Bonefish Blues (3 page)

“Barbeque okay?” Will broke the silence as he pulled into the parking lot. 

“Oh, sure.” 

The place was quiet. Thursday nights in November were slow. The summer crowds had left and the snow birds would not start arriving until after Thanksgiving. They ordered ribs, filled their soda cups, sat down and ate. They didn’t talk much as they plowed through the food, watching the end of the game as Georgia rolled Vanderbilt 42-7. “Do you even drink?” Matt asked, watching Will sip his iced tea.

“Sometimes, but nothing good comes of that. Learned that lesson a long time ago. I’ll have a beer once in a while, but …” He stopped.

“Yeah, I know. My dad drinks too much.” Matt’s eyes teared. He got up, took both trays and dumped them in the trash, turning away so that Will would not see his face. 

“Staying with your mom?” Will asked as they pulled back out on the road.

“Supposed to be with my dad this week, but he’s drunk and mad. My mom said when he got like that I should stay with her. She’s trying to get the custody thing changed, but she says my grandpa has too much clout here.”

“No worries. I’ll run you over there.” Matt watched the road as Will turned off US1 toward the Gulf side. The houses were dark, vegetation taking over many of the yards. Twice he hesitated and had to ask Matt for directions. After several turns they pulled into a small driveway. The house stood on wooden stilts, clapboard siding in need of maintenance, probably built in the 1950s, like many of the houses in this area. A light was on in a back room. 

Will paused, then turned to Matt. “Hey, you good? I’ll wait till you get in.”

Matt opened the door and got out, “Thanks for the ride and dinner,” he said as he closed the door and went for the stairs, wishing he could talk to him more about his dad. 

“Hey, hang in there,” Will called after him.

Matt walked the unlit path to the stairs. A security light came on as he hit the first tread illuminating the steps and front porch. Before he reached the top, the door opened and his mother appeared in a bathrobe. Matt went to her for a long hug.

***

Will saw the tears roll down her attractive face, illuminated by the security light, and watched as Matt went in. The woman remained, squinting past the light at him. She put up a hand with a finger extended, asking him to wait, and then went inside, the door closing behind her. Will sat in the truck, wondering what she wanted, not wanting to get involved. Matt talked about her occasionally, but he’d never met her. 

Then the door opened and she reappeared. He watched as she walked down the stairs and followed the path of the headlights to the truck. The bathrobe was gone; in its place she wore tight jeans and a low cut white t-shirt. The tears were gone as well, and her auburn hair was brushed. 

He rolled down the window as she approached. “Hi, I’m Will.”

“I know,” she said. “Matt talks about you all the time. Thought it was time to meet you.” She leaned in toward him with a smile, close enough for him to smell the freshly applied perfume. “I want to thank you for looking after him. His dad’s not very responsible.”

Will looked at her his silence prompting a response.

“Okay, he’s an irresponsible ass. Anyway, my name’s Nicole,” she smiled again stepping back slightly, turning her hips so he could see her body.

He couldn’t help but notice and eyes on her breasts he blurted, “I’m Will,” realizing he’d already introduced himself he tried to recover, “But, I guess you know that.”

“I’ve heard good things from Matt about you. Maybe I’ll see you around some time ~ thank you for looking after him,” she said. Before he could say anything else, she leaned into the car and kissed his cheek, turned and walked away.

The sway in her walk kept his attention as she went up the stairs. The door closed and he backed out of the driveway. The roads were dark and he missed the turn, his mind preoccupied. Finally back on the main street, he drove toward the glow of lights marking US1. He turned back toward the Gulf side and went half a mile before turning again. Several turns later, he pulled up to a gate with an old building permit box next to it. The farm gate swung unevenly as he opened it, pulled the truck through, and went back to close it. 

The house was dark as he pulled up past several piles of construction materials. Built on concrete piers, the cinder block walls were waiting for stucco, but otherwise the house looked finished. Driftwood beams and fascia accented the windows and doors setting the house apart from the other cookie cutter houses. He admired his work as he walked upstairs, using the flash on his phone to light the way. The unfinished, hand made door opened into the dark house. Still holding the phone for light, he went to a hurricane lamp and lit the wick with the lighter sitting next to it. The light glowed brighter as the wick sucked oil, soon illuminating the room. 

The kitchen was off to the left, with hand planed cypress cabinets installed. The counters were still plywood sheets. A small propane refrigerator sat next to a camp stove in the spaces where the permanent appliances would go. The rest of the room was open, with a bare plywood floor. Cypress beams and planks highlighted the ceiling, window and door surrounds. Part carpenter - part fisherman he had done all the woodwork himself. Carpentry was a passion, much like fly fishing but where he could find work as a fishing guide he had trouble finding work as a carpenter. His reputation for insisting on doing only custom work and doing it his way turned people away; people always liked what he did, but didn’t want to pay the artist price tag. He opened the french doors, which led out to a deck. The Gulf was visible through the hand carved boards in the railing, waves shimmering, lit by the quarter moon. The small Honda generator started with one pull, and several lights flickered and then came on as the generator evened out. 

The house was ready for paint, and had been for a while. It was livable now, with the exception of the power situation. He had water and gas, but he was at odds with the power company, who had turned off his temporary service when his permit had expired last year. They refused to hook up permanent power until he had a final occupancy permit. He was capable of doing the rest of the work, but unlike carpentry he had little interest. 

At the table, he waited for his laptop to boot up. The old operating system took time, and he thought about Nicole while he waited. It had been a long time since a woman had shown interest in him. Finally the home screen showed, and he opened his email, hoping a charter had booked for tomorrow, or at least he had an inquiry. There was nothing there, though, so he closed the cover, turned off the generator, and went to bed.

He lay awake unable to sleep. Though he lived in the capital of mellow, he thought he had less ambition than most. Sometimes, though it was his passion, he thought there had to be more to life than catching fish on a fly. Maybe he should do meat charters, or take a real job, at least put enough money in the bank to finish the house, get a girl, start a family. Finally he drifted off to sleep alternating thoughts of the tarpon he had released and Nicole’s kiss.

Chapter 4

With no charter for the day, and the weather favorable, Will paddled toward Flamingo Key, a small hump in the distance. Sunlight danced on the small ripples of the Gulf, the water not quite flat calm, but dappled with small wind waves. He paddled easily through the early morning slack tide, his paddleboard sliding through the water. Sunrise was his favorite time to be on the water, before the heat and activity of the day set in. He looked behind him every few minutes, checking the fishing line trailing behind the board. Every so often, a flats boat cruised parallel to them, usually respecting the paddlers and leaving enough distance so that their wakes would not effect them. 

Next to him in a kayak was Roc Bennet, a contractor friend. Roc tagged along any chance he got, trading advice on fishing for help with Will’s house. Both men knew who came out better on the deal. Roc got to fish with a guide once or twice a week, and it had been more than a month since Will had even asked for advice or any help with his house. 

It was a five-mile paddle. He planned these trips around the tide changes and wind — both enemies of the paddlers, especially Will on the stand up board. But he’d come prepared. His board was outfitted for fishing, utilizing a milk crate bungeed to the front and a cooler behind him. The rod was in a holder screwed to reinforcement in the deck. 

They stroked easily, talking quietly as they paddled. Will wanted to say something about the scene at the dock and meeting Nicole the night before, but thought better of it. Roc was a trusted friend and sounding board, but this felt too much like gossip. He hated the coconut telegraph, as the locals referred to the gossip channel prevalent through the Keys. One too many times, he had been on the wrong side of it, usually at Cody’s doing. 

He had grown up with Cody. Through high school they ran in different circles; never friends, but never enemies either. After graduation, Will had seen and heard of Cody’s exploits, but through their twenties and into their thirties they had no contact. Working as a carpenter during the week and a mate for fishing charters had allowed Will to save enough to buy his own boat and take a shot a being a charter captain. Cody had never amounted to much. Old man Braken had bought him the Grady White and shuttled clients his way whenever he could to supplement the off the books kind of work he had him do on the side. From the first glimpse of recognition that day on the docks several years ago when Will pulled up in the slightly used Action Craft there had been tension between them. Maybe the competition, Will thought. Maybe because Matt gravitated towards him rather than his father.

Instead, he and Roc talked football, fishing, and the inevitable slow economy. Both men had been adversely affected when things went south several years earlier. The building industry was just now getting back on its feet, five years later, and fly fishing was still way down. These days, many fishermen preferred to try and offset the cost of the charter with a freezer full of fish. 

Suddenly the reel on his board spun. 

“You’ve got something!” Roc yelled.

Will turned and looked at the rod, which was bent over, line spilling off the spinning reel. He set the paddle between his legs and carefully turned on the thirty-two-inch-wide board until he could sit on the cooler and reach behind him for the rod. Once in hand, he tightened the drag, slowing the line, and held the rod high. 

“‘Bet it’s a ‘cuda,” he said as he started to reel. Although not good table fare, the foot-long barracudas that prowled the flats were fun to catch. It didn’t take him long to reel the fish to the boat. Rod held high over his head, he reached for the line and grabbed the leader a foot above the fish, then set the rod back in the holder and reached for the pliers clipped to his belt. The steel jaws clamped down on the hook and he shook the fish off, careful to avoid the teeth, which could take a finger off. 

The fish had interrupted their conversation and they paddled the half hour to Flamingo Key, the only sound the paddles dipping in and out of the water. 

“Set up over there,” Will called to Roc, pointing to a clump of mangroves a hundred feet off. “Go in about fifty feet and cast toward the deeper water.” He pointed to the darker line of water running parallel to the Key, then waited until Roc was set up, and watched for a few minutes as he started casting, double hauling, and letting more line out with each cast. 

Satisfied, he paddled toward the point of the Key closest to land. It was a hard channel to fish, but the rewards were great. It wasn’t very often a charter client was skilled enough to fish the tricky interplay between the wind, current and tide here. He had better luck with the novices where he had Roc set up, on the leeward side of the Key and out of the wind and current. He reached around for the fly rod and started casting, the board drifting in the current. He got four casts off with no fish before he had to put down the rod and paddle back up current. It took five drifts before he hooked a nice bonefish. Several more followed, all released.

The rod was back in its holder and he was about to check on Roc when he saw the boat barreling directly toward them. He winced when it passed a shallow sandbar; they were either very lucky, or the captain knew the sandbar was only passible at high tide. It was close enough now to see the shape of the Grady-White. What was Cody doing running over that bottom? The waters of the Gulf side were riddled with banks and shoals, many unmarked. 

Wary of the intruders, he paddled around the Key, just out of sight, and watched from the cover of some mangroves as they approached. The wake reached him just as the boat slowed, and birds flew screeching from the mangroves as the waves crashed against the shore. The only noise now was the idle of the motor and the waves hitting the sand. Then he heard the voice.

“Look at it? Freakin’ paradise. Great flats, not too far out, and the clearing in the center would be perfect for a half dozen houses. You could put a dock over there and power up the whole enchilada with some solar cells and a windmill,” boomed the voice.