A Second Chance in Paradise (10 page)

I
popped one open, took a swallow, lit a smoke, and savored a familiar feeling of excitement as the powerful engines labored beneath my feet.

It was a windless evening, the air thick and humid. The
southern sun was creeping toward the western horizon, and as far as I could see in that direction the calm water and wide sky were both turning a surreal pink. To the north, near Marathon, there was a small gathering of thunderheads. But they were a good ways off.

A few minutes later
The Island Belle
slowly made its way up the channel toward the Wreckers Key Bridge. Carefree and jovial, all the men were horsing around by giving each other a ribbing. But as we closed in on the bridge’s tall pilings, all of that came to an abrupt stop. I could
feel
everybody’s high spirits taking a sudden nosedive. There was a long row of newly-planted survey stakes running along Flagler’s Key shoreline. For five minutes not a word was uttered. I may have been a newbie, and didn’t have as strong a tie to the island as the other guys, but I too felt a profound sense of loss. During the silence I tried to imagine how the Bell’s must have felt and what they might be thinking. The ambiance was funereal – as if the four good buddies were gathered around the grave of a recently departed fifth friend
.

It wasn’t until after we had motored under the bridge, and those wooden stakes were out of sight, that Jackie Beers finally broke the silence. Sitting in his wheelchair, inside the cockpit next to Pa who was at the wheel, he tried to elevate the mood by saying in a good-natured tone, “
Okay, Sonny boy, we all kicked in for gas and I covered your end. How about forkin’ over a ten spot?” I stepped over to them, pulled out my wallet, and handed Jackie a ten. As I stuffed the billfold back in my pocket, I glanced at Pa Bell. Staring through the windshield as if he detested what he saw on the other side of the glass, he turned the boat north then slammed the throttle lever all the way forward. The boat lurched hard, and in nothing flat the hull was up on plane – hauling along the ocean’s surface. Nobody said another word during the run up to Bahia Honda Channel.

In the waning light, j
ust before turning into Bahia Honda Channel, Pa again suddenly swung the boat hard, seaward, to avoid a surfacing loggerhead. The turtle was huge. Probably five feet in length, and its head looked like a coconut floating on the ocean’s surface; a green, unripe coconut. Spooked by the boat, it submerged back into its silent world as quickly as it had appeared. With the creature out of harm’s way, Pa then expertly swung
The Island Belle
back to the port side and slowly brought her down off plane. Minutes later we were idling beneath the old Bahia Honda Bridge.

As he killed the engines
Pa looked to the north, but not very far. We were much closer to those storm clouds now than we were when leaving Wrecker’s. And they were still drifting toward us. A cloud-to-ocean lightning bolt lit up the sky as well as all the faces in the boat. Hurriedly, Buster lowered the anchor.

“
Let’s get the baits in the water.” he said, yanking a thumb at the grumbling thunderhead. “Maybe we can get an hour in before
she
busts loose.”

“
You sure it’ll hit us?” I asked.

“
She’ll be here,” Pa said, as a great blue heron glided by us on its way to find a safe roost. “Grab a mullet and hook it through the lips,” Pa said, looking and nodding at me.

“
They’ll stay alive longer in the strong current if they’re held head-first into it,” Buster added. “Allows water to enter their mouth and pass through their gills.”

J
ust as Jackie, Fred and I lowered our wiggling baits into the seemingly black, nighttime water, the boat began to rock a bit. In an instant the wind had picked up and the water became ruffled. I lit a cigarette and took a sip of beer. Then something startled me.

My eyes jerked down to the big reel in my left hand. The spool was revolving quickly, line ripping off faster and faster in erratic tugs. Then, about twenty yards out, the hapless mullet at the end of my line suddenly broke the surface. With the cabin lights illuminating the area around the boat, I could see the frantic fish out there trying to stay airborne for fear of what was under the water beneath it. As I watched I could also hear the doomed bait-fish
’s small splashes out there as well. Then there was another splash – a loud crash really. It looked like a small bomb had exploded! Water flew in all directions as a hundred-pound-plus marine acrobat blasted the surface.

Propelled by its foot-wide tail, the
tarpon immediately dove to deeper water. Gently, I thumbed the revolving spool to prevent it from back lashing. It took every ounce of discipline I could muster not to set the hook. But I knew the big fish needed time to turn the mullet headfirst in its cavernous mouth before swallowing it. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, I could feel my hopped-up heart caroming off the sides of its ribbed cage. Ten, twenty, thirty more yards I let it swim. Then it came time. I engaged the reel’s spool, let the line yank the rod tip almost all the way down to the water then reared back. Three times in succession I jerked the rod, hard, putting my back and shoulders behind every yank. The needle-sharp hook struck home. It penetrated the powerful fish’s boney jaw.

“
I got him! I got him!” I hollered to the others as the silver monster catapulted from the water somewhere out in the darkness. A second later it landed back on the surface, and it sounded like a full grown man had belly-whopped from the bridge. Again water splayed everywhere – this time beyond the glow of the boat’s lights. Way out there in the black, moonless night, the splash created a spectacular light-show of neon phosphorescence. Then the huge fish sounded. It dove deeper and deeper into the eerie depths of the channel. Straining now to hang onto the bouncing, bucking rod, I felt as if I had a crazed mustang tied to the business end of the line.”

“
Way to go!” Jackie shouted excitedly, spilling some of his beer on his pants.

“
Keep the tip up,” Fred coached, “just like you’re doing.”

I didn’t say anything, neither did Pa or Buster.
Calm as could be, they both just watched me. Over the years they had seen thousands of fishermen under pressure. Now they were assessing the way I handled a rod. It was important to me that I impressed them. Real sport fishermen, like all true sportsmen, take deep pride in how well they perform when they do the one thing they are most passionate about.   

The mighty fish jumped a few more times then took off like a runaway freight train again. Up to this point I
’d been cranking the reel with my right hand, supporting the rod with the other. My left forearm felt like it was pumped-up to twice its normal size. Each time the tarpon had jumped it shook its massive head so hard that the rod tip jolted frantically from side to side. Nevertheless, I thought I had things pretty much under control. But then things changed. My heart stood still when I felt the fish’s broad, swishing tail slapping the line as it sounded once again. Then there was nothing. The line went slack. I was sure that the tarpon frayed the monofilament line and had broken free.

“
He cut me,” I said, “unless he’s coming in.”

“
He is!” Buster yelled out in a rare display of excitement. “He’s comin’ towards us! Reel! Reel like hell!”

Then Pa chimed in,
“He’ll jump again. That’s when he’ll throw the hook – unless you get that slack out. Crank! Keep crankin’!”

With my palms and fingers wet with
perspiration, it was tough to keep the reel’s handle from slipping out of my grip, but I managed. And I kept reeling like a madman. Little by little, I brought in the slack until I’d recouped most of the line. Finally I could feel the fish’s weight again. Beads of sweat streamed my forehead and cheeks, dripping off my chin. My breathing was heavy and rapid.

“
He’s going to jump!” Fred Sampson bellowed above the torrential rain as it pummeled the water all around us.

“
Be sure to bow the rod tip toward to him,” Buster added, “when he breaks the surface!”

Silently, we all watched the line as it lifted out of the cresting waves. The fish was rushing up from the depths. With my bent knees now leaning against the side of the boat for support, I
was struggling to keep up with the fish but kept reeling and reeling. I thought all the hard work and excitement would never end. But that thought was a short-lived. What was about to happen would instantaneously clear
all
our minds.

Not ten feet from
The Island Belle’s
stern the fish erupted from the water. Up, up, up – water flying everywhere, the creature rose like an angry silver missile. Its entire body cleared the surface and it shimmied and danced atop its sweeping tail.  

“
Would ya look at that?” Jacky Beers shouted as his wheelchair bumped into my leg.

Right before our eyes, the huge fish suspended itself in the thick humid air. We were so close to it we could clearly hear its massive gills rattling like two loco castanets. Frantically, like a berserk bulldog, it was shaking its head from side to side. Certainly it was trying to throw the hook, but it seemed to be saying to me,
“No, no, no, no! You’re not going to win this battle.”

It was an incredible performance. Watching this prehistoric gladiator, its glistening sides armored with silver dollar sized scales, was an event I
’d never forget. I didn’t have time to stop and think about it, but this was one of those amazing images I would be able to pull from my memory for the rest of my life. A picture I’d visualize with life-like clarity.

Finally the tarpon lost out to the law of gravity and
it fell – headfirst in our direction. It landed so close to the boat that all of us got a warm saltwater shower. Wiping the spray from his face, Buster said, “I’ve seen ’em land in boats before. I know lots of guides who’ve had bow rails bent, and worse, from big tarpon.” Those last words no sooner left his mouth when thunder boomed and the brightest network of spidery white lightning yet lit the entire sky.

“
Hell of a cooker comin’, Sonny. You better get this fish in soon,” Pa said.

“
Then we’ll make a run for it,” Buster added with a hint of concern in his voice. “We just might be able to beat this storm back to the dock.”

The fish was tiring. No longer was it making any desperate runs. Instead, it swam slowly in shrinking circles on the surface before us. Leaning back on the rod, I steadily led it toward me. When I got it alongside the boat the old fish tried one last trick. As if suddenly injected with adrenaline, it tried to dart under the
 boat. Quickly, it yanked the rod tip into the sea water below. I pulled back once again – harder than any other time during the encounter. Finally, he stopped. I’d managed to prevent the line from scraping the hull. But for a few more seconds it was still a standoff – him fighting for his freedom – me fighting just for a moment’s glory. At last, I pulled the fish out from underneath and back alongside the boat. It just laid there exhausted, on the surface, its broad tail waving slowly like a white flag after a battle.

At that exact moment the rain started to fall. Heavy drops the size of dimes started pelting me, the rest of the men, the fish, the boat and the water. As if someone in the dark heavens above had thrown a switch, a blustery cool wind howled in out of the north. Buster grabbed a gaff hook
from the recessed storage area in the gunwale, turned his Redman cap backwards on his head so as not to lose it then glanced over his shoulder at the approaching storm. The tarpon was still on its side, head first in the current; its spirit not broken, but its body exhausted.

With a gloved paw, Buster reached over the side and grabbed the leader just beneath the swivel
. Gently, he slid the gaff into the fish’s lower jaw and lifted it partially out of the water. We all leaned over the side, assessing it in awe. It was a giant of its species by any sportsman’s standards.

“
I’ll bet she’d go one-eighty; one-eighty-five,” Buster said as the rain came down even harder.

“
That’s one goliath of a fish,” Jackie slurred, as he gave me a light, celebratory punch in the shoulder.

Still leaning over the side and holding the line, Buster said,
“Sonny, get those pliers outta my sheath and pull this hook out.”  The long blond hair beneath his cap now lifting wildly, he appraised the position of the fish hook.

I grabbed the pliers, and removed the five-aught hook by rocking it side to side and pushing at the same time.

“Turn around you guys,” Pa then said, standing behind us with his hand protecting the lens of a Pentax. We all turned; Buster hoisted the fish high as he could, and the camera flashed – along with another bolt of lightning. Hurriedly, Pa put the camera back inside the cockpit, and Buster leaned back over the side. As he lowered the “silver king” back into the water, big waves – seemingly angry waves slammed one after another into the side of the boat. Rocking hard as we were, Buster had all he could do to hold the fish headfirst in the current.

With the rain and wind now coming at us with all the force of a tropical storm, the boat was really rocking and rolling. Pa had had enough. He turned over the engines then bellowed above them and the wind,
“Come on! Let’s get the hell outta here!”