Seduced Page 9

  An hour later, my internal distractions were knocked flat, too. I was standing on a platform above the motor, poling the skiff along, when a massive shadow appeared in a sandy basin ahead; the shadow black, four feet long, the sand beneath golden in the morning light.

  It was a log—had to be. This wasn’t the season for tarpon, and a shark would be on the move, not lying stationary in this low, falling tide.

  “Quiet,” I whispered, and crouched low.

  The shadow seemed to drift backwards, as buoyant as light. The shadow turned a degree with the slow flick of a yellow-glazed tail.

  It wasn’t a log.

  Mr. Gentry saw the shadow, too. “Whoa, look at the size of that thing. What is it?”

  “Snook,” I said. “Twelve o’clock,” meaning directly in front of the boat.

  “Can’t be.”

  “Twelve o’clock,” I repeated, “but too far to cast. I’ll tell you when. Who’s up?”

  Casting a fly rod requires room, so anglers take turns when a fish is spotted. Mrs. Gentry had already missed a shot at a redfish, yet I asked anyway out of politeness.

  “Darn thing’s as long as my leg,” the man whispered. “Are you sure that’s a snook? Never seen one so big in my . . . Oh my god”—he turned to his wife—“she’s right, Hannah’s right, it’s a snook. See there, Dolly?”

  He liked to call her “Dolly,” or “Dollface,” although his wife’s name was Sherry.

  The push pole I use is eighteen feet long. It’s so hollow and light, the pole vibrates like a reed when I auger its tip into hard sand. I skated the boat forward, saying, “I’ll swing the bow around when we’re in range. Go ahead, start stripping out line. Mrs. Gentry, watch for knots when your husband casts; then, if you don’t mind, come sit back here by the wheel.”

  They were a nice couple, the Gentrys. Retirement age, or close, vacationing from Tennessee, where they’d just sold their business that had something to do with science—the biotech industry, they’d said. They had money and their health, and treated each other with an easygoing deference that was fun and showed their relationship still enjoyed some spice. The pair had fished all over the world—rainbows in Argentina, bonefish in the Yucatán—but never again would they get a shot at a trophy fish like this.

  Reggie’s Old Florida snobbery regarding the species had been unfair and misleading. A snook is among the most beautiful, powerful fish in the world: long, sleek, silver gray with yellow highlights, and a black racing stripe on its sides. As table fare, it is excellent, but the season was closed this time of year, and I am strictly catch-and-release anyway when it comes to game fish.

  What little bit of breeze there was came from Mr. Gentry’s right. I babied the skiff around until he had an ideal left-hand wind. When we were eighty feet away, I wedged the pole as an anchor. “Don’t worry about the distance, we can always sneak closer. Take your time . . . If you’re not happy with the cast, just strip in and give her another shot.”

  “Her?”

  I said, “Loosen your drag a notch, too.”

  “How can you tell it’s a female?”

  “Male snook, at a certain age, become females. I’m judging by the size. I could be wrong—hurry up, move.”

  Mr. Gentry, instead of hustling to the bow where he belonged, was grinning at his wife. “In that case, you’re up, Dolly. I’ll take video while you set a world’s record. Go on . . . my knees are clacking, I don’t think I can cast.” He pushed the fly rod at her.

  It was a sweet gesture, yet I felt a sinking feeling. The husband was a better caster; a snook of any size requires strength to land, and this was no time for a polite debate.

  Mrs. Gentry, thank god, wasn’t demure. Instead, she grabbed the rod and slipped up onto the casting deck with the aggressiveness of a falcon, then eyed her prey.

  “Holy shitski,” she murmured, and began arranging line at her feet and doing all the other little things anglers do before launching their first cast.

  I felt better after that.

  The fish lay broadside my skiff. In the quiet pool of gold, a glazed tailfin maneuvered a slow pirouette; the fish resembled a cannon swinging into position.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” I whispered. “No rush . . . nice and smooth, take your time,” but, in my head, I was thinking, For heaven’s sake, cast the darn thing.

  Mrs. Gentry did. I had rigged four rods, all top-of-the-line Sage gear, but each with a different fly, or lure. The lures were feathered streamers, some with hackles, that I had tied myself. It’s something I like to do at night on my boat—when not engaged in dangerous behavior with married men. Her red-on-white streamer whistled past my ear on the first false cast, her tailing loop was so bad, but the woman regained her composure. She double-hauled . . . waited for the rod to load, hauled again, and then shot eighty feet of line with a loop that could’ve pierced armor.

  The feathered lure, deployed by fifteen feet of invisible fluorocarbon thread, plopped softly on the surface. It landed beyond the fish and to the right.

  Mr. Gentry, watching through his camera, said, “Hell of a cast, Dolly!” while I urged the woman, “Strip! . . . Strip! . . . Strip! . . .”

  The rhythm was important. Slow, at first, like a funeral dirge. After that, it all depended on how a fish behaved.

  My focus narrowed into a tunnel of turquoise and shadows. From my elevated perch, I could see the lure’s red hackles breathing clear water. I could see the fish’s dark mass pivot to find the disturbance in its golden pool, then move in slow pursuit.

  “She’s on it,” I said. “She’s following . . . If she hits, let the rod do the work. Mr. Gentry, you be ready to clear knots, and make sure your wife’s not stepping on line . . . A little faster, ma’am.”

  Strip! . . . Strip! . . . Strip! . . . Strip! . . . Mrs. Gentry’s right hand moved with the rhythm of a wounded bait, her technique perfect: knees bent, rod tip almost in the water.

  The snook exited the pool. It was gaining speed when it slipped over the sandy rim and vanished into a field of shallow turtle grass.

  “Where’d it go?”

  “Oh, shitski . . . Did she spook?”

  “Keep stripping . . . Strip faster,” I ordered, for the fish had reappeared not as a shadow but as a submarine wake only a few feet behind the feathery streamer.

  Strip!Strip!Strip!—red hackles breathed a desperate rhythm as if trying to escape.

  “Slower . . . Slower,” I said. “Okay . . . stop. Let your streamer sink . . . Now strip fast.”

  That’s when the great fish hit. In the shallows, on a small boat, events happen simultaneously when thirty pounds of instinct and muscle react to the strictures of a fly line. The glassy surface boiled a whirlpool of sand; Mrs. Gentry’s rod melted into a question mark, bent by an inexplicable weight. The glassy surface exploded; salt droplets showered us. The massive fish shot skyward, levitated a slow-motion arc; then water imploded when it fell from the sky. My boat rocked; a stunning calm ensued. But only for a microsecond. A series of cannonball explosions added more waves and confusion, then the fish ran. It ripped off a hundred yards of line with such speed that, in Mrs. Gentry’s hands, the reel screamed of metal tolerances better endured by a machine gun.

  “Let him run, keep the rod high,” I yelled. The push pole was free of the sand. I turned the skiff in pursuit. “Mr. Gentry, grab your wife’s belt. She almost went over on the first run, and I’d rather lose you than her right now.”

  Laughter was a form of nervous release.

  “My god, what a cast. Perfect, Dolly; perfect location. Hannah, you ever seen a better cast in your life? That fish has to weigh forty pounds.”

  Nice, the proud way he spoke of his wife.

  “More like thirty,” I said, yet wanted to believe he was right about the weight. He’d been right about something else: the fish might be big eno
ugh to set a new world record. Not in terms of weight overall, but in length, and possibly weight, too, for I’d tied a fairly light 1× tippet into the leader. Even with Bimini knots at both ends, the tippet would test out at less than fifteen pounds of breaking strength.

  “We’ve got to get some line back. You ready, Mrs. Gentry?”

  “Tell me what to do, but hurry. I’m shaking like a terrier,” she answered, then told her husband. “Doug, darling, do me a favor—please stop chattering and sit your butt down. I need to concentrate. Isn’t that right, Hannah?”

  I smiled. In the first minutes of hooking a big fish, emotions ebb and flow. The exhilaration of a hookup is fast displaced by dramas that guarantee the uncertainty of landing a big fish.

  Using the push pole, I got the boat moving in a straight line. It was the product of selecting small variations in fulcrum angles, then bowing the pole with my weight like a gondola driver. I poled and Mrs. Gentry reeled, or surrendered line, in a seesaw battle, depending on the course of the snook. Her husband provided encouragement. He often changed camera angles but did a good job of staying out of the way.

  Ten minutes later, the fish hadn’t lost any speed or strength. Worse, it was dragging us steadily toward a bank of mangroves on the east side of Patricia Key. Mangrove roots are loaded with barnacles and coon oysters, all razor-sharp, so we had to turn the fish or lose him there. I was explaining what we had to do when the husband interrupted, saying, “What the heck is that boat doing? They see us, don’t they?”

  I’d been aware of an approaching outboard but had paid no attention. I took a quick look off the stern. Speeding toward us was a wide, flat skiff, with a black catamaran hull, and engines powerful enough to plow a rooster tail. The driver steered from a tower built over the counsel. A couple of passengers sat below, the boat half a mile away but closing fast.

  “He sees us just fine,” I said, and resumed what I was doing until the escalating roar demanded another look. When I turned, the boat was still on a collision course and close enough I could see the driver. He was a big-chested man with a handlebar mustache, and he wore a green golf visor backwards. He seemed to be looking directly at me, grinning, while his stereo boomed out music loud enough to hear the vibrating bass.

  Mr. Gentry lowered the camera and began waving his arms. “What the hell’s wrong with that idiot? Hey . . . Hey, we’ve got a fish on!” he shouted as if that might do some good.

  It did not, so I hefted the push pole to get his attention. The driver watched me, still grinning. I used the pole to point at the fish we were fighting; the fish fifty yards out, and enough blades of grass fouled on the fly line to make that visible, too.

  I shook the pole in an aggressive way, then pointed again. Only then did the driver alter his course a few degrees, but not enough to miss our fly line unless I did something fast. I jumped down onto the deck, yelling, “Grab your wife’s belt. Hold on, Mrs. Gentry, we’ve got to move.”

  In a rush, I fired the engine before the propeller was submerged and slammed it into gear. My skiff shot forward. This provided a shield for our line, and the fish attached to it, but also put us directly in the path of the boat. The grin vanished from the driver’s face; he spun the wheel so violently, he nearly flew off the tower, but held on and glared through his bizarre mustache. This wasn’t punishment enough, so he swung the wheel in retaliation and swamped a wall of water over my skiff as he flew past, the roar of his twin outboard engines and stereo deafening.

  An instant later, Mrs. Gentry’s voice pierced the din. “The boat . . . it snagged my line . . . He’s got my line! What should I do?” She was fighting to hang on to the rod as line peeled away while her husband clung to her belt, all attached to the stern of the speeding boat and its wake of mud and turtle grass.

  The drama didn’t last. The line snapped—or so we believed until my skiff settled in the bucking waves. Only then was I calm enough to suggest that Mrs. Gentry reel in.

  “I’m snagged on something else,” she said.

  I had busied myself drying seats to hide the fact that I was furious. “Maybe it got tangled around a branch of something. Want me to try?”

  “Deadweight, it feels like.” She lifted the rod, applied pressure, and gained a few feet of line. Over and over she did this until the object was too close to lift. It was Mr. Gentry, the taller of the two, who saw it first from the casting deck. “My god . . . they ran over your fish, Sher. It’s your snook! It is . . . but I think it’s dead.”

  No, the fish was still alive. Barely. I went over the side into the water, scooped it up, and removed the hook. A single silver gash behind the eye told us the snook had been hit by the propeller. The color of the gills was good. They were still pumping water, yet the fish lay immobile in my arms, a great, dense weight.

  “Any chance it’ll come around?” the husband asked.

  “We can’t count this as a catch,” I replied. “Wish we could, but we can’t. That’s a shame. You did a great job, Mrs. Gentry. I can see from here it’s over forty inches long.”

  I floated the fish closer to the IGFA measuring sticker on the gunnel of my skiff. “Forty-two inches, looks like, but I don’t want to lift her out—”

  “I don’t give a tiddly bit about records,” the woman said. “Can you revive the poor thing?”

  Unlikely, but I had to choose my words with care. I was still furious, and aware that anger is contagious. A successful charter has less to do with landing fish than keeping clients happy. Admitting the fish would die might ruin the rest of the trip. “I’m willing to try, but wouldn’t you rather move to another spot? Either way, we have to leave the fish here no matter what. Snook are out of season, and it’s over the slot, size-wise, anyway. Take all the pictures you want, of course.”

  “Isn’t there someone you can call?”

  I assumed she meant the police, so shook my head and lied to keep the day cheerful. “The guy driving didn’t mean us any harm. Particularly on weekends, it’s the sort of thing you have to just shrug and smile. Or”—I realized I’d misunderstood—“did you mean to help us revive this fish?”

  “Yosemite Sam, and people like him,” she said, referring to the driver’s cartoon mustache, “find ways to punish themselves. Isn’t there a wildlife rescue organization of some kind?”

  I smiled for the first time in a while. “Not for fish, but I like the way you think. Sure, we can keep trying. Why not give it shot?”

  A nice couple, the Gentrys. An hour later, they were wading along beside me, taking turns babying water through the great fish’s gills. By then, my drifting skiff had led us to the back side of Patricia Key, an island that had once been farmed by early homesteaders.

  “Are those grapefruit?” the woman asked.

  I had failed to notice, or even think about, the wild citrus trees I had described to Kermit Bigalow last night. Near shore, where pilings had outlasted a dock, was a cluster of heavy yellow fruit amid a wall of green.

  “They’re not as sweet as modern Duncan grapefruit,” I replied, “but they’re pretty good. I can pick some, if you like. The chef on Useppa might fix them in a salad—don’t forget, lunch is on me.”

  “So typically thoughtful of you, Hannah. Can we stay with the boat while you forage ashore?”

  Her tentative manner told me Mrs. Gentry didn’t want to give up on the fish. The snook’s gills were still working, the color good, but otherwise the fish behaved as if it was in a coma.

  I didn’t have much hope, so grabbed a bag and slogged to the island. As I returned, my mood brightened. In a slick area near the couple, water rippled with a splashing swirl. A huge gold-tinged tail breached the surface. The tail lashed, then vanished beneath a tunneling wake. Husband and wife hooted and embraced.

  “My world record just swam off!” Mrs. Gentry hollered to me. She was dancing around, both fists raised.

  This was a phra
se she repeated several times while we celebrated over lunch, then drinks by the pool on Useppa Island.

  No alcohol for me, not on a charter. Even so, we had fun, and, as it turned out, more than that. We got to talking about the orange trees, and their biotech background sparked a lot of questions and comments from them—so many that, by the time we were done, I’d filled up a napkin with scribbled thoughts.

  My thoughts of the previous evening were again displaced until I could no longer ignore the time. It was nearly three. I was still obligated to meet Kermit and his daughter at four despite what had happened last night aboard my boat.

  “Like this never happened,” the grove manager had said to me before leaving. His exact words.

  It was almost true.

  NINE

  Aboard the boat that is my home, alone with the married man, what happened wasn’t much, at first, but enough to cause me to say, “I’d like you to leave before we both do something stupid.”

  It was too late for that. I’d already made the error of inviting him into the cozy privacy of my cabin, where stars sparkled outside the windows and the lighting inside was dim.

  “Us being here is my fault, Kermit. Let’s call it a night and start over tomorrow. Usually, I’m more careful about, uh . . . getting into situations like this.”

  At first, he feigned confusion. Finally, though, he proved he was an honest man by saying, “Okay, okay . . . I like you too much to lie. I know exactly what you mean. And you’re right, I should leave.”

  This was after I’d moved from the captain’s chair to the little booth, which, truth be told, I seldom use because I prefer to eat, or read, outside, and I almost always dine alone. I sat across from him. We discussed citrus, and his life in California, and Lonnie Chatham, then more trivial matters. Mostly, we laughed. I enjoyed our laughter, particular after the day we’d shared. I liked the sun lines in his face when he smiled. The recollections we exchanged about how we’d met—him in the river, me at the rail where he’d hung his clothes—added a scent of bawdiness to the air.