The Battles of Rock Harbor

by J. B. Craig

  Their boat bumped against one of the not-so-rare bodies floating in the river. Samuel said “Greg, this one is a skinny one. Grab 2 of those red bricks in the bow and pass them back.”

  “I was going to ask you about that. You don’t need ballast on a crab boat, right?”

  “Nope, but you’ll see what I need them for.” Samuel said as he pulled a length of 550 para-cord out of his cargo pocket. He tied a fisherman’s knot, aka a noose, out of it, and pulled the free end through the holes in the bricks. He looped the noose around the body and looked at Greg. “Care to say a few words.”

  Greg nodded. “Lord, we don’t know this man’s religion, but it is my hope that he did more positive things than negative things in his life and has found his way to his version of heaven. May we all one day understand what you’re thinking, letting this happen to your world. I know we probably caused it ourselves, but you sure are testing us. In his God’s name, we pray you take him home. Amen.”

  “Strange prayer, Greg.” Said Sam, who tossed the bricks into the water. The body went more under-water, but still bobbed around a bit. “Here’s why I carry this machete.”

  Sam stabbed the body in the swollen part of its gut, and noxious gas spewed out. Greg threw up over the bow. “Oh, God. What the fuck, Sam?”

  Sam laughed a rattling croaking laugh. “Most times, the floaters are floating because of gas in the lungs or gut. I’m just helping him settle to his final resting place – down with the crabs. It’s the great circle of life. Hakuna Matata, Greg. That’s my prayer.

  “Wow, done this much, old man?”

  “Sadly, at least once per day. You see all those bricks, right? A big guy like you might be a 4-stone drop, even if I cut out the gas that you seem to be so full of.” Sam laughed out loud, and motored a few hundred yards farther out. “It may seem gross, but between the crabs and other bottom-feeders, they’re cleaning up the mess that we men made, and the fishing is the best it’s been in years!”

  Sam always brought back enough fish to at least get each community member a few ounces of meat. Greg thought he had a lesson or 2 to teach the old fisherman, though. “Sam, are we doing bottom rigs, spinning, or flies?”

  “Today, I think we each run a couple of double-bottom rigs. The croaker have been pretty hot lately.” Sam motored them out to the first deep channel, and they cast their rods in 4 directions. On the edge of the channel in both directions, deep in the channel, and out on the flats. These “probing casts” would let the men know what was happening where on this day.

  Within about 20 minutes, they had several croakers, who were running the channel, so most of the rods were in the channel. These large fish “croaked” when brought into the boat. Greg didn’t know the exact science of it, but Sam said it had something to do with vibrating their swim bladder. Neither knew if it was a warning, or mating call, but it was what every one of them did when pulled into a boat. The bigger ones would vibrate the hull with their croaks.

  Sam was visibly distracted by Greg’s inattention to the 4 rods. While Greg didn’t lose a single croaker, Sam did occasionally have to set a hook while holding a “Fish On” between his legs or in a rod holder. Greg had lived the 2-fish lifestyle, and knew Sam was not too bad off. Whenever Sam set a second hook, Greg would set his ultra-light rod down and grab a rod from Sam. Nobody would starve for Greg’s folly, but the tide, moon, and action he saw from some bait fish had him intrigued. He had been here before and was hoping that the déjà vu was telling him something.

  Greg’s Mitchell Ultra-Lite casting rod was his baby. It was rigged up with only 4 lb. line, and a #3 Mepps Aglia Black Fury. Sam had sniffed at the large spinner bait on such a light line. “You know, you hook a fish that takes that, you’re not going to land him, right. I’d go with a #2, it’s a smaller bait for smaller fish. You’ll catch lots of yellow and white perch with the #2.”

  “I don’t want lots of small perch – I burn almost as much calories cleaning them as I get from the tiny fillet’s. Trust me, old timer. This old dog has a few new tricks, if the stars align.”

  Between catching mostly croaker, some spot, and some perch on the bottom rigs, they also landed a few smaller catfish. The buckets were filling up nicely, and the crab traps would have fresh bait.

  Between bottom-fish hook-ups, Greg kept casting that #3 Black fury. He was hunting around the channel Markers, then would switch to the other side and try to hit the shoreline. After several casts, he got his first hit. The rod bent, and the reel started to unwind quickly. Greg set the hook and yelled “Fish On”.

  “Don’t play with it, Greg, tighten up that drag!”

  “The drag is where it needs to be with this line, Sam. This is my play rod, not my meat rod. Let me have a little fun. Hang on.” Greg pumped the rod and reeled it in. The fish ran, and Greg pumped and reeled. After about 5 minutes, which any fisherman knows feels like an hour, he reeled in the grand-daddy of all yellow perch. This was about 15” long, and fat with tasty meat. It wasn’t what Greg was going for, but it was the “Fish of the day”, or FOD, even though it wasn’t as big as some of the catfish.

  “Nice fish. Probably 2-2 ¼ lbs.” said Sam grudgingly. I’ve caught bigger, but that’s pretty good.

  “High praise, indeed, Sam.” Greg smiled and dropped the perch in the bucket. He had had the same stringer vs. bucket debate with Sam in the dining hall many times. “Too slow – keeps you from fishing.” It was Sam’s boat, so Greg dropped the perch in a bucket, but it was an empty bucket that he filled with fresh water. He wanted that Perch alive and kicking when he filleted it. Fresh Yellow Perch was good eating.

  A few more bottom rigs landed a few more fish, and the tide had changed. Greg was still casting back-and-forth between the shoreline and deep-water channel Marker. Just as the false-dawn was brightening the sky, Greg got a hit on the Aglia. And the rod did scream this time. This was not a perch!

  “Fish On – Holy Shit! Get the lines, Sam, start the engines, we’re going for a ride. The fish had already stripped of half of the line as it ran for deep-water. Sam pulled in the lines, grudgingly, and growled out a “I wasn’t quite done yet.”

  Greg kept the rod tip way up, with his arm up in the air, and the rod taking most of the tension. Sam started the engine and started following the fish without needing direction. Greg was grateful to have a seasoned fisherman with him. They chased the fish, as Greg reeled and pumped, trying to recover some line. He saw that he could see the glitter of the spool starting to show under the line.

  “I’m about out, but he’s slowing down. You got any more speed in this thing?”

  “It’s a crab boat, knuckle-head!” Sam cackled. Greg was reminded of his father, who used to call him that. For a few minutes, the weight of the leadership and defense of Rock Harbor was forgotten in the chase for a fish. He smiled with the sheer joy of simply fighting a beautiful fish. What looked like a striper jumped out of the water about 80 yards away, and both men laughed out loud.

  “Crank up the drag, Greg!” Shouted Sam

  “Shut up, Old Timer, and steer.”

  Sam Cackled again!

  “OK, it’s starting to tire. Greg reeled and pumped, and the line moved away from ‘between E and Oh-Shit’ and started to fill the spool again. The fish was tiring, and they were almost in the middle of the Potomac river.

  “I hope we have enough Gas to get back, Captain Ahab!” shouted Greg over his shoulder.

  “You land the fish, I’ll drive the boat!”

  Greg pumped and reeled. Sam cut the engine. “You got it from here, bubba.”

  All was going well until the fish got within 10 feet of the boat and saw it. The fish got another burst and ran out some line – but not most of it. Greg pumped and reeled, adrenaline making the night breeze cool his sweat. He didn’t notice, because Adrenaline is a fun drug that way.

  Greg slowed down the fish and brought it back to the boat. This time, it was turning sideways on top of the water, still twitching its tail, bu
t exhausted. He was at the point that many good fishermen know as ‘I’ve got it if I don’t screw up!’

  “Now you can crank up the drag, Son. It’s going to get light soon. We need to evac.”

  “OK. You’re the boss, but tweaking the drag mid-fish always burns me. I don’t want people on both sides of the Potomac seeing that we have a motor boat, either.” Greg turned up the drag a bit, and the fish came towards the boat. When it was 2 feet from the hull, it made one last run away from the boat, and SNAP.”

  Sam had anticipated it and was behind it with his long-handled net.

  “Look what I caught, Sonny!” Cackled Sam. “Shame you lost the FOD!!! Wait until I hand this baby to Ethyl! I’m eating good tonight.”

  “Thanks for the save, Sam! I told you about the drag.”

  “I knew that, I just wanted to be sure you knew it. You changed your philosophy under duress. Don’t ever do that. You have good instincts and shouldn’t doubt them.” Sam scolded. “Hell of a fish though. Good thing I saved this lure, because I’m keeping it. Mepps Aglia Black Fury #3. Thanks for the tip!”

  “Not like you’d catch anything with those meat-hooks you call fishing rods. Sure, they make it easy to land, but the ultra-lite with a heavy spinner lets you really get it out there, and you need light line, because the big fish got big by being smart – and line shy. They see the heavy lines on the water and won’t take the bait.

  Sam reached under his seat, took out a 2-piece ultra-light and had it ready to go in about 5 seconds. On the end was a Mepps Aglia #3, but not the Black Fury model! “The only credit I’m giving you is for fishing with a black fury at dawn. I figured out the rest of this game myself years ago, Son. Don’t let your head get too swollen!”

  The fish in the net was, to Sam’s estimation, about a 35 lb Striped Bass. Enough to feed most of the community one of the rare treats of the river, the Striper. “You’re almost 20 lbs from the state record, so don’t get all cocky… But on a 4 lb line? Nice job, son. I’d fish with you any time.”

  “I’d have never landed it from my rowboat. Thanks for the assist – both of ‘em!”

  “I usually catch them with the bottom rigs, and much heavier line, but damn, son… that was a Hoot! My hands are shaking from the adrenaline. You know, you’re not as dumb as you look, numb nuts. Now switch out the water on these buckets, while I drive your ass home.

  Greg spent the 10-minute ride home dumping water out of the buckets with a bailing tool and refilling it with fresh, aerated river water. The tool was the top half of a Clorox bottle, with the lid screwed on, but the bottom of the bottle cut off. It had a handle and could scoop over a half-gallon at a time, easily. “Well sure, old goat, if you have someone to refresh the water, the buckets aren’t so stupid.”

  “Why do you think I need to fish with a first mate?”

  Greg looked over his shoulder, as they approached the Mansion dock, and flipped off the old sea dog. “You don’t suck too bad, old man. Thanks for the memories.”

  “That night, at the community dinner, Rockfish with mixed garden herbs and stuffed with jumbo lump crab was on the menu. Sam asked the ladies to make bread with the dwindling supplies. With olive oil that hadn’t turned yet, and spices for dipping the bread in, it was probably the best meal Greg ever ate, and the food wasn’t even the best part.”

  “I told the damned fool that 4 lbs. was too light, and if I hadn’t been there with the net, he would have lost our dinner!” Sam regaled the crowd with “his version” of the fight, but never mentioned that Greg increased his tension. To his credit, Greg never mentioned Sam’s 2-piece ultra-light that he kept hidden under his bench seat. He thought of Carlos, and his death in the first attack. He bet that Carlos knew about Sam’s “dirty little secret.” Looking at Sam, he locked eyes, and would almost bet that Sam knew what he was thinking.

  Like most older brothers, or fathers, Sam spent the evening roasting Greg, but the pride in his eyes was apparent. Greg thought back to his mom who lived right on the in Arizona. She was pretty sick, and he doubted She’d have made it without air conditioning. Since she was a good shooter, and kept a Glock 19 in her house, he figured she’d either be safe, or go out blaze of glory if there was rioting in her area. She was on many medications, including insulin and couldn’t walk a mile without having a heart attack, on a good day. He had subconsciously blocked out that part of his family. He would miss her and mourned her tonight. However, he also gained something else tonight – more family.

  He had no idea of his Father’s situation in Vermont, but he knew that he would be able to survive in his cabin, as he was a classic prepper, and prided himself on “living off the land”. It was fun to visit him at Salmon fishing every year, but his Dad took coolers full of fish home, while Greg practiced catch and release with the Salmon. He didn’t like the taste, and Great Lakes Salmon wasn’t exactly prized seafood. He tried to visit his father a few times at the cabin, but his did seemed pretty uncomfortable having guests in his cozy little 450 square foot log cabin. Greg could count on his dad to bring some good Venison, and occasionally bigger game to the River every year. He loved his Dad but could only take him in small doses.

  Greg took the razzing and hoots at Dinner with a sense of satisfaction that he hadn’t felt in a long time. They were treating him like one of the group, without any regard for “Rank”, whatever that was in this community. They were coming together as a new family, and it brought a tear to Greg’s eye to think about all his family that he knew, or suspected were lost. Greg looked at the ancient Scottish “Tree of Life” that he had tattooed on his arm. It symbolized life everlasting, with leaves falling to the ground, only to turn into fertilizer, growing new leaves in the Spring. He didn’t know if that was the official Scottish interpretation, but it was his, and Tattoos were not about what others think. They were intensely personal.

  Greg recalled the first tattoo he ever got, at 45 years old. A few days after her birthday, his daughter came up to him with all the moxy she could gather and said “Dad, I’m 18. I’m getting a tattoo, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “Reeeeeaaaaaaalllly?” he asked, with a sarcastic Jim Carrey voice.

  “Yes, I’m a grown up, and you can’t stop me.”

  “You’re right, Maria. I can’t. But can I pay for both of us to get our first together?”

  After her jaw came up off the floor, and she thought about what his angle might be, she said, “Um, I guess.” She told him how she researched the safest, cleanest, highest rated tattoo parlors in Marietta, and he believed her, because she was prepared for a long argument.

  “Look, Kiddo. When I was 17, after my Mom told me no to some stupid request, I told her ‘I can’t wait until I’m 18, so I can get out of here!’ Her reply to me was ‘I don’t care how old you are, get the fuck out!’. I’m not going to get into a pissing contest with you, and I’ve always wanted a tattoo. I just didn’t know what was worth it. A tat with my daughter would be an epic story, and worth it, so can we go now?” He asked to her surprise and shock.

  “No, we need to make an appointment!”

  “OK, book it any time except during these few times when I have meetings. I’ll leave work for this, absolutely. How much were you going to spend?”

  “Um, I saved up $150. I have some ideas in mind.”

  “OK, Maria. You go first and keep your $150. Your budget is $300, because I don’t want your first tattoo to be a piece of shit.”

  “Daddy, I love you!”

  Greg looked back to this day, where he got “Daddy” instead of “DAAAAADDD”. Possibly for the last time ever. He had tears in his eyes and a smile on his face.

  “You OK, Jefe?” Angel elbowed him, but had a look of concern on his face.

  “Just thinking about Mi Hija, Manito” (Spanish slang for my daughter, and little brother). “I won’t be OK until she is here with me. But don’t worry, I’ll live. He said as he caressed the Makai fish hook tattoo on his arm. His daughter got a s
imilar tribal version of a fish, as she wanted to both respect her name, and the man who gave it to her – Greg the fisherman.

  Greg’s leadership lesson on the day of the tattoo was that there are sometimes when you can fight and lose. Or you can think outside the box, seize the opportunity, and create a win, and a damn good story, out of an imminent loss. All it takes is ceding some power, without letting your ego get in the way. Oh, and buying your daughter shit that she had saved up for will always make you a little more bearable.

  Greg tuned back into Samuel, still telling his fishing story, at Greg’s expense. Greg had to admit that Sam made it funnier than real life. Greg remembered a saying of his Uncle, another old Scottish sea dog: “Never let the truth get in the way of a funny story.” The crowd was digging it, and everyone got several good laughs in.