angry.
Mikey went back out into the fresh air.
He glanced up at the flying bridge. He could see only the top of Alison’s head.
He turned back and stood at the transom, watching the action of the lures in the wake.
Jumping, bobbing, diving, twirling.
“Come on,” he whispered.
They passed the half-submerged tree one last time. Mikey watched it fade away behind the boat.
The engines vibrated hypnotically in the floorboards.
Mikey’s eyes hooded over.
Bam! Bam!
Two screaming reels jolted him awake.
CHAPTER 13
MIKEY BOLTED TOWARD THEM.
The two rods bowed out over the transom, bobbing wildly, bent halfway to the water.
The boat lurched forward.
Mikey’s immediate instinct was to strike the fish. But Bill had told him he had to give the angler the chance to do it. Some fishermen played strictly by professional game fish rules.
He turned toward the cabin. Cal and Ernie were facing aft, wide-eyed. Bill was looking back over his shoulder, the throttle jammed full up, in effect striking the fish that way. He let the Crystal-C run ahead for two or three seconds, then brought her down.
The stern rose in the following wake.
Mikey grabbed hold of the port gunnel to keep from falling. The boat wallowed and rocked from side to side.
Two fish leaped full out of the water, two yellow blue mahimahi, one female, the other a huge bull.
Bill ran through the cabin. Cal and Ernie scrambled up, scattering cards over the table and floor as Mikey waited by the jumping rods.
Bill shouted to Cal and Ernie, “You want to strike them? Keep it official? Your call.”
“If it’s just a couple of your small fish, what’s to be official about? You do it,” Cal said.
Bill grabbed one of the rods and nodded at the other, the one Mikey’d set up. “Mikey! Strike him hard!”
Mikey unhitched the safety line, pulled the rod out, quickly increased the drag, and swept the rod back, once, twice. He could feel the hook sink deeper, feel it take hold. The clicker still wailed, the fish ripping line away. The rod jumped in his hands, jerking and pulling. Mikey spread his feet apart and braced himself. The fish stole more line, more and more and more.
In the corner of his eye, Mikey saw Bill striking the other fish. A second later Bill staggered back, the fish suddenly off the hook.
“Damn!” Bill said.
Mikey stood gripping the rod with his knees bent. The muscles in his arms and legs and back were tight and hard as rock. “Who’s taking this one?” he shouted.
Ernie scrambled into the fighting chair, motioning with his hands. “Come on, come on, give it to me.”
Mikey shut off the clicker and eased back on the drag tension with his thumb, then wrestled the rod back and set the chrome butt into the cup on the fighting chair.
Ernie grabbed the rig, one hand on the rod, one on the crank. Mikey could smell the sourness of Ernie’s sweat. “You want the harness?” he asked.
Ernie grimaced and shook his head. He sat leaning forward while the fish ran, taking more line off the reel. He had to stay cocked forward until it settled down.
Mikey glanced into the cabin to check the clock. Bill always did that. It was automatic. You wanted to know when a fish hit and how long it took to board it.
Bill and Mikey reeled in the remaining lures.
Mikey gathered them up. He looped the leaders and moved them out of the way.
“Ho!” Cal shouted. “Look at that puppy jump!”
Nobody seemed to care that the fish on Bill’s line had come off the hook. Mikey figured it was because they had marlin on their minds, not mahimahi.
The slowly rocking boat rumbled. Exhaust gurgled and spat off the stern. The sound muffled when the pipes sank low and grew loud again when they rose out of the water. Alison looked down on them from the flying bridge. Mikey stuck his thumb up.
She smiled.
Ernie fiddled with the drag until he found the tension that worked for him and finally got the fish slowed down.
He started working it, puffing and
Mikey went back out into the fresh air.
He glanced up at the flying bridge. He could see only the top of Alison’s head.
He turned back and stood at the transom, watching the action of the lures in the wake.
Jumping, bobbing, diving, twirling.
“Come on,” he whispered.
They passed the half-submerged tree one last time. Mikey watched it fade away behind the boat.
The engines vibrated hypnotically in the floorboards.
Mikey’s eyes hooded over.
Bam! Bam!
Two screaming reels jolted him awake.
CHAPTER 13
MIKEY BOLTED TOWARD THEM.
The two rods bowed out over the transom, bobbing wildly, bent halfway to the water.
The boat lurched forward.
Mikey’s immediate instinct was to strike the fish. But Bill had told him he had to give the angler the chance to do it. Some fishermen played strictly by professional game fish rules.
He turned toward the cabin. Cal and Ernie were facing aft, wide-eyed. Bill was looking back over his shoulder, the throttle jammed full up, in effect striking the fish that way. He let the Crystal-C run ahead for two or three seconds, then brought her down.
The stern rose in the following wake.
Mikey grabbed hold of the port gunnel to keep from falling. The boat wallowed and rocked from side to side.
Two fish leaped full out of the water, two yellow blue mahimahi, one female, the other a huge bull.
Bill ran through the cabin. Cal and Ernie scrambled up, scattering cards over the table and floor as Mikey waited by the jumping rods.
Bill shouted to Cal and Ernie, “You want to strike them? Keep it official? Your call.”
“If it’s just a couple of your small fish, what’s to be official about? You do it,” Cal said.
Bill grabbed one of the rods and nodded at the other, the one Mikey’d set up. “Mikey! Strike him hard!”
Mikey unhitched the safety line, pulled the rod out, quickly increased the drag, and swept the rod back, once, twice. He could feel the hook sink deeper, feel it take hold. The clicker still wailed, the fish ripping line away. The rod jumped in his hands, jerking and pulling. Mikey spread his feet apart and braced himself. The fish stole more line, more and more and more.
In the corner of his eye, Mikey saw Bill striking the other fish. A second later Bill staggered back, the fish suddenly off the hook.
“Damn!” Bill said.
Mikey stood gripping the rod with his knees bent. The muscles in his arms and legs and back were tight and hard as rock. “Who’s taking this one?” he shouted.
Ernie scrambled into the fighting chair, motioning with his hands. “Come on, come on, give it to me.”
Mikey shut off the clicker and eased back on the drag tension with his thumb, then wrestled the rod back and set the chrome butt into the cup on the fighting chair.
Ernie grabbed the rig, one hand on the rod, one on the crank. Mikey could smell the sourness of Ernie’s sweat. “You want the harness?” he asked.
Ernie grimaced and shook his head. He sat leaning forward while the fish ran, taking more line off the reel. He had to stay cocked forward until it settled down.
Mikey glanced into the cabin to check the clock. Bill always did that. It was automatic. You wanted to know when a fish hit and how long it took to board it.
Bill and Mikey reeled in the remaining lures.
Mikey gathered them up. He looped the leaders and moved them out of the way.
“Ho!” Cal shouted. “Look at that puppy jump!”
Nobody seemed to care that the fish on Bill’s line had come off the hook. Mikey figured it was because they had marlin on their minds, not mahimahi.
The slowly rocking boat rumbled. Exhaust gurgled and spat off the stern. The sound muffled when the pipes sank low and grew loud again when they rose out of the water. Alison looked down on them from the flying bridge. Mikey stuck his thumb up.
She smiled.
Ernie fiddled with the drag until he found the tension that worked for him and finally got the fish slowed down.
He started working it, puffing and
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