Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

With both hands he grabbed the lip of the pilothouse roof and hoisted himself up on the warped bare wood. There was scarcely enough space for a dry perch.

Roy lay on his belly, blinked the salt from his eyes, and waited. The quiet wrapped around him like a soft blanket.

First he spotted the T-shaped shadow of the osprey crossing the pale green water beneath him. Later came the white heron, gliding low in futile search of a shallow edge to wade. Eventually the bird lighted halfway up a black mangrove, squawking irritably about the high tides.

The elegant company was welcome, but Roy kept his eyes fastened on the creek. The splash of a feeding tarpon upstream put him on alert, and sure enough, the surface of the water began to shake and boil. Within moments a school of mullet erupted, sleek bars of silver shooting airborne again and again.

Atop the pilothouse, Roy scooted forward as far as he dared, dangling both arms. The mullet quit jumping but assembled in a V-shaped squadron that pushed a nervous ripple down the middle of the creek toward the Molly Bell. Soon the water beneath him darkened, and Roy could make out the blunt-headed shapes of individual fish, each swimming frantically for its life.

As the school approached the sunken crab boat, it divided as cleanly as if it had been sliced by a saber. Quickly Roy picked out one fish and, teetering precariously, plunged both hands into the current.

For one thrilling moment he actually felt it in his grasp-as cool and slick and magical as mercury. He squeezed his fingers into fists, but the mullet easily jetted free, leaping once before it rejoined the fleeing school.

Roy sat up and gazed at his dripping, empty palms.

Impossible, he thought. Nobody could catch one of those darn things bare-handed, not even Beatrice's stepbrother. It must have been a trick, some sort of clever illusion.

A noise like a laugh came out of the dense knotted mangroves. Roy assumed it was the heron, but when he looked up, he saw that the bird had gone. Slowly he rose, shielding his brow from the sun's glare.

"That you?" he shouted. "Napoleon Bridger, is that you?"

Nothing.

Roy waited and waited, until the sun dropped low and the creek was draped in shadows. No more laughing sounds came from the trees. Reluctantly he slid off the Molly Bell and let the falling tide carry him to shore.

Robotically he got into his clothes, though when he reached for his shoes he saw that only one was hanging from the forked bough. His right sneaker was missing.

Roy put on the left sneaker and went hopping in search of the other. He soon found it half-submerged in the shallows beneath the branches, where he figured it must have fallen.

Yet when he bent to pick up the shoe, it wouldn't come loose. The laces had been securely entwined around a barnacle-encrusted root.

Roy's fingers trembled as he undid the precisely tied clove-hitch knots. He lifted the soggy sneaker and peeked inside.

There he spied a mullet no larger than a man's index finger, flipping and splashing to protest its captivity. Roy emptied the baby fish into his hand and waded deeper into the creek.

Gently he placed the mullet in the water, where it flashed once and vanished like a spark.

Roy stood motionless, listening intently, but all he heard was the hum of mosquitoes and the low whisper of the tide. The running boy was already gone.

As Roy laced on his other sneaker, he laughed to himself.

So the great bare-handed mullet grab wasn't a trick. It wasn't impossible after all.

Guess I'll have to come back another day and try again, Roy thought. That's what a real Florida boy would do.