David Vann - Caribou Island

What surprised him was how much this hurt, an actual pain in the left side of his chest. The heart only a metaphor, he had thought, and he had thought he was through with Monique, basically, over her, tired of her meanness, but she had gotten him now, something hard and unforgivable. Watching her have sex with this old man, watching her curl her shoulders in pleasure, putting on her show in the candlelight, this was something that would stay with Carl, he knew, something he would never be able to forget. Her final gift to him, one more in a long series of mean gifts but more than all the others.

Carl returned to bed and wanted badly to fall asleep, tried to count his exhales, tried to fade out and go away, but he was still wide awake when she returned, so quiet with the door handle, silent across the floor, then easing carefully back under the covers. He kept his breathing even, knew she was listening, then finally heard the shorter breaths, the stop and start of her real sleep.

Terrible to have her so close beside him, only a few feet away. He looked at his watch, two thirty, and decided he would try to get on the boat to go fishing. He needed to get away from her. It would be cold on the dock, so he lay waiting another half hour until three, then rose quietly and dressed, walked into the night and set off down the road toward the river.

It felt better to be moving, to be outside and no longer trying to be quiet. Crunch of his boots on gravel, the fog of his breath. He swung his arms around a bit, rolled his shoulders, and tried to shake her off. Heard his voice. Shaking off the heebie-jeebies. Almost like a shiver. She could fuck all the old men she wanted. He was going to move on, finally.

The cold worked its way in, despite his walking, so he jogged for a while in his boots, heavy clumps. The only soul on that road, stars and no moon. Alaska a great stillness that extended a thousand miles in every direction. An open space, an opportunity to forget about something as small as heartache. Carl wanted to ingest the air, the sky, those distances.

Farther along, though, when he was walking again, he felt lost and slipped into the trees to hide himself, started to cry, tried to hold it back but ended up sobbing like a little boy. Monique, he said, because she was his first love. He would have done anything to make her love him.

He sat down on the forest floor and hugged his knees, buried his face in his shoulder. Waited for the crying to stop, then waited some more until he felt strong enough, stood up and hiked back onto the road, toward the river and the boat. He would lose himself in fishing, helping Mark. He remembered that aft deck filled with all of them gasping for air. Something magnificent in those fish, brought up out of nothing, something he wanted to be closer to.

When he made it to the pier, it was after three thirty and no one about, though he could see lights coming on in several of the boats in the channel. He waited by the ladder thinking of that Indian-American woman from last time, wondering whether he’d see her again, but it was a man in his thirties who finally came walking out of one of the buildings.

Mornin, Carl said.

Mornin.

Could I get a lift out to the Slippery Jay ?

Sure.

And so Carl was on the river again, the roar of the outboard and fast white curve of the wake, the wind cold in his ears. He was over the side in no time, standing on deck, and made his way up to the pilothouse to wait.

Something right about a boat, sitting outside above the water, rocking in the waves. A different kind of home. A better home. Nothing stagnant. Maybe this was what he needed to do. Get a boat and live on it, maybe a sailboat and take off around the world. He knew why he was thinking this, though. Some grand gesture, something to show Monique who he really was. And that was an impossible game, one he could never win.

The seat was cold, and though Carl huddled and put his face down in his jacket, he couldn’t get warm. He had to just wait, goose-bumped and shivering, until Mark finally appeared.

Cabron, Mark said. Que paso?

Was thinking about catching some fish, Carl said.

You’ve come to the right place. Scoot over.

Carl scooted, the new section of seat frozen, and Mark pushed the glow plugs for twenty seconds, then turned the key for the engine. A bit rough at first, Mark said. But then she’s a kitten.

The owner came up the ladder. I’ll take over, she said. Hey Carl.

Hey Dora.

You look cold, she said. Go below and warm up. Grab a sleeping bag.

So he went down the ladder, in through the galley and forward to the fo’c’sle. Dark in there, but he could feel around for sleeping bags, still warm, and a pillow, and he made a nice nest. He could hear Mark walking on deck above him, letting off the bow line, and then felt the engine lock into gear and they were moving. Leaving earlier than last time. Carl without sleep, exhausted, the light rocking and warm sleeping bags a comfort, and he faded quickly.

In his dreams, Carl was swimming underwater. A wide, deep river, sunny, and the salmon all much larger than him, watching. Their enormous eyes like moons, all of them in silent communication. They had received a message about him, something urgent.

Carl woke to small waves hitting the hull. From down here, you could feel how the entire boat flexed, nothing solid. Just a skin. The engine louder now, more revs, powering through. He didn’t want to seem lazy, but he was so tired. So he closed his eyes again.

He woke to the outrageous rolling that meant they had stopped in place. He hurried to get his boots on, tossed back and forth, dizzy, then stumbled through the galley to the aft deck in time to see Mark throw an orange buoy over the stern, the beginning of the net.

Need help? he yelled.

Stay out of the way, Mark yelled back, so Carl held on to the doorjamb and watched. Sun glaring off the water, Mark letting the net unwind as Dora drove forward. The net an improbable thing, a vast nylon curtain with small white buoys on top and a leaded skirt on the bottom.

The reel becoming slimmer, green nylon feeding out until finally the entire net was in the water. Then Dora shifted into neutral and Mark attached the main line to a stern cleat. Dora put the engine into gear again and tugged carefully at the net to straighten. A curtain nine hundred feet long, arcing out behind the boat, a long line of white buoys with the orange buoy at the far end, far away.

The rolling extreme at slow speed, and Carl had to hold on. Mark came over, walking across that rolling deck with no problem. Watch the net, he told Carl. You can see ’em when they hit. You’ll see a splash.

Carl looked but saw nothing. Hundreds of salmon could be out there, but this seemed impossible. Land was miles away, a fringe in the distance, and all this open water. It couldn’t be that every small patch of water was so populated. Fishing seemed to him a great act of faith, or desperation.

The line of white buoys very tight, rising out of the water as the trough of a big wave rolled through.

We’re at the edge of a rip, Mark said, and he pointed. See the logs?

Carl could see several logs and smaller rafts of wood, the water darker on the other side, divided by a thin line of foam. I see them, he said.

The fish hang out along the rip. We can’t be right in it, or we’d foul our gear with all the wood, but we try to stay close to an edge.

Let’s go to the other end, Dora said from the helm.

She shifted into neutral and then slow reverse as Mark went to the stern. He untied another orange buoy from the rail, swapped the lines, and they were clear.

Dora shifted into forward and turned to run along the net.

Running the gear, Mark yelled to Carl over the engine. You can do this to other fishermen’s nets, too, to see if any fish have been hitting.