T. Parker - Full Measure

Ted carefully unhooked the fish and dropped it back into the bay. “I’ve kissed women more dangerous than that!”

Patrick wondered. Not far from the Nimitz Marine Facility they each caught bonefish that sizzled off like rockets and made long runs. Bones were picky eaters, but fast, durable, and experts at throwing a hook. They were shaped like projectiles and had goofy faces and were probably the most coveted game fish in the bay. Patrick knew a good percentage of his clients would want to target them, though their numbers were small. He felt the strength and wild purpose of the fish as his line hissed through the flat water, opening a wake and throwing a plume of mist into the air. Pound and a quarter, he guessed: a nice one. He stood rocking gently with Fatta the Lan’ and felt the joy of fishing, which for him had always been the bringing in of a wondrous thing from an alien place. He’d been trying to explain his love for fishing in more detail for most of his life but had failed, even to himself. As he knelt and set the bonefish free Patrick heard the sea lions croaking in their pens over at the training center where the Navy taught marine mammals to detect mines and enemy swimmers. He wondered if the mammals were drafted or if they volunteered. The ghosts inside him stirred and he pushed them back into their places. Be gone, not now. Ted seemed to sense his brother’s struggle. He turned around and looked at Patrick with concern, then grinned and shrugged, as if asking Patrick to throw off his problems and get with the day. Patrick saw something in him that Archie had probably never owned and that Caroline had long ago imprisoned. Crazy joy? Abandon?

Outside the harbor the Pacific was gray and heavy with chop. The wind came from the west, cool and weighty. Fatta the Lan’ hit the open water and recoiled like a puppy sensing danger. The swells moved her easily, her weight vanished, and at speed she was skittish. Ted sat on the bench facing aft, hunkered in his windbreaker as the boat dipped and rose and the cold spray lashed his back. “I hate it out here in little boats like this,” he said.

Patrick cut their speed, which did little to improve things. It was a long charge north along Fort Rosecrans and Patrick knew the Navy could run him out at will but they usually didn’t. He steered toward the rocky cliffs of Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery and by the time he dropped anchor fifty yards offshore Ted was up with his rod, bracing himself on the railing as best he could while Fatta the Lan’ rose and fell in the swell. Ted swayed, dropped to one knee to hold the rail, then heaved himself up again and turned to Patrick. “If I fall over and drown, tell Mom I loved her and tell Dad I’m sorry. I’m not sure what for, but I sure am sorry! Naw, second thought, tell him life is hard so tough shit, old man.”

“If you fall over, just swim! Shore’s a hundred and fifty feet that a way.”

“Anything can happen at sea.”

“If you’re dead set on drowning then, do I get all your critters and the computer?”

“Yeah! And tell Dora at the stables I didn’t mean to scare her. And tell Mayor Anders I hope she loses the election and never builds those lighted crosswalks we don’t need!”

“Catch a damned fish, Ted.”

Ted turned and raised his rod and false cast to build line speed in the wind. He was rocking mightily but still managed to keep plenty of line in the air. Patrick heard him bellowing: “Fish can tell when you don’t have the mojo, Pat! Even from a hundred feet away. It’s something to do with the way your personal vibrations travel down the line and affect the fly. Which is directly related to the way ideas get into my brain. But I’m not sure how they’re related. Geronimo!” Ted double-hauled briskly and let the line go and Patrick watched the loop unfurl and eighty feet of line and leader turn over to place the fly over the rocks.

Patrick cast too, the wind carrying his fly toward shore. He let the weighted fly and fly line sink as he rocked with the boat. Ted had a harder time balancing in the slightly raised bow. He took a knee to ride out a strong swell. Patrick felt the hump of water moving under him, and he saw it lift the bow as it rolled toward shore, where a long moment later it exploded on the rocks.

When the boat had settled enough, Ted stood up and leaned into the railing, slipped, and fell overboard. Patrick heard his quick yelp and the snap of his rod against the boat and the splash of him hitting the ocean. Ted reached his free hand over the gunwale but the next swell pried him loose and carried him toward the rocks. Patrick pushed his rod into the holder and got the gaff and scrambled fore. Ted was side-stroking toward Fatta the Lan’ with the broken rod and reel still in one hand but the swells pushing against him. He was already half sunk in his heavy clothes and coat. Patrick leaned far out with the handle end but Ted was out of reach. “It’s cold in here, Pat!”

Patrick stashed the gaff and got the rope from the bow compartment and hurled it to his brother. It slapped over him and the next swell lifted, then dropped the boat into a watery bowl. The same swell lifted Ted and carried him fast toward the rocks. He was riding lower in the water now and breathing fast. He found the rope with his free hand and tried to haul himself forward but the rope was long. “Drop the rod, Ted! Drop it and use both hands!”

But Ted held fast to the rod, grabbing short lengths of rope with his left hand while the surge moved him faster out. Patrick swayed greatly on the casting deck, stripping rope with both hands. A swell dropped him so steeply that his feet left the deck and for a moment he was midair, then the deck jumped up under him and he crashed to his knees, jaw crunching, but still hauling. When the rope was tight he stood again and put his back into the tug-of-war. The swells pushed Ted toward the rocks, then Patrick pulled him closer. Ted still held the rod butt and reel. After a long minute Patrick had him halfway back. Then the fly line flew off the stump of the broken rod and the reel screamed. “I’m hooked up, Pat! I’m hooked up!”

“Hang on! I’ve got you! I’ve got you!”

Patrick felt the swells lose some of their power as he pulled Ted into deeper water. Then Ted dropped the rope and tightened up the drag on the reel to better fight the fish. Patrick yelled to pick up the damn rope. Ted began to sink and a strong swell dragged him back toward the rocks until he took up the rope again. He was gasping deep and fast while Patrick pulled. A long minute later Ted was close to Fatta the Lan’, holding out the rod to his brother. Patrick took it and felt the heavy pull of the faraway fish. “Jeez, Ted, nice fish.”

“I told you. I’m thinking snapper. Rocks. Deep.”

“Me, too. Can you hold on? I’m going to back us out of here so we can get you aboard without the surge.”

“Amen, Pat!”

“Feels like ten pounds of fish down there.”

“Oh, at least.”

“Hang on, I’m going to weigh anchor and get us out of here.”

“I hope it’s a snapper! Mom’s favorite.”

“Just hold on, Ted.”

“Dad shouldn’t of yelled at me for taking the bark off the trees. That was a mistake anybody could make.”

“It’s over.”

“It’s never over! I scared a woman out by the stables a couple a nights ago. Dora. I like her a lot. I feel everything she feels, like a connection. I didn’t mean to scare her.”

Patrick reversed them further offshore, steering with his hips, one hand on the rope and the other on the rod. The fish had taken half of the backing but it was losing strength. When he felt less turbulence he put the motor in neutral. He drew Ted close and cut the engine and pulled his brother around to the stern where the gunwales were lowest. Ted was able to get both hands up onto the boat railings but he was too tired and too heavy to hoist himself up and over.