Lobster Boy Page 7

  Yes, Mom. I promise.

  Tide carries me past the lighthouse.

  Put the light behind you and steer for the big red buoy.

  My dad said that the first time he ever took me out in the Mary Rose. Sat me on his lap and let me steer for the buoy. He was always doing that, explaining which way to go, what rocks to stay clear of, and where the channel markers were. So I know which way to go, once I clear the harbour. Flat east for thirty miles. Couldn’t be simpler. Just head into the sunrise, that’s where the fish are waiting. Piece of cake. Any fool can find the Ledge. Why not me?

  When I pass the big red buoy it sighs at me. That’s just air going up and down inside as it rides on the swell. But it almost sounds human, and mournful, like it thinks I’m making a big mistake. Maybe I am. But I can’t stop now. No way. For the rest of my life I’d be sick thinking on what might have been. Sick on missing my big chance.

  Think fish, I tell myself. Don’t think about how big the dark is, or how small the skiff feels, or how scared you are. Scared from the inside out, from the pit of your stomach to the tips of your fingers. The kind of scared that makes you tingle all over.

  Think fish. Big fish shining like a lighthouse, showing you the way. Big fish gonna change your life.

  Big fish, big fish.

  Thinking on that big fish so hard, I almost forget to check the compass. Lucky for me it glows in the dark, and I line up the “E” and stick to it.

  Trust your compass. That’s another thing my dad was always saying. Trust your compass because you can’t trust your instincts in the dark or the fog. Without a compass a man will steer himself in a circle, nine times out of ten. Give up on the compass and you’re lost for sure.

  Every once in a while I look back, and each time the lighthouse beacon gets smaller and fainter. After a while it’s only a glow on the edge of night. Then comes a time it ain’t there at all. Which means I’ve gone at least five miles. Five miles out to sea.

  Twenty-five miles to go. Should take three, maybe four hours.

  Nothing to it. Piece of cake. Nothing to be scared of, so long as I stay in the boat and trust the compass.

  Still, I keep thinking how much water there is. Black, black water. Water so dark and deep, it takes your breath away. Water so everywhere and all around, you can’t tell it from the sky, or the sky from the water, or whether you’re rising or falling.

  Don’t think about that. What does it matter how deep the water is? Think about steering east. Think about getting there. Think about big fish. Think about what you’ll do with the money. Think about the Mary Rose as good as new, and your dad as good as new, too, and Tyler Croft with the outhouse song dying in his stupid throat.

  Steer east.

  Steer east.

  Steer east and think about what happens when the sun comes up and the big fish rises.

  I’m steering east and pretty much over being scared to death when the motor up and quits.

  18

  What Happened to the Stars

  Nothing like a quit motor to put a lump in your throat. I got so used to the sound of it that the sudden quiet almost hurts.

  Ain’t just the quiet, though. Without a motor to push a boat along, the sea takes over and does what it wants. Soon as the motor quits, the big swells start to turn the skiff around. Turning me like the wind turns a leaf in a puddle, making the compass spin from east to west and round again. Feels like I’m going down the drain.

  This is bad, real bad.

  I yank on the cord. The motor sputters and dies. Yank again and again. Nothing. What went wrong? Could be a hundred things. Bad spark plug. A broken wire. A gummed-up carburettor. Maybe the miserable old motor finally died of old age – and no way to know for sure in the dark.

  I’m so mad and scared, I almost cry. Almost but not quite. Finally I think to check the gas tank, which I should have done right away. It’s bone dry! I switch the fuel hose over to the next tank, squeeze the primer bulb, and yank on the starter cord, thinking, pleasepleaseplease start.

  The old outboard sputters to life.

  Sweetness! Nothing sounds so pure and sweet as a motor running when you’re all alone in the middle of nowhere. Minute later I’ve got the skiff headed east again. East for the Ledge. East until the sun comes up. East where the big fish live.

  I look up, hoping to see the stars, but there must be clouds because the sky is as black as the sea.

  Nothing to do but trust the compass.

  You sure this is a good idea, Skiff Beaman?

  I don’t know. But it’s the only idea I got.

  Rule Number Three doesn’t mean risk your life. It never meant that.

  Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll stay in the boat.

  When you were little you were scared of the dark.

  Still am. Don’t matter.

  Had to leave the night-light on or you’d wake up crying.

  That’s when I was a baby.

  Remember what I told you: Being brave isn’t the same as being stupid.

  I’m not being brave. I’m just going fishing.

  Be careful, Skiffy dear. That harpoon is bigger than you are.

  I’ll be careful, Mom. I won’t do nothing stupid.

  It’s not like I think my mom is really talking to me. More like all the things she said are stored inside my brain and come out when I’m alone. Like I know what she’d say about stuff, and how she felt about things, and what she’d want me to do.

  Once when I was about six I did a cannonball off the dock. The water was way over my head and Dad had to fish me out or I might’ve drowned. After they dried me off, Mom asked what was I thinking, to do such a thing? I told her I was learning how to be brave. That’s when she said that thing about brave not being the same as stupid, and that before I could try being brave I had to use my brain and be smart.

  Life is a gift, she said, whenever I did something really dumb, like ride my bike no hands with my eyes closed down Spotter Hill on a dare. Life is a gift and you mustn’t just throw it away.

  So here I am in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, thinking about my mom and praying on the sun to come up soon. Thinking everything will be okay when the sun comes up. When the sun comes up there will be other boats out fishing for giant tuna, same as me. Get in trouble, all you got to do is wave your arms or make some noise, they’ll lend a hand.

  Once when my dad was out on the Mary Rose a storm come on sudden, and the swells broke out in whitecaps and he decided to head in early, just to be cautious. Then a cooling hose blew and he lost power and started to take on water. Dev Murphy saw him and towed him home, which ain’t easy in a heavy sea. Both boats got beat up by the storm, with windows broke and gear smashed and traps lost overboard. When I asked Dad if he had to pay Dev back he said that’s not how it works. Fish and you fish alone, every man for himself. But when one man gets in trouble at sea we’re all in trouble. We’re in it together, so you lend a hand and don’t think of what it costs, because the next time it might be you with a busted motor or a sinking boat and the waves crashing all around.

  Not a soul out here with me at the moment, though. Not even a bird in the sky. Ain’t really a sky you can make out, more a close-up darkness right over my head. Just me and my skiff and the sound of the motor putt-putting along, and the slap of black water on the hull.

  After a time the steep swells smooth out. Nothing to see but the compass. Keep the arrow on the big “E” for east, I know that much. Now and then I flick the flashlight beam out from the skiff, but it don’t catch nothing but water. Water so black, it sucks up the light.

  If you think you’re alone, try singing a song. Somebody’s sure to tell you to shut up.

  Not much for singing, Mom. Not like you.

  I won’t laugh, Skiffy, promise. Go on and sing.

  Can’t think of a song right now.

  Sure you can. Remember your favourite song when you were five years old? The fishing song?

  I do remember that song, or part of i
t, anyway. Momma’s going fishing, papa’s going fishing, I’m a going fishing, too. Dad bought me a brand-new pole for my birthday but wouldn’t give it to me until I learned that song. Trouble was, once I learned it I wouldn’t shut up. Sang that silly song until Mom said if I sang it one more time her ears would fall off. You promise? I said, because I thought ears falling off was pretty cool, and she got to laughing so hard, Dad had to pat her on the back. Sing it all you want, she said when she got done laughing. Sing it until it wears you out. What about your ears? I asked. I like my ears, she said, touching the earrings Dad gave her for their anniversary. I like my ears and I think I’ll keep ’em. Now you go on and sing.

  My voice sounds real small against the empty all around, but it feels good singing. Let the ocean know I’m here.

  “Momma’s going fishing. Papa’s going fishing. I’m a going fishing, too.”

  Sounds better if I hit the seat with my hand, keeping the rhythm. Wompa, wompa, wompa.

  “Momma’s going fishing! Papa’s going fishing! I’m a going fishing, too!”

  Trouble is, all I can remember is just that one line of the song. There’s something about a cane pole and a fishing hole, but I can’t find it. So it’s just as well there’s no one to hear me acting stupid. Boy in a small boat singing his head off, can’t even recall the whole stupid song. Probably think being all alone in the dark made me crazy or something.

  Maybe I am. Crazy, I mean. What a totally insane idea, take a boat this small offshore this far! What was I thinking? Even when the sun does come up I won’t be able to see land. How will I ever find my way back home?

  The compass, you fool. Stop your blubbering! You got a compass, don’t you? A good, solid compass from the Mary Rose. A compass that always got her home, even in the worst kind of weather. Catch your fish, Skiff Beaman, then head west. Head west for long enough and you’ll bump into land. Might not be the harbour at Spinney Cove, if the current sets against you, but it will be land. Sell that big tuna to Mr. Nagahachi and you can take a limousine home.

  Me in a limousine. The idea makes me laugh, and somehow that gets me off worrying myself to death. Shake my head to clear it and realize I been drenched in cold sweat. Soaked through to my skin. Or that’s what I think at first. Only I can feel the wet in the air as I putt along. It ain’t me that’s in a cold sweat, it’s the dark itself.

  Fog.

  That’s what happened to the stars, you knucklehead. Fog so thick, it melts on your face. Bad fog. Blind fog. White darkness. What they call a real peasouper.

  All I can do is pray for sunrise. Pray the sun will burn off the fog and let me see again. Because if there’s one thing scares me more than being lost in the dark, it’s being lost in the fog.

  19

  If Mist Made the World

  The sun comes up, eventual. It always does, don’t it? No matter how much we fret and worry the night won’t end, the sun comes up. But this time the sun don’t touch the fog. Too thick for that. Fog so thick, you can’t see the sun, only the light it makes. Kind of a dull white glow inside the mist.

  My dad says fog is just a cloud that comes down to eye-level. But clouds are fluffy and pretty and fog ain’t none of that. Fog is not being able to see where you’re going, or which way the waves are breaking. Fog plays tricks with your eyes. Shows you shapes of things that can’t be there. A floating castle. A pirate ship about to run you down. Monster things from your worst nightmare.

  When I was little I somehow got it fixed in my head that fog came from dragons. Must have seen it in a book, fire-breathing dragons, only I got it wrong and thought the dragons were breathing fog. Dragons that had scales like fish, and breath that smelled of seaweed. There’s still part of me believes that when fog comes in on the tide it means there’s a dragon waiting inside the mist. A dragon that will suck you into the fog so hard, you’ll never get out.

  Stop it, fool! Stop fussing about imaginary monsters and stuff you can’t touch. So you’re fogged in, so what? You can still see your boat and the water around it, can’t you? You can see farther than you can throw that big harpoon, that’s for sure. What more do you need?

  Birds, I’m thinking. I need birds. Birds is how you find fish. When fish make a commotion feeding on the surface, birds will circle over and dive. You can see the birds from a long ways off and know where the fish are. My dad says that’s how the first human caught a fish, by watching what the birds did.

  How can you spot birds in fog this thick? You can’t. Plain and simple can’t.

  After a while I stop fretting and settle down. Can’t do nothing about fog. It happens. You got to go with what you got. I got a good little skiff and a pail of bait and a finest-kind harpoon. Probably the first human had nothing but a sharpened stick or a piece of rock. So I’m way ahead, right?

  Right?

  Shut up and fish. Saw a tourist with that on his T-shirt once. Makes sense. Now or never, I’m thinking. So I pry the lid off the bait bucket and cut up some herring and drop it over the side. Cutting it fine so the fish oil will spread. We call it chumming. The idea is, attract small fish into the chum slick and the big fish will rise up to feed on the small fish. Sometimes it works and sometimes it don’t and you never know until you try.

  So I get to work, chopping and cutting. Fog? What fog? Oh that fog. Does it bother you? Heavens no. Love the fog. Hope it stays for ever. You hear that, Mr. Fog? Stick around and see what happens.

  I’m cutting up herring and dropping it over the side for most of an hour before I hear the first little splash. Splash like a pebble makes. Figure it must be my imagination, but then there’s another little sploink! And then a bunch more, like rain on a puddle.

  Come on, fish! Over here. Feed your way up the chum slick, all the way to my boat.

  Minute later, there it is. The nervous, zaggedy shape of a mackerel just beneath the surface, working the chum slick. Small mackerel, what we call tinker size. Maybe five inches long. Then another and another until there’s a whole school of tinker mackerel darting up to nibble on the chum, fighting one another for the pieces I been cutting up and dropping into the water.

  I’m grinning so hard, my face hurts. It’s working! And tinker means I must be pretty near the Ledge, where the big fish come to feed. Got the mackerel in my slick, come on big tuna! Come on and take a bite. Show me your fin and I’ll show you my harpoon.

  Only trouble is, I got just one bucket of herring. One bucket, that’s all I had room for, and already it’s halfway gone. So I start cutting even smaller, and putting less pieces in the water. Barely enough to keep the slick water shining with fish oil. The tinker don’t seem to mind, not at first. They’re having a fine time swarming in the slick, darting around like small, speckled rockets. Grabbing bits of herring and shaking it like dogs with a bone.

  “Hey, little fish. Stick around for the big fish, why don’t you?” Bad habit of mine, talking out loud to fish. Makes it less lonesome, hearing the sound of my own voice. “Come over this way, Mr. Mackerel, you missed a piece. Ooh, don’t let the bad boys get it! Fight for what’s yours! Go on and eat it before somebody else does, or before something bigger eats you. Good. Here’s another piece. More you eat, the bigger you’ll grow. Bigger you grow, the better your chance.”

  Try to pick out one particular fish for a conversation, but they’re swarming, so I keep losing ’em in the crowd. Can’t tell one from another. Which makes you wonder, can they tell themselves apart or do they think all together? Are there bully fish that take advantage, and weaker fish that keep losing out? Must be. That’s the way it is with most creatures, from what I can see. Birds, dogs, cats, and people, too. Which means there’s nothing original about Tyler Croft. He comes from a long line that goes all the way back to the mean molecule. Mean old Tyler ever heard me talking to fish, he’d have himself a good laugh.

  “Hey you! Psst. Yes, you. Funny-looking one with the pale spots.” I flick a little chopped herring on the water and watch it settle. Watch the skittis
h fish watching me, watching the chum, trying to decide what to do, eat it or run away. “That’s lunch,” I tell ’em. “Don’t worry about the bill, lunch is on me.”

  Fish scoots in, inhales the speck of chum. Fish scoots back into the school. Back behind the boat. Getting farther from the boat because I’m running out of chum. Trying to stretch it out, give the tinker just enough to stay in the vicinity and not a speck more.

  Come on, Mr. Bluefin. Can’t you smell the chum? Can’t you feel the baitfish feeding? Ain’t you hungry?

  Tinker stay in the slick for an hour or more and then blink! They’re gone, just like that. Like somebody flicked a switch.

  Gone. And with ’em any hope of finding a big tuna.

  I sit there inside the fog and curse myself for a fool. What was I thinking, bringing only one bucket of bait? Did I really think it would be that easy? Was I thinking at all?

  Answer: Mostly I was thinking about the money I’d get for the fish instead of how to get the fish in the first place. Like if I could only get out to the Ledge, it would happen automatic. As if a hundred boats didn’t go out every day and come back empty. Big, fancy boats with thousand-dollar trolling rods and gold-plated reels and radar and radios and fancy fish-finders and gallons of frozen chum. If boats like that come back empty, what can you expect from a plywood skiff with one pitiful bucket of salted herring for bait?

  Nothing, that’s what. And nothing is what I got.

  So there I am, drifting in a world made of white mist and feeling mighty sorry for myself when all of a sudden I hear a splash. Not a little tinker-size splash.

  A big splash.

  20

  Take My Breath Away

  First thing I do is grab the harpoon and stand up in the stern of the skiff. Trying to balance myself and the harpoon and keep my heart from pounding so hard, it makes my ears hot. All because of that splash. Sound of a giant bluefin tuna crashing into the water. What else could it be?