“I just got bumped,” said Ted.
“Bring him back.”
Ted stripped in his fly, paused, then stripped in again and the line tightened straight. “Oh, yeah... come to Theodore!”
Ted set the hook, then let the fish take line. Down in the blue Patrick watched the animal flash and be gone. “Trophy, Pat?”
“Monstrous. A Web site fish!”
“Yeah, baby!” Ted looked over at Patrick, his face merry. The tip of his uplifted rod dipped with the strength of the little fish. He was up on the balls of his substandard feet, back straight, his left arm tucked formally behind him, his right arm raised like a conductor. Patrick smiled at the simple pleasure a fish can bring. Gift from a hidden world, he thought. A fish on the line keeps the demons gone, and that’s what he would offer his clients. It was a mystery to him why all people did not fish.
Ted let the bass take the line for a sound, then brought him up in long, firm strips. Patrick looked down at the animal still trying to break free, gills pumping, its freedom cut down to inches. Ted lifted the fish out and swung it into him, gently catching its lower jaw between his big forefinger and thumb. He set his rod against the railing and held the fish up to the new sunlight and removed the perch fly with a pair of hemostats. He turned to Patrick with a conspiratorial wink then lifted the fish to his lips and kissed it. He kneeled and set it back into the water. Patrick watched it hover for a second, there then not.
“Tastes kind of fishy, Pat.”
“What if we catch fifty?”
“Remember that lizardfish that got me?”
“I thought you’d learn after that.”
“You going to fish or what?”
“Immediately and right now.”
“Pat, when I’m out here with you I’m as good as I get. Maybe that sounds dumb.”
“Good is good, brother.”
“Out here nothing gets into me but the good stuff.”
“Don’t start all that.”
“Out here the bad things never even start, is what I’m saying.”
Ted turned and leaned into the rail and Patrick took his five-weight from the rod holder. He pried off his sneakers and stepped aft, flicked out his fly and patiently stripped line onto the deck while he watched Ted cast. For all of his big brother’s bulk and general gracelessness he had a nice delivery, side-armed and languorous, with hard stops on both the back cast and the fore. Patrick thought of last night’s revelations from Archie, and of Ted’s biker father, and as Patrick watched, the damaged beginnings of his brother made Patrick love him in a new and different way.
As the sun rose they caught and released bass near the bridge, and later perch near Marina Park and bonito off Shelter Island. Patrick used the electric trolling motor for stealth. He caught a legal halibut and let it go with a glancing thought about tonight’s dinner. Ted tied on a steel leader and landed a nice barracuda, cavalierly kissing its dangerous snout while Patrick watched, vowing to disallow such foolishness on his guided trips. That shouldn’t be hard.
Ted carefully unhooked the fish and dropped it back into the bay. “I’ve kissed women more dangerous than that!”
Patrick wondered. Not far from the Nimitz Marine Facility they each caught bonefish that sizzled off like rockets and made long runs. Bones were picky eaters, but fast, durable, and experts at throwing a hook. They were shaped like projectiles and had goofy faces and were probably the most coveted game fish in the bay. Patrick knew a good percentage of his clients would want to target them, though their numbers were small. He felt the strength and wild purpose of the fish as his line hissed through the flat water, opening a wake and throwing a plume of mist into the air. Pound and a quarter, he guessed: a nice one. He stood rocking gently with Fatta the Lan’ and felt the joy of fishing, which for him had always been the bringing in of a wondrous thing from an alien place. He’d been trying to explain his love for fishing in more detail for most of his life but had failed, even to himself. As he knelt and set the bonefish free Patrick heard the sea lions croaking in their pens over at the training center where the Navy taught marine mammals to detect mines and enemy swimmers. He wondered if the mammals were drafted or if they volunteered. The ghosts inside him stirred and he pushed them back into their places. Be gone, not now. Ted seemed to sense his brother’s struggle. He turned around and looked at Patrick with concern, then grinned and shrugged, as if asking Patrick to throw off his problems and get with the day. Patrick saw something in him that Archie had probably never owned and that Caroline had long ago imprisoned. Crazy joy? Abandon?
Outside the harbor the Pacific was gray and heavy with chop. The wind came from the west, cool and weighty. Fatta the Lan’ hit the open water and recoiled like a puppy sensing danger. The swells moved her easily, her weight vanished, and at speed she was skittish. Ted sat on the bench facing aft, hunkered in his windbreaker as the boat dipped and rose and the cold spray lashed his back. “I hate it out here in little boats like this,” he said.
Patrick cut their speed, which did little to improve things. It was a long charge north along Fort Rosecrans and Patrick knew the Navy could run him out at will but they usually didn’t. He steered toward the rocky cliffs of Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery and by the time he dropped anchor fifty yards offshore Ted was up with his rod, bracing himself on the railing as best he could while Fatta the Lan’ rose and fell in the swell. Ted swayed, dropped to one knee to hold the rail, then heaved himself up again and turned to Patrick. “If I fall over and drown, tell Mom I loved her and tell Dad I’m sorry. I’m not sure what for, but I sure am sorry! Naw, second thought, tell him life is hard so tough shit, old man.”
“If you fall over, just swim! Shore’s a hundred and fifty feet that a way.”
“Anything can happen at sea.”
“If you’re dead set on drowning then, do I get all your critters and the computer?”
“Yeah! And tell Dora at the stables I didn’t mean to scare her. And tell Mayor Anders I hope she loses the election and never builds those lighted crosswalks we don’t need!”
“Catch a damned fish, Ted.”
Ted turned and raised his rod and false cast to build line speed in the wind. He was rocking mightily but still managed to keep plenty of line in the air. Patrick heard him bellowing: “Fish can tell when you don’t have the mojo, Pat! Even from a hundred feet away. It’s something to do with the way your personal vibrations travel down the line and affect the fly. Which is directly related to the way ideas get into my brain. But I’m not sure how they’re related. Geronimo!” Ted double-hauled briskly and let the line go and Patrick watched the loop unfurl and eighty feet of line and leader turn over to place the fly over the rocks.
Patrick cast too, the wind carrying his fly toward shore. He let the weighted fly and fly line sink as he rocked with the boat. Ted had a harder time balancing in the slightly raised bow. He took a knee to ride out a strong swell. Patrick felt the hump of water moving under him, and he saw it lift the bow as it rolled toward shore, where a long moment later it exploded on the rocks.