts gingerly. It was furnace-hot out on the airless Gulf. Dave’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. He said, “Goddamn it, I don’t feel so good.”
“Neither do I. Kid, pour on the coal. This all this tub’ll do?”
“She’s wide open, mister.”
They got progressively worse as Vince headed in at three-quarter throttle. It took a half hour to get to the inlet. Jerry was sick over the stern. Both men were shivering violently. Vince tied up the Croaker and they climbed hastily out. He handed up their rods and equipment.
Vince said softly, “You know, you could have got too much sun.”
“Come on. Hurry up with that stuff.”
“How about these fish, mister?”
“Put them in the back end of the car, kid.”
Vince stood and scratched his chin with his thumb. “I got to figure this out. Haven’t got any stringer. Might be able to go borrow one down the road and repay it later. Take about fifteen minutes.”
Dave bent over violently and was sick again. He said, gagging, “Hell with the fish, Jerry! Come on. Got to get to a doctor. Hurry!”
They went for their car, quickly. The motor roared and the back wheels spun as they turned up onto the highway and rumbled across the bridge. Vince went into the cabin and got his fish knife. He heaved the fish up onto the dock, knelt beside them and fileted them quickly and deftly. He gave old Simmons a dozen nice mackerel filets and took the rest home with him in a bucket.
Tuesday, after the high-school bus dropped him off, Vince took the paint and brushes and went down to the inlet. He was working when he saw the official car pull off the road and park. Ricky Harliss, from the sheriff’s office, sauntered over to the dock and sat on his heels and lit a cigarette. “Getting her shaped up, Vince?”
“She’s coming along, Ricky.”