Free Spartina by John D. Casey

not long. Anywheres from a minute to a half-hour. If I just barely get the lily in, it could go on and on.”
    “But can’t he swim faster than the boat?”
    “Not for long—not towing a beer keg.”
    “Ah.”
    Dick liked this conversation, his eyes looking far and near, their voices coming in from some far-off station. He half-realized, half-remembered that when he was out for a long time in his skiff he talked to himself. Usually chewing on something bitter. When he felt good, he didn’t say much. If he pulled a pot and got something worthwhile, he might say, “If they all came up like this, it wouldn’t be so bad.”
    He almost missed it. For a while he couldn’t find it again. He got a hint at the side of his eye and flicked toward it. Something. He yelled down to Parker and pointed. Parker headed the boat over.
    Elsie said, “Where is it?” Dick was on his way down, keeping the dot in view, so he ignored her. When he got out on the bow pulpit, they were three or four hundred yards off. Another minute and he saw it was too black to be a swordfish. Dick rechecked the keg, the line, the lily, the knots. He motioned to Parker which way the fish’s head lay. Parker swung the boat out in a curve, lined her up, and came ahead slow. It was a black marlin. Not too big. The aluminum shaft felt funny. Too late to get the wood one. He looked at the coiled line and keg, set his feet. Parker was letting the boat glide in. Dick felt the rail across his hips. He pressed into it. He raised up with the harpoon. The lily was way out front, a long waydown, it seemed to be floating away from him. The bow came down off the swell. Dick lined up the lily and the thickest piece of fish. He jammed it in. The fish disappeared. Dick wasn’t sure if he’d got it in until he saw the line pay out strong. He retrieved the shaft and got a grip on the rail in case he had to raise his feet. He got behind the keg and propped it up. The line peeled down to the last few coils. The keg went over, skipped twice, and then splashed through the top of a swell. Dick pointed to the keg in case Parker had missed it. Parker ground the engine into gear.
    Dick looked back and saw that Elsie was filming from the crow’s nest. Schuyler was leaning out over the side with his camera too.
    Dick shouted to him, “If you go over, we pick the fish up first.” Schuyler ignored him.
    Dick thought, I didn’t miss. I should have practiced some, but I didn’t miss.
    He said to Parker, “Skilley.”
    Parker didn’t mind. Schuyler stopped shooting, made his way forward. “What did you say?”
    “Skilley. Black marlin. Tastes as good as swordfish, but they don’t buy ’em.”
    “What’s the point, then? Just fun?”
    “Good meat. If we get him, we’ll cut some steaks. You’ll see.”
    The keg dipped out of sight, came back up. Dipped again, popped up.
    “See there,” Dick said. “He’s trying to get down.”
    Schuyler said, “Get down and boogie,” his eye still glued to the viewfinder.
    Dick hoped the lily was in good. It had felt right, but he couldn’t remember. Dick pointed again and Parker nodded. Dick let Parker follow the fish. Dick went to check the gaff, make sure the wire noose ran smooth. They seemed to gain some on the keg. It wasstill pushing up water like a nun in a strong tide, but it was slowing, definitely slowing.
    He took a deep breath and made fists to steady the flutter in his forearms. They were coming up on the keg. Dick got the boathook. He didn’t want to pick up the keg if the fish had another run in him. The line was still taut, the yard or so he could see giving off a green shimmer through the top water.
    Parker came up on the keg, kept it alongside. Dick saw the line go slack, tighten again, go slack. He waited until the line went really lazy. He put the hook under it, slowly raised an arc of it. He took in some line. Got the keg up. He glanced up at Parker to make sure he was with him. They slowly moved up the line,