“It is,” said Steve. “Lovely spot.”
“You should come again later in the spring. The wildflowers are sensational.”
“Never too early for fishing,” said Steve.
“You a big fan?”
“Did a lot when I was younger, around Seattle – mainly salmon,” said Steve. “I’ve been hearing about the Cape for years. Finally got a chance.”
Mercifully, there were no anguished dreams to trouble his sleep that night. He woke at 7:15 a.m. to the squawking of seagulls flying about the towers of the hotel. He opened the window, breathed in the salt air and gazed across the rolling green lawn of the hotel toward the ocean. The surf was light, the water was slate gray like the sky overhead. He showered, skipped shaving, and dressed in a heavy plaid shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
The same waiter as the night before served him breakfast: coffee, grapefruit juice, two eggs sunny side up, crisp bacon, and toast. He downloaded The New York Times on his iPhone, checked the weather forecast: gusting winds in the afternoon but little chance of rain. He drank another cup of coffee and signaled for the bill.
“Thanks, good luck,” said the waiter, pocketing the generous tip. “Watch out for the wind.”
In the summer, the streets and sidewalks of Truro would be packed, but at this time of year, the village felt like a ghost town. Steve drove east along Main Street, turned right to Pamet Harbor, and stopped in front of a one-story building facing the water. There was a large painted sign above the door: “Real Deal Fishing Charters.” Steve had found the company on the Internet, checked it out. It was ranked number one for activities according to Trip Advisor. He called to reserve a fishing boat for the day. He’d pick it up at 8:00 a.m.
It was warm and cozy inside the charter office. The morning news was being broadcast on the TV perched on the wall. A burly young man in jeans and a thick Hudson Bay sweater was behind the counter, just pouring a cup of coffee. Two walls were filled with photos of beaming fisherman of all ages displaying their shimmering catches.
“Morning,” said Steve. “You’re Randy?”
“Right. And you’re Steve Penn?” Randy had long, stringy blond hair that hung almost to his shoulders, blue eyes, and a gold ring in one ear.
“Your boat’s tied up at the dock, all fueled and ready to go. Just like I promised.”
“Great.”
“Just need you to pay and sign some papers.”
Steve filled out the forms for insurance and a waiver of responsibility, then handed the young man his credit card. The price for the day was $500, to be paid in advance.
“We’re expecting it to blow a bit this afternoon, northeasterly,” said Randy as he led Steve down to the wooden dock. Steve was wearing his backpack over a waterproof orange parka, and carrying a green canvas bag. The powerboat he’d rented, a white 22-foot Triton with black trim, bobbed by the dock. Randy jumped in first; Steve handed him his gear, then came aboard as well.
“Should be just what you want,” said Randy. He pointed to the large, red outboard clamped to the stern. “That’s a 250-horse Merc; all the power you want.” He indicated the controls. “There’s your radio, compass, GPS, and radar fish-finder, CD player with an iPod input. All pretty straightforward. Here’s the charts you’ll need. Any questions?”
Steve took a moment to look over the controls. “Thanks, I’ll be fine. Done a lot of fishing over the years.”
Randy continued the briefing. “I’ve put a few rods for you to use over there, along with a box of lures. There’s also live bait well. Lifebelts, there. Life raft, just pull this to inflate. Here’s the personal satellite locater beacon. You turn it on like this. In any case, it also goes on automatically in the water. There’s the cooler. I put in a six-pack, some water, and granola bars like you asked. It’s on the house.”
“Thanks,” said Steve.
“Wanna give it a try?”
Steve turned the ignition; the engine immediately roared to life. “Sounds great,” he said, letting it idle.
“Well, good luck,” said Randy as he jumped back on the dock. “Like I said, we’re expecting a bit of a blow this afternoon. Seas can get a bit heavy, but you’ve got a great boat here, and you seem to know your way around. Any trouble, give a shout on the radio. We can get to you in a jiffy. Make sure you’re back by 5:00 p.m. latest. Don’t want you out after dark.”
“Got it,” said Steve.
“Should be good fishing. A guy last week caught a ninety-pounder. Too bad you’re going alone,” Randy said as undid a mooring line and tossed it to Steve.
“Maybe next time,” said Steve. “Sometimes it’s just nice to get away by yourself.”
“Sure, know what you mean,” said Randy, tossing Steve the last line.
Steve stood, sheltered by the windscreen, with feet planted wide, and slowly backed the boat away from the dock. Once clear, he edged the throttle forward and turned to wave to Randy, still watching from the dock. Then he pulled the three white bumpers from the water and carefully stowed the lines.
Out of the harbor, he pushed the throttle further forward and the bow began thumping the incoming waves, then rose to plane, leaping from crest to crest. Steve breathed in the crisp, iodized air and turned to watch the foamy wake spread out behind him. The beach homes and trees and brown sandy dunes sank towards the horizon as he goosed the throttle and roared out to the open waters.
About a mile out to sea, at one of the spots indicated by Randy, Steve picked up some fish on the radar. He slowed to five knots, set out a couple of rods, and began trolling. He listened to Ella Fitzgerald from the playlist on his iPhone and watched the low, gray line of the Cape slide past in the distance. After a couple of hours, he hooked his first tuna, darting silver in the dark waters beneath him. It was a strong fish and their struggle lasted more than twenty minutes, until Steve fought it to a standstill. He pierced it with a pike, hoisted it into the air and brought it down quivering to the deck, where he dispatched it with a sharp blow to the back of the head. Got to weigh at least forty pounds, he thought. Too bad there was no one to take a picture.
That was enough fishing for the day. The gray of the morning gave way to glimpses of sunlight and blue as the wind chased the clouds across the sky. Steve continued leisurely up the coast, ate the grilled chicken the hotel had prepared for him. Then he wiped his hands and wrote a short note on a piece of stationery he’d taken from his room the night before. He placed the note in a plastic folder, which he firmly taped to the inside of the windscreen. That done, he sat down to reread one of his all-time favorite novels, The Polish Officer, by Alan Furst.
At 2:00 p.m. he was six miles east of Provincetown, approaching the prearranged GPS coordinate. The other boat was already there, a twenty-four-foot Harborcraft, white-hulled with green trim, a rental from The Boat House in Provincetown. The tall, lanky figure in the stern was wearing a blue woolen cap, a yellow waterproof parka, and jeans. Charlie Doyle waved at Steve; then tossed a dingy into the water attached by a rope to Charlie’s boat. Steve retrieved the dingy with a boat hook, then cut his own engine, lowered the tuna he’d caught into the dingy, then jumped in himself and waited while Charlie hauled him hand over hand back to Charlie’s boat.
“Great to see you,” said Steve, clambering up the swim ladder, then turning to pull up the tuna as well.