Spartina Read online

  He looked down at the compass and got back on course. There was a good reason for leaving women onshore. Being at sea opened you up. And if you wanted to do things right, you had to use all that opening up for what you were doing, for where you were, for what was going to happen.

  Dick notched the engine up. He’d been lucky not to miss the skilley. He felt certain they’d see a fish tomorrow. He thought he should probably get Schuyler up to take the wheel the last hour before light, get himself a nap for an hour or so. He’d better use the wood shaft if the fish wasn’t too deep. He’d been lucky.

  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.

  Even 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.

  Parker laughed and said, “I’ll stick him again. He’ll knock himself out for us.”

  Parker tried again, got the gaff hook in. The fish struggled, but not so hard.

  “When I swing him in,” Dick said, “you keep his head pinned. Okay—up!”

  The barb of Parker’s gaff tore loose. The fish landed on deck. Dick stepped back, pulled hard on the pole of the tail gaff, trying to keep the fish straight.

  Parker stepped in fast and clubbed the fish’s head with the side of the gaff. Parker tried to step on the bill, but it came up and cracked his shin. Parker said “Son of a bitch!” and shoved the gaff into the fish’s mouth with his good arm. He gave it a twist and hooked the corner of the mouth when the fish swung his bill again.

  Dick clubbed the fish and caved in the side of the head.

  “I should have shot him,” Parker said. He rolled up his pant leg. “It ain’t broke. Son of a bitch.”

  Parker limped up to the wheel and got his ass up on the chair. Dick stowed the fish below, he’d gut him later.

  Parker raised the plane, which they could see way back where they’d come from.

  The pilot said the first fish seemed to be still going, still fast to the keg, the dory tagging along.

  Dick said, “Maybe we should’ve took our chances, just let the spotter find the keg.”

  “The plane can’t haul the fish,” Parker said. “Maybe she’ll scare off the sharks.”

  The boat was vibrating from the rpms and from smacking hard. Their wake was a ribbon of green and white.

  When Dick saw the dory it was turning in an arc. Then it stopped. He couldn’t figure out what had happened. He saw the keg floating in place. Elsie was breaking out the oars. As they got close, Dick saw a shark, then two more. Just gliding by the dory, still in wide circles. As Elsie rowed, the keg seemed to pull after her. Dick figured it out. She’d come in close and fouled the propeller on the line. That meant the swordfish was fast to the dory—unless Elsie thought to unclamp the outboard and chuck it. If a big enough shark started tearing at the swordfish, or if the swordfish gave a last run when it saw a shark, the stern of the dory would pull under.

  “You see that,” Dick said to Parker. “Pull up alongside the dory—we’ll haul Elsie.”

  Dick got a line, put a big loop in the end. Parker swung the boat in. Dick threw the line to Elsie. She caught it, but the dory slid away on the front of a swell. Dick paid out the line. He shouted to Elsie, “Sit down! Sit down and hold on!”

  Dick could see that part of the line to the swordfish was floating slack, but he couldn’t see the swordfish. He hauled in the line to Elsie. He shouted to her, “Put the line around you!”

  Elsie didn’t move. She was holding on to the line with one hand, with the other she was gripping the thwart under her. She turned her head to watch a shark glide by the stern.

  Parker shifted into reverse. The gap between the boat and the dory widened as the broad stern of the boat swung away. Dick didn’t dare haul in hard, he was afraid he’d pull Elsie off balance.

  “Elsie! Put the line around you!” She looked at him, and he shouted again, pantomiming putting his arm and head through a loop. Elsie looked puzzled. Dick put his end of the line around his chest. Elsie understood and pulled the loop over her head.

  The dory bobbed down in the same trough as the boat. Dick pulled in, the dory nestled alongside, and Dick swung Elsie up hard. She twisted in the air, holding on to the line with both hands, pulling her feet clear of the dory, then flailing them as if she was trying to run in air onto the boat. Dick got a hand on the loop and hauled her in over the side. She scuttled toward the middle of the deck and held on to the hatch cover.

  Dick looked for the line to the fish. The dory was floating away, but the keg was within reach. He leaned out with the boathook and got the line.

  There was a sharp crack, then another. Dick looked around, puzzled. Parker had left the wheel and was shooting at the sharks, the fore-end of his rifle balanced across his cast. He levered in another round and fired. Then another.

  “Parker, what the fuck …”

  “Get the fish, asshole. Get the fish before they eat the goddamn thing.”

  Dick hauled the keg, pulled in the stern of the dory, found the line on the other side of the fouled propeller.

  “Elsie, give me the tail gaff.”

  He hauled in the slack line. As the line came taut, he followed it with his eye and saw the swordfish. He saw the lily, the barb breaking back through the skin. Barely holding. Another fifty feet of line. He groped for the boathook with one hand and used it to shove the dory away.

  “Elsie, give me the tail gaff.” He turned around and saw her still huddled by the hatch cover. He looked around for the tail gaff, pointed to it. He got it himself. The swordfish came easily. Dick spread the noose, dipped it with one hand while he pulled the swordfish in the last ten feet.

  As he leaned down to work the noose around the tail, Parker stepped up beside him and jabbed the long aluminum harpoon shaft in the water. Dick saw the shaft go by his face, traced the shine of it as the blunt end hit a shark on the cheek. The shark wheeled away.

  Dick tightened the noose and pulled up with both hands. He couldn’t do more than get the tail up over the gunwale.

  “Hey, Parker.” Parker had turned away to get his rifle again.

  “Elsie, give me a hand.” He turned his head. “Elsie.” She looked up. “Hey Elsie, grab a hold.”

  She got to her feet and came over warily. He gave a heave and gained a foot and a half. He said, “Grab a hold of my belt and pull.”

  Dick hauled the fish, half-lifting it, half-sliding it over the gunwales. There was only one bite in it. A jagged piece of stomach and some shreds of intestine trailed out. There was a whole silvery baitfish sliding out of the torn stomach lining. The swordfish rapped his bill once on the deck, feebly. Dick finished him off. Looked the fish over. Two hundred pounds, two hundred pounds and then some. When he gutted it, he could tailor it so the shark bite wouldn’t show.

  Dick worked the lily out and hauled in the dory, got in it to fasten the lines to the davits. He got back on board. Schuyler was zooming in on the stomach of the swordfish.

  Schuyler said, “Can you throw some of the guts over, get some of those sharks to come back?”

  “You can if you want,” Dick said. “Or you can help haul the dory. If I do it by myself, I may dump that camera.”

  Schuyler lent a hand, retrieved the camera. He said to Elsie, “Did you get any shots?”

  Elsie laughed. “As a matter of fact, I did.” Dick looked at her. She was still pale, on the verge of crying. She was sitting on the edge of the hatch cover, rocking lightly forward and backward.

  Dick worked the fouled line off the propeller. It wasn’t cut too bad, but it would have to be replaced. Deduct forty bucks. He looked at Elsie again. Her whole body was moving like grass in a very light wind, shimmering with fear.

  He went over to her, put his arm around her shoulder. “I guess you saw some sharks,” he said. She nodded.

  “It’s scary,” he said, “but they weren’t after you. Don’t believe the movies. They weren’t after you, they wanted the fish. If you get that right, you won’t feel so nervous.”

  Elsie looked at him and nodded, her eyes still dilated and unfocused.

  Dick said, “The first time I saw a shark alongside, I thought he wanted me. I thought his fin was some kind of radar, telling his evil brain that I was his meat. But that’s just wrong. You understand?”

  Elsie nodded. Dick could feel her still rocking slightly. He didn’t think she knew she was rocking, it was just the light after-breeze of fear on her nerves and spine still stirring her a little, a silvery tip of spartina quivering.

  He got up. She caught his arm. He said, “I got to put our fish away. You did good. Parker and me ought to cut you in.”

 
When he finished with the fish, Dick was embarrassed. What in hell did he think he was up to?

  Parker had brought out a bottle of bourbon. Schuyler had been looking for sharks where the entrails had drifted off, but they’d disappeared.

  Elsie took a swig from Parker’s bottle. Dick took a swig and got a beer for a chaser. He looked up. The plane was gone. The sun was showing orange along the bottom edge.

  Dick tried to calculate the profit. The crabs would cover the fuel, and maybe the new line. Seven hundred for Elsie’s fish, maybe five hundred and some for the others. Twelve hundred. His split, maybe four hundred. And marlin steaks twice a week for the family for six weeks.

  It beat inshore lobstering and tonging. And he might have guessed light on the swordfish, maybe another thirty, forty bucks for his share. And Parker owed him a hundred for the stuffing box.

  He took another swallow of beer. Parker swung the boat toward the sun, homeward bound. Dick felt good. He saw that, as he was getting closer to his boat, there seemed to be more ifs and maybes, more cross-currents. He saw all that, but he was up for it. He’d fought clear of how bad things had been. He was pulling toward his boat in August. He felt strong, and he felt lucky.

  Dick took the wheel after supper. The other three sacked out. He throttled back to save fuel, rode easy across the long waves. By the time he saw land, the sun was down, the Matunuck Hills black against the sky. The water glistened jet and violet as he picked up the lights on the breakwater.

  Dick slept twelve hours. At noon he picked up the engine in Providence. Got it onto its bed by suppertime. The next morning he borrowed Eddie Wormsley’s flatbed and picked up another load of lumber. Worked from mid-morning till sunset. Eddie Wormsley and Charlie helped during the afternoon.

  He put in another full day, and then it was time to see Parker about going out again.

  If they had good runs every week, he’d have the boat finished by Labor Day. He’d have put in another ten thousand dollars. After that he needed another six or seven thousand for some more fittings, paint, RDF, loran. He decided to wait a bit before he got Joxer over and made his pitch to him.