J. Rain - Hail Mary

“ Fine,” I said. “Except I might have, you know, eaten some bad eggs this morning.”

“ Bad eggs,” he asked, shaking his head, grinning easily. “That’s a new one. Look, if you upchuck, just do it over the railing. I hate cleaning up upchuck.”

“ I won’t upchuck,” I said. “It’ll pass.”

“ Sure it will,” he said.

“ I’m not seasick,” I said.

“ Of course not,” he said. “Anyway, we don’t normally allow ride-alongs.”

“ I feel special.”

“ You don’t look special. You look green. Anyway, the captain said to show you what we do. In particular, to keep an eye out for shark finners.”

“ I’ve got friends in high places,” I said. Actually, Hansen arranged for the ride-along, although he thought it was a big waste of time.

“ Sure you do. Anyway, we’ve got a few ships out there to inspect, and after that we head south.”

“ What’s south?”

“ The Mexican border…and shark hunters.”

Someone on the bridge was speaking seriously into a radio. He turned and called Warden Fossil over. They pointed at a navigation screen propped up on the helm, near the big wooden wheel that looked far too antiquated to guide such a fine, new ship. But then again, what the hell did I know?

When Joe Fossil came back, he said, “We’ve got a commercial trawler coming up. You can watch us in action. Should be exciting for you; that is, if you aren’t too busy puking up your guts.”

“ Tough words for someone whose name sounds like it belongs on my underwear.”

“ That’s Joe Boxer,” he said, much too quickly. He must have heard it before. Damn, I hate when I’m not original.

“ Close enough.”

“ No, it ain’t. If anything, my name sounds like one of those watches.”

“ I’m sticking with underwear.”

He shook his head. “Get ready, Knighthorse.” He was about to turn back to the bridge. “And what the fuck kind of name is Knighthorse?”

“ A good name. A valiant name. A fitting name.”

“ Fitting?” he asked, but then he thought about it. “Never mind. Just be ready, Horse Shit.” He grinned, pleased with himself.

Ah, policemen. They were always the same, be it on sea or land. Cockiness. Attitude. Egos. Funny how well I got along with them.

The fishing vessel was a big one, with what appeared to my inexpert eyes to have rear-trawling capabilities, meaning, the nets were dropped from behind and dragged through the water, thus catching anything and everything in its wake.

The warden’s ship pulled up alongside the trawler. The vessel’s captain immediately met Joe Fossil, and permitted him and his crew to board. I just so happened to be part of the crew.

The trawler’s captain handed over what I assumed were various permits and certificates. As Fossil looked them over, I scanned the deck. The crew was composed of about seven or eight people, all men, and all watching us with what appeared to be mild hostility. The Department of Fish and Game were, apparently, the enemy. Most of the crew were wearing yellow slickers, just like the dude on all the frozen fish boxes in the freezer aisle. The ship itself was quite a bit bigger than the warden’s ship…and a good deal filthier. There was no denying the stink in the air. Rotting fish, fresh fish, it was all here, mixed together in a heady potpourri of fishy stink.

I fought a nearly overwhelming need to wretch. The bad eggs, the sway of the boat, the rotting carcasses, it was all too much.

For most people.

I powered through, sweating and taking big gulps of air. I followed Fossil down into the refrigerated hold, staying back while he examined the contents. He pulled out samples of leopard shark, with their fins still intact. From where I stood, the creature looked beautiful. Too beautiful to be destroyed, but that was just my opinion. The creature was measured, noted on a clipboard and given back.

Fossil did this with various other fish and sharks, some of which were held in storage drawers and all were packed with flakes of saltwater ice, which was apparently far gentler on tender fish skin. Fresh-water ice had, apparently, sharper edges, which could potentially cut delicate skin.

Everything checked out. The captain and his crew were, apparently, adhering to state and federal laws.

We did this with a half dozen other trawlers and smaller commercial vessels. We even stopped two sports fishermen and checked licenses. Most vessels complied. One trawler had too many allotted tuna and was fined.

We did this throughout the morning, and I’m pleased to report that never once did I get seasick. Food poisoning, yes. Seasickness, no.

Joe Fossil slapped me on the back just as we returned from boarding the last vessel. “That was the easy part,” he said. “Now the real fun begins.”

He barked an order to the ship’s navigator, who nodded and turned the wheel sharply. We rapidly picked up speed.

And headed south.

“ You’re in luck, Knighthorse,” said Warden Fossil, stepping off the bridged. He moved easily, his knees somehow accounting for the rising and falling boat, similar to how an expert horseman moves seamlessly moves with his mount.

Me, not so much. I felt each choppy wave. Each nauseating drop into each deep trough. Every sway, roll, and heave of the ship.

Speaking of heave. If I wasn’t such a stubborn cuss, I would have launched my breakfast burrito far and wide. But I kept it in.

At least until I was alone. Then all bets were off.

Fossil handed me a pair of binoculars and pointed to a small fishing vessel a mile or so south. Ignoring the gurgling and rumbling in my stomach, I adjusted the field glasses and settled onto the boat. Definitely a small fishing vessel. They were even using old-school rod and reel. A small group of men-Hispanics, from what I could tell-were huddled around something big.

Something big and undulating.

“ My guess is it’s a hammerhead. Big one, too.”

We throttled down and were currently adrift. Water splashed the hull. The sun beat down, and I did my best to steady the binoculars.

“ One of them has a knife,” I said. “A big knife.”

“ Usually a machete,” said Fossil. He was standing by my side.

Seagulls circled above. Other fish seemed to be churning the waters around the fishing vessel.

“ Why aren’t we fucking doing anything?” I said.

“ They’re in Mexican waters. We can’t.”

“ They’re going to kill it.”

Fossil said nothing, and I leaned over the hull, out of the water, trying to get a better look. Two or three of the guys were pinning the shark down. I only caught glimpses of the creature. Its gray hide shimmered dully. The knife shimmered, too. Before it flashed down.

The men fought the creature. I couldn’t see what was happening. Five minutes later, the man with the machete handed something flat and triangular over to someone else. The person he handed it to was grinning. He was a thick guy, as far as I could tell. The part down the center of his head was so prominent that I could see it even from here. He looked out towards us…and gave us the finger.

“ They just cut off its dorsal fin,” I said.

“ We see this too often.”

“ We need to stop them.”

“ It’s too late, my friend. And we can’t cross into a sovereign nation’s waters.”

“ There’s blood everywhere,” I said, feeling sick all over again. And there was, too. Flowing out of the boat. The pieces of shit had just cut off the creature’s tail fin. The animal was flapping a bloody stump. Still alive. In untold agony.

“ Why don’t they kill it?” I asked. My hands were gripped too tight around the binoculars; I could hear myself breathing. I had completely forgotten about my stomach.