John Casey - Spartina

After Schuyler took the wheel, Dick went forward and knelt beside Elsie. Watched her until she opened her eyes.

“You okay?”

She rubbed her hand across her eyes and cheek.

She said, “I feel stiff.”

He brought a folded blanket and shifted her onto it.

She said, “I feel like such a jerk.”

He said, “No. It happens. You’ll feel good when you wake up.” He tucked another slicker around her knees.

She said, “You’re a good daddy,” and laughed.

It annoyed him. “Officer Buttrick,” he said, “Law-and-Order Buttrick. You looked about as green as your uniform.”

She stared back at him and grinned.

Dick was surprised. Damn, he thought, she likes that stuff.

Maybe that was what it was about rich kids — everything was quick little laughs, everyone amused by who gets to who. Dick said, “I guess you’re your old self again.”

He went below, turned in, and thought of nothing but swordfish, 200, 250 pounds, swimming to meet Mamzelle.

E ven with six hours of the spotter’ plane, they came up empty.

They headed out beyond the swordfish grounds and hauled the pots just after sunset. Schuyler filmed by the floodlight on the wheelhouse. He said to Dick, “I thought fishing was the second most dangerous job in America.” Dick kept an eye on the line coiling onto the winch, moved aside as a pot came into view. Schuyler called out, “Can’t you work a little closer to the bull?” Parker laughed and said cheerfully to Schuyler, “You can be a real asshole.”

They got a few okay lobster, a poor-to-fair haul of red crab. Dick guessed the whole haul wouldn’t bring much more than three hundred dollars. They hadn’t put out enough pots. The tender could have carried more, Mamzelle could have carried more herself. And they should have waited another day. Dick also wondered if they weren’t too far out for lobster but not quite far enough out for red crab. He recalculated what he’d have to spend on new pots for his own boat, recalculated what he still had to find out.

They eased back into the swordfish grounds by sunup. The weather was holding. But nothing all morning. The plane wagged and headed back in. Dick heard the hum fade. Then hold steady. He thought it was a trick of the way noise carried. No. The plane came back, went into a tight circle. Kept circling. Dick went back up, couldn’t see a thing. Parker got up to speed. When they got almost under the plane, Dick saw something. At first he thought it was the shadow of the plane. No fin, just a darkness. They got closer and he saw it was a fish. Not finning, just basking three or four feet under the surface. He’d have to use the metal pole.

He stayed up until he found which end of the fish was front, then slid down fast and got up in the pulpit. Parker came on too fast. Dick waved to him to slow down. Parker lurched into reverse. The fish was just out of reach when he heard the grinding. Dick leaned out. The fish gave one wag of his tail, veered off. Dick stuck. This time he saw the lily go in, too far back. Maybe behind the fin.

But the keg went over before he got to it, was bouncing away across the water. Then settled into a steady skimming, looked like a squat robot waterskiing.

Parker saw it, saw how fast it was going, jolted the engine into full forward.

The keg ducked under. Dick strained to see it. If it popped back up and jumped clear of the water, it meant the fish had pulled loose of it. Dick went up to the crow’s nest, still looking. He saw the keg come up, then pull under again. Still on the hook. But if the fish could hold it down that long, he was in awful good health. It’d be a long run.

They followed for an hour or so. The fish would slow down, they’d get hopeful, then the fish’d go at it again. But the lily hadn’t come loose, there was still a good chance.

The plane swept back and forth, a hum that was broken into dashes by the rise and fall of the bow, and wind across the rigging and wheelhouse. So it was a while before Dick heard that the plane wasn’t sweeping, had tucked into another circle.

Dick came halfway down from the crow’s nest to talk it over with Parker.

Standard practice was to put a crew member in the dory, let him follow the first fish. The bigger boat went after the second fish. When the second fish was lost or won, then they came back for the dory and the first fish, if it was still fast.

But if Dick went in the dory, Parker couldn’t stick a fish, not with his arm in a cast. If Parker went, they still couldn’t count on Elsie or Schuyler to ease the boat up on the second fish.

Parker said, “Elsie can go in the dory.”

Dick said, “I don’t know.”

Schuyler had come up and joined in.

“If Elsie goes I don’t want her on film. You know — a girl out there hauling a fish.”

“She won’t haul it,” Parker said, “just keep it in sight.”

Dick shook his head. If it died before the big boat got back to her, she’d have to haul it.

“How ’bout you, Schuyler?”

Schuyler said, “Elsie might miss something on board. She’s okay with the camera but not as good as me.” He brightened. “She could tuck her hair up in a cap. Look like a fisherman in a long shot.”

Elsie came forward. Schuyler asked her if she could handle the dory.

“Sure.”

Dick said, “Jesus, Elsie. This isn’t a salt pond.” He knew right off he shouldn’t have put it that way.

Parker and Schuyler rigged the outboard and put the dory over the side. Before Elsie got in, Dick took her by the arm.

“Look. You just keep the keg in sight. That’s it. If the fish dies, you may see some sharks. A lot of sharks. If you stay clear, there’s no problem. If sharks start tearing up the fish, don’t get in the middle of it.”

Schuyler offered to help her strap the second camera on, but Dick made her put her life jacket on instead. He ran his eye over the dory — oars, oarlocks, gaff, flare gun, water bottle. Schuyler put the camera in. Elsie cranked the motor and eased away.

“Don’t go too fast,” Dick shouted. “And don’t stand up!”

Parker veered off to head for the circling plane. Dick went aloft. He looked back. Elsie was an orange speck in the dory, the dory half hidden and indistinct in a trough. The keg blinked silver on top of a swell and disappeared on the other side.

Parker did better with the second fish. Crept up easy. Dick had a good shot, struck as hard as he could, trying for a quick kill. But the fish took off strong. Dick hoped it was just one good run. The keg kept plowing on.

When the fish slowed, it seemed to Dick it had been hours, but it was in fact only an hour since they’d put Elsie over.

Dick took in the keg and the line, got the tail gaff ready. Schuyler moved in close to him and was filming away. Dick glared at him. Schuyler said, “Don’t look at the camera.”

Dick looked at him again. “Fuck you, Schuyler.”

Dick got the noose on and ran it up tight. The fish lunged. Dick braced a foot and leaned back, almost sitting against the weight. Dick lifted the tail out of the water so the fish couldn’t swim, but he couldn’t swing him on board, not with this much life in him. He got him half up, his bill dangling down, rapping on the hull now and again.

Parker came back. “Maybe I’ll shoot him,” Parker said.

“Get the gaff,” Dick said.

Parker tried to set the gaff. The fish flipped himself in the air, almost horizontal. He swung back against the hull with a crack. Dick barely held on. The fish was half stunned.