Resolve
Posted on September 1, 2016 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath
The shrimp landed softly near the edge of the wide, illumined circle formed by the dock lights. It skittered across the surface, legs sending a thousand pulses through the water, unaware that below, a long shadow was slowly rising to investigate. The shrimp stopped momentarily and in that instant, both shadow and shrimp disappeared with a splash. On deck, a steep bend grew in the rod and as the fish fled into the darkness, the reel’s drag hummed steadily.
“That’s my favorite song,” the first man said with a smile.
“Red or trout?” the second man asked. The first man didn’t know and didn’t answer despite repeated questioning. His deliberation allowed the suspense to build throughout the fight until all aboard were eager with anticipation by the time the fish was boat-side.
“Neither,” the first man answered eventually, lifting a hefty snook over the gunwale with exaggerated strain.
“I told you,” the third said, “only a snook takes off like that.”
A gentleman’s agreement between the trio made long ago granted whomever caught the biggest fish on each annual trip the right to choose next year’s destination. It was the only time all three of them were together all year, and this latest line-sider put the first man in the lead. They were all admiring the snook, sleek and silver in the red glow of the headlamp, when their three phones buzzed simultaneously on the skiff’s console.
“Oh no, no … of all the places,” the second man said, head shaking in disbelief as he read the news aloud.
There’d been another attack, in another city; this one much closer to home. He and the third man immediately thought of their children a timezone away, far from their protective reach, and despite the hour quickly dialed their wives. All had been asleep, unaware of the news. With his comrades phoning home, one on the bow, the other on the stern, the first man — who’d neither wife nor children — rested on the lean post listening, quietly chewing on his lip and the news. None of the trio could get out until tomorrow at the earliest, and the men had assured their wives they ’d be on the first flight possible. While understandable given the circumstances, it would be their first annual trip to be cut short.
“It’s everywhere,” the first man said, breaking the silence. The other two nodded in reluctant agreement. “But what can you do?”
They looked down, each awkwardly fumbling with his rod or a piece of tackle, waiting for someone to speak. Suddenly the act of fishing, and this celebrated trip to which each of them looked forward all year, seemed the most trivial of luxuries. For several minutes, the only sound was wind-driven waves lapping against the hull. The third man finally broke the silence.
He’d been fiddling with a popping cork, working the orange foam float up and down the wire stem, thinking of his family, then the most recent victims, then the idea of his family as victims crossed his mind and so it went, back and forth like the float, until the anger welling up inside could no longer be contained.
“Everyone has to carry a gun now,” he blurted out, not taking his eyes off the float, “everywhere you go; to the store, to work, everywhere.” He paused, frustrated, struggling with the reality something so horrible had happened so close to home. What if his office were targeted, his children’s school, their church? No longer wishing to fish, his eyes settled on the water.
Round and round the circle made by the dock lights another snook, or maybe a redfish or trout, stealthily followed a school of finger mullet. Eventually, it dropped back, disappearing into the shadows. The mullet had never noticed the fish trailing them. To the contrary, each night, they drew blindly to the glow, circling its perimeter mechanically, unaware that danger lay hidden, where light gave way to darkness.
The mullet were passing by the boat again when without warning, a large fish — perhaps the one that had followed — tore into the school, disorienting it, and immediately several similar-sized fish joined in, the melee leaving the surface aboil. When the water finally settled, none from the school remained.
The irony of the mullet’s mindless devotion to routine, even at their own peril, was not lost on the second man. He’d been pondering the third man’s words and the night’s events. To protect his family, his first thought was eliminating all possible risk. They could stay home, he thought, isolate themselves even if only for awhile, in case this was only the beginning. The meager garden behind the house could be expanded, he reckoned; his wife could homeschool the children. They would be together, and they would be safe.
“All you can do is hunker down,” he offered, a shakiness in his voice, “you can’t go anywhere now, so maybe you just stay home.”
While his two friends shared the tracks their own minds had taken since the news broke, the first man had remained silent. It was all still settling in. Each of his friends would go home tomorrow, to their families, to a city shaken by tragedy to determine next steps. Only the first man would finish out the charter. Simply coordinating schedules for the annual event was difficult already. Knowing this, each feared the day’s events could render this their last trip, none more so than the first man. The thought they might only have what remained of the night moved him. He walked over to the livewell, netted three lively shrimp, kept one for himself and tossed one to each of his friends.
“This has been a great trip,” the first man said, “and I’m coming back next year. If either of you even half-thinks you might not make it, you ought to at least try right now to put a bigger fish than that last snook of mine on the board for the picture book.”
And with that, each man — for his own reasons — went back to what they’d come there to do.
Niko Corley is a USCG-licensed charter boat captain and spends his free time on the water or in the woods. Contact him at niko.corley@gmail.com.
