Randy White - Deceived

I seldom use profanity, don’t find it attractive, but rude talk was the least of my worries so I paid him no mind. But the younger man didn’t like it. He snapped, “Watch your language, Delmont!” Which surprised me because of the sharp tone, plus he’d hardly opened his mouth all morning. Even more surprising was Mr. Chatham’s reaction-silence. Just stood there, looking embarrassed, until Ransler got to the boat, leaned his weight on the gunnel, then said coolly, “After we get that fish in the water, you’re going to apologize to Captain Smith. Okay, Del?”

“Just Hannah,” I corrected him, aware there was something else I’d misjudged: Mr. Chatham was working for Ransler or was his subordinate in some way, not vice versa.

Joel was the younger man’s name. I asked when he was close enough to shake hands a second time. Then the two of us, by using our weight to lower the gunnel, slid the tarpon gently into the water.

MR. CHATHAMactually did apologize, muttering, “Guess I overreacted.” By then, he was sitting with his feet dangling off the side of the boat, both men watching me revive the fish. Joel was in the water, standing waist-deep to my right, while I walked the fish back and forth, hoping its gills would soon show some color.

“Don’t blame you a bit, Mr. Chatham,” I replied, which prompted the younger man to give me a nod of approval. Thank god I looked up when he did it because that’s when I saw the dorsal fin-a metal-gray fin, tall as a scythe’s blade, thick as a steel bar. The fin cleaved the water in a lazy serpentine pattern, then disappeared behind Joel only twenty paces away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked when he saw my expression change.

“Get in the boat,” I said.

“What?”

“In the boat- now .” I had stopped what I was doing but didn’t raise my voice; didn’t want the man to stumble and fall if he panicked.

He was carrying a bucket he’d been using to slosh slime off the deck and gestured with it. “The boat’s still a mess.”

“Hurry up,” I told him, which is when he realized I was staring at something behind him, so he turned and looked. The shark wasn’t coming fast, but it was pushing a big wake, and the fin had reappeared.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered-profanity that seemed appropriate in this situation. Then began walking backward, slowly at first, then faster, which got the shark’s attention. When the fin turned on a line to follow him, the man swore again. “Holy shit!”

Mr. Chatham was fretting over his antique fishing rod, which had been damaged by the collision, so he was oblivious, his legs dangling in the water, when he demanded, “What’s the problem now?”

The problem was that the shark would have to cruise past both men before it got to me and might attack one or both of them instead of the tarpon I was reviving-an injured fish, I felt certain, that the shark had scented and was its actual target. There’s no telling what a feeding shark will do in murky water, so I called to Joel, “Don’t watch the thing, just get in the boat!” I was already moving toward the shark, pulling the tarpon along beside me, its streamlined body buoyant in my right hand.

Once again, the shark submerged, this time in the hole where Mr. Chatham had nearly drowned, water so deep its wake disappeared and I lost track of the thing.

“Where’d it go?” Joel sounded anxious when he shouted, and no wonder. He had reached the boat but was too much of a gentleman, apparently, to leave a woman behind.

“He wants this tarpon, not me,” I called, raising my voice for the first time. “Do you know how to handle a boat?”

“Why?”

“Get in and start the damn engine!” I yelled, and began pulling the fish toward the boat, taking leaping strides in the slow-motion way that water requires. My language must have surprised the man because he vaulted immediately aboard and was already lowering the motor while he asked again, “Where the hell did he go?”

Rather than answering, I continued my slogging stride because I didn’t know. The whole time I was debating whether to leave the tarpon behind or try to save it. The fish’s tail was moving, its gills were working, but it was in no condition to sprint for its life. I’m not sentimental when it comes to fish, but the sight of a rolling tarpon never fails to produce a glow in me. They’re such lean, powerful creatures. They’re never uncertain in their movements, and their scales reflect the sky like mirrors, so a six-foot tarpon is as close to liquid sunlight as anything alive. I’ve got nothing against sharks-well… except their goatish eyes and brutal ways. Even so, it seemed wrong to allow such a pretty fish-and one that had injured itself on my boat-to become an easy meal.

As I grabbed for the transom, I yelled, “Pull the anchor!” then felt silly because Joel had already done it-all but the last few feet of line, which had just broken free. The man had the line coiled in one hand and was leaning with an outstretched arm to pull me aboard. I refused to let him do it, though, until I’d yelled to Mr. Chatham, who was standing at the controls, “Put the boat in gear-slow idle. You know how to do that?”

“Look at the size of that thing!” I heard Chatham whisper, looking down at the water, which made me jump, so I was safely over the transom but still hanging on to the tarpon when the shark appeared behind us, the boat idling forward now.

A great hammerhead shark, twelve feet long, a couple of hundred pounds, its space-alien eyes were separated on a stalk of gray as wide as a broomstick. The shark had its bearings. Knew exactly where the wounded fish was and accelerated toward us with the slow stroke of its tail.

“A little faster,” I told Chatham, then said to the younger man, “Help me slide him onto the deck.” Meaning the tarpon. “Put a few hundred yards behind us, we can finish reviving him. No guarantees, but at least he’ll have a chance.”

“Smart,” Joel replied, and got on his belly. Then, when we had the fish braced between us, he looked at the slime on his clothes and said, “It’s going to take you days to clean this boat.”

No, it took only an hour because my clients insisted on helping. The three of us had survived an adventure and rescued a fish, which changed the mood from businesslike to friendly. It was Mr. Chatham who suggested they help, saying, “How about we take a break, then finish the trip when we’re done? Where can we find some towels and a hose with freshwater?”

My childhood home, where my mother, Loretta, still lives, that’s where-and only two miles from Captiva Rocks. It’s an old house of yellow clapboard on a paw of land where three thousand years ago people built shell pyramids as temples. Tourists new to Florida are always surprised to hear this, but it’s true. From the water, the remains of those shell mounds looked like rolling, wooded hills as we approached. There was also a row of tin-roofed cottages-cabins, really-built along the bay, and docks where mullet and stone-crab boats floated, which raised Mr. Chatham’s spirits even more.

“That could be a scene from the nineteen hundreds,” he said, reaching for a camera. “What’s the name of the place?”

“Sulfur Wells,” I told him. “It’s an old fishing village, and not easy to get to by car. Because the lots are so small, folks call the cabins Munchkinville. Most only have one bedroom.”

Mr. Chatham was nodding as if he were way ahead of me. “Sure, Sulfur Wells. My family used to own property here, but it’s been years since I’ve come by water. That’s why I didn’t recognize it. Good call, Hannah!” The man smiled at Joel Ransler, and added, “I told you I chose the right fishing guide.”