Barracuda

by Sigmund Brouwer

  It stunned him, and it took him a moment to figure out what had happened. Then there was a huge splash and the line on the reel began to strip with a high-pitched zing sound.

  Something had taken the lure. Something big. Something very big. Something so big it began to tow his kayak.

  TWELVE

  Webb was distracted for a moment by the roar of two huge helicopters sweeping over him from the southwest, headed northeast to the Atlantic side of the Keys. They were so low that he could see the pilots. The helicopters were clearly marked Coast Guard and painted white with distinctive red stripes at the nose, midsection and tail.

  The distraction didn’t last long. The choppers followed the curve of the horizon and were soon out of sight, and as the sounds faded into silence, Webb’s total focus was on the tip of his fishing rod.

  During the cruise along the highway, his grandfather had told him that the rod was crucial to reeling in a powerful fish. The technique, David had said, was to pull the tip of the rod toward the sky. As a lever, it would drag the fish the same distance closer to the boat as the tip of the rod covered while raising it. Then you would lower the tip of the rod and quickly reel in as much line as possible. It put the strain on the rod and away from the reel.

  Whatever was on the other end had the muscle to make Webb’s shoulders hurt. Each time he leaned back to raise the tip of the rod, it would bend almost in half, vibrating at the strain. Then he’d lower the tip and reel in the line.

  Again and again.

  At one point, the rod looked like it was going to snap in half.

  He needed to use drag.

  On the reel was a small button to adjust how much tension the reel could take. David had warned Webb not to put his thumb on the line where it wrapped around the reel. If a big fish went on a tear-away run, the friction of the line as it spun off the reel would burn the pad of Webb’s thumb.

  Webb adjusted the drag so that the fish could pull off line instead of breaking it or snapping the rod.

  The way to win, David had told him, was to make it as difficult as possible for the fish to pull line off the reel but without letting the fish snap the fishing line. The way to win was to let the fish tire itself to the point of exhaustion.

  With the drag set now so that Webb didn’t risk losing the fish completely, he went back to raising the tip and reeling as he lowered it.

  Each time he braced himself to lift the tip of the rod away from the water and the fish, it felt fractionally easier.

  Yes, the fish was tiring. It was no longer pulling the kayak.

  Webb managed to get the fish close enough for his first glimpse of the silvery torpedo. It seemed at least half the length of the kayak.

  At the same time, the fish must have seen Webb’s outline, because it had a burst of panicked energy. It rose in the air, trying to shake the hook loose, and when it spurted away with fishing line, it left behind a cloud of sand in the water, like dust in the air.

  Wow.

  Webb was patient.

  He knew he’d win the battle as long as he didn’t snap the line.

  Raise, lower and reel. Raise, lower and reel.

  Again the fish got within sight.

  This time it was too tired to do much more than a half roll.

  It should have been victory.

  Except Webb felt like a dog chasing a car. What’s the dog going to do once it actually catches a car?

  Webb had an idea.

  England had doubted Webb’s chances of catching anything without help. Before launching Webb in the kayak, England had sneered and told Webb that there were fishing pliers in the storage box, not that Webb would ever need them.

  But theory, as David often said, was often different than practice.

  In theory, Webb could use fishing pliers on the monstrous fish. In practice, he didn’t know how it was done.

  He had two choices. Cut the line and let the fish go free with a hook in its mouth. Or work the lure out so the fish could hunt for itself again when it recovered energy.

  Webb decided he would do his best to help the fish. He didn’t want a trophy for his bedroom wall. He did want a photo to remember the fish.

  Webb used his free hand to get his iPhone ready and then shot some video. He didn’t even know what kind of fish it was, other than big. His grandfather would be able to tell Webb.

  With that finished, Webb half turned again and found the fish pliers in the storage box.

  It looked simple enough.

  Clamp the teeth of the plier on the hook and turn the hook sideways to release it from the fish’s mouth.

  The fish flailed a few times as Webb reeled it in the last few feet, but not with enough strength to cause much more than a ripple on the water.

  That’s what lulled Webb into his mistake.

  THIRTEEN

  He thought the fish was tired to the point of death.

  Webb was holding the fishing rod with his left hand, using the tip of the rod to guide the fish alongside the kayak. With the plier in his right hand, he leaned down to get a firm grip on the hook. The fish’s large unblinking eyes were black circles, its teeth jagged little triangles.

  Webb squeezed the plier hard. The fish, he knew, was too big for him to lift out of the water. The best he could do was pull it up a few inches, and as he did that, he twisted the hook.

  The fish leapt high with all of its remaining energy, shoving the upper half of its body across the side of the kayak and flopping for a few seconds. It happened too fast for Webb to react, and just as quickly, the fish fell back into the water. With a few flicks of its tail, it disappeared.

  Webb noticed first that he was still holding the fishing lure in the teeth of the pliers in his right hand. That last huge spasm by the fish had torn the hook from its mouth.

  Webb noticed second the rivulet of red running down his left wrist.

  Webb noticed third the searing pain as he realized that the fish had slashed the soft flesh of his forearm with those jagged triangular teeth.

  Nice, he thought. He’d just lost a fight to a fish.

  He glanced at the shoreline. It looked like it might be a twenty-minute paddle to haul the kayak up on the shore near the cottage.

  He was bleeding hard. It didn’t seem like it could kill him, but it also didn’t seem smart to paddle and cause his heart to pump faster and push out blood faster.

  He raised his left hand above his shoulders, hoping that would slow the bleeding a little. With his right hand he pulled the first-aid kit out of the storage box behind him. He turned to face the front of the kayak again, feeling the warmth of the blood as it trickled down to his elbow before plopping in large drops on the kayak.

  It didn’t look like any of the adhesive bandage strips would cover the cut, which was a slash running the length of his forearm. There was a roll of adhesive tape.

  Webb had to lower his left hand and use it to cut strips of tape. He dipped his arm into the water, thinking the salt water might prevent infection. Red rivulets faded as the blood dispersed. He wasn’t worried about sharks catching a scent of his blood. The water was too shallow for sharks. He placed the strips of tape crossways on his forearm to pull the sides of the cut together. He wrapped his forearm with strips of gauze.

  They began to turn red as they soaked up blood, but it was the best he could do.

  He’d probably have to go to the emergency room for stitches, but he grinned as he paddled. If a guy had to have a scar, it was nice to have a story to go with it.

  But when he landed the kayak, that story didn’t seem worth telling. Because he found out that the helicopters he’d noticed right after hooking the fish had been headed out on a rescue mission. A boat had capsized in the Gulf Stream.

  Yeah.

  The boat that Webb and his grandfather had decided not to go on earlier that morning.

  FOURTEEN

  “Can you feel this?” The question came from Dr. Stones as she pinched the skin of Webb’s forearm. She wore
white, and she had faded red hair and a tired expression.

  Webb’s grandfather had not taken Webb to an emergency room at the hospital at Key West, a half hour or so down the highway. Instead, they’d gone across to Big Pine Key and found a walk-in clinic.

  Webb had his arm on a table, and the physician was preparing to stitch his forearm. David sat in the corner, quite relaxed. A small radio in the corner played soft music.

  “No,” Webb said. “Not feeling anything.”

  “I’ll get started then,” Dr. Stones said. “Let me know if I need to give you more freezing.”

  Dr. Stones began to peel off the tape that Webb had put across the slash. “You did a pretty good job of first aid on yourself. Good thing you had a video. That’s going to make a great story, getting attacked by a barracuda.”

  Webb nodded, trying not to show a grin of pride.

  Barracuda. He’d landed a barracuda. Yes, it would make for an amazing story. Might even impress Kristie.

  “You might not want to watch,” Dr. Stones said. “I’m going to put in as many stitches as possible. I’ll use fine thread, and with luck there won’t be much of a scar.”

  “Actually,” Webb said, as blood oozed from the slash, “I’m a little curious about this.”

  Dr. Stones had a J-shaped needle with nylon thread. Webb watched as she lifted skin and poked the needle through one side of the cut and then the other. It seemed no different than sewing clothing. Except that it looked like Dr. Stones had to push the needle hard to get through the skin. The point of the needle would make a little tent before coming through on the other side.

  “Huh,” Webb said. “I didn’t know skin was that tough.”

  “It’s an amazing organ,” she said. “Waterproof and self healing. Breathes and sweats. Drives me crazy when people don’t take care of their skin with sunscreen. Or if they abuse it by smoking.”

  Dr. Stones looked over at David. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough,” he answered with a grin. “But young enough too, if you’re looking for a walk along the bay.”

  “Ewww,” Webb said. “Really? In front of me?”

  Dr. Stones laughed.

  “Well,” she said to David, “whatever age I would guess probably isn’t close to your actual age. You obviously exercise and eat healthy. Your skin is glowing, and you should be proud of it.”

  “More proud of my grandson here,” David said. “I like how he didn’t panic out on the water. But it proves my point. We don’t have to baby our kids. We—”

  Whatever else David was going to say was interrupted by a voice from the radio.

  “News update,” the voice said. “The US Coast Guard has reported the successful rescue of all people on board the pleasure craft that sank earlier today in the Gulf Stream a few miles offshore of Marathon. Credit is given to the fishing guide who made sure all were wearing life vests. Still no word on what caused the boat to capsize.”

  The radio returned to soft music.

  “That was one of Jonathon Greene’s boats,” Dr. Stones said. “Didn’t you say you were here to visit him?”

  Webb nodded.

  She sighed. “I hear things aren’t going great for him healthwise.”

  “He doesn’t have long,” David said. “But he’s not feeling sorry for himself. It’s what happens. We live. We die. It’s what you do in between that matters.”

  “Amen,” Dr. Stones said. She popped the needle through another piece of Webb’s skin. “It’s why I became a doctor. To do something meaningful during the in-between.”

  “My grandson here thinks death is contagious,” David said.

  Webb lifted his eyes to his grandfather, who didn’t look away.

  “Greene is in his last hours,” David said to Webb. “He’s got no family. I know you don’t want to be there, but it’s only uncomfortable if you want to pretend it’s not happening.”

  David spoke to Dr. Stones. “It’s not Webb’s fault. That’s another part of babying kids. We hide death from them, try to pretend it doesn’t exist. Funeral homes are a billion-dollar business trying to shield us from reality. Bodies age and face the unexpected, like cancer. Death is part of life.”

  Webb flinched.

  Dr. Stones said, “That last stitch hurt?”

  Webb shook his head. He had flinched because of how his gut tightened with memories of his own dad in the hospital. He was getting angry at his grandfather, but this was not the place to express it. Actually, Webb thought, there was no time or place he wanted to share his feelings about his dad.

  “It’ll be my turn soon enough,” David said. Although his grandfather was speaking to Dr. Stones, Webb knew that David wanted him to hear it and was using Dr. Stones to speak to him. “I’ve had a great life, but I still have some things I’d like to do, and I hope it can happen.”

  “Bucket list,” Dr. Stones said. “Let your grandson help. Or grandsons. Didn’t you say you have six?”

  “Not a bad idea,” David said. “A bucket list to finish all the things I want to do. In the meantime, I’m enjoying as much time as I can with my grandsons.”

  What Webb wanted to say was that maybe one of his grandsons wasn’t enjoying it as much in return. Maybe one of his grandsons didn’t like someone trying to teach him life lessons. Maybe one of his grandsons didn’t want to talk about a dad or a stepfather. But when Webb was angry, he bottled it.

  So Webb took a deep breath and watched in silence as Dr. Stones finished the stitches.

  FIFTEEN

  When Webb and his grandfather sat on their chairs at Jonathan Greene’s bedside, the man seemed different than when Webb had first met him.

  Greene’s face was more hollowed, but the skin seemed tighter. His eyes weren’t clouded, but piercing. His wheezing had disappeared.

  “I’m ready,” Greene said. “I wish it was different, but I’m ready. I just need to tell you something first.”

  He reached out and clutched at David’s forearm as a spasm went through him.

  “I did something,” Greene said. “I was just a boy. Same age as your grandson now. Boys should be forgiven if they make mistakes?”

  “Boys or men,” David said. “If they try to make it right.”

  “It was the hurricane,” Greene said. “The big one. Nineteen thirty-five.”

  “Nineteen thirty-five,” David said softly.

  “Nineteen thirty-five,” Greene said. “I was born in ’22. Makes me thirteen when it happened. Just a couple weeks after my birthday. You can’t ever know what it was like. Dark. Rain. Wind. Waves. Monster waves blowing across the Keys. People tied themselves to trees just to survive. And the train. The locomotive. The wind just tore it off the tracks. Tore out the tracks. Entire bridges moved. It was the end of the railroad, and we didn’t know it until the next morning. The group of men the train was supposed to take back to the mainland? None of them made it.”

  Greene shifted his eyes to Webb. “A person always knows the right thing to do. Because it’s always the most difficult choice. Learn it now, not after it’s too late.”

  Tears trickled down Greene’s cheek.

  In that moment a new feeling hit Webb. Compassion. He’d been seeing Greene as a withered old man, not as a real person. A dying man to be pitied and feared. But seeing Greene so vulnerable and open, so in need of understanding…that’s what cracked Webb apart.

  It also gave Webb a sense of shame. His grandfather, from the moment they’d first seen Greene, had related to him as one human to another. Webb had been so wrapped up in himself, he hadn’t looked beyond to see that someone else needed help.

  Webb took a tissue and gently wiped some spittle off Greene’s face. His fingers trembled. He wished in that moment that he could have done the same for his own dad when his dad was in the hospital.

  “The next day,” Greene said, “we went out in rescue teams. Wreckage everywhere. We had dogs to help us find bodies. We listened for survivors. That locomotive was on its side in th
e water. Parts of the Keys had disappeared. Other parts were new. Channels were gone, new channels cut. It’s the most famous storm in Key history, and trust me, there was a good reason for it. The railroad was destroyed and never rebuilt.”

  Greene closed his eyes and let out a long breath. His chest rose and fell in a slower rhythm. He spoke with his eyes closed.

  “I was the one who found him. I knew who he was. His picture had been in the newspapers. He was a mobster. Rumrunner. Prohibition had ended, but everyone knew how he had made his fortune. He was under a big piece of lumber. A train tie that had been torn loose. He was weak. I think his ribs were broken. He couldn’t move the lumber himself. He had blood all across his face, covering his eyes. He couldn’t see me, but he could hear me.”

  When Greene opened his eyes again, he stared at the ceiling. It was as if he was alone, speaking to himself. “There was a satchel nearby. He promised me I could have it if I helped him. There were…”

  Greene took a deep breath. “There were wads of hundred-dollar bills inside. Diamonds too. A man like that—he didn’t come by that kind of money honestly. I knew that as soon as a man like was all healed up, he’d come and take it away. Even if I hid it, he’d do something to get it back. What I decided to do was run with the satchel and put it in a safe place, then come back and pretend I had just found him and that the satchel had never been there in the first place.”

  Greene groaned. “What I forgot about was the tide. I hid that satchel in some mangroves, and when I came back, the water was over his head. My fault. And that money—how could I tell people where it came from? Even if I lied and said I found it somewhere else, someone would find a way to take it from me. So I kept that satchel hidden for a long time, and later, after the war, I told people I made the money during the war, and then I used it to buy land. This big house? It’s mine because I let a man die. And now it’s my turn to die. If I could go back, I’d do it differently so I’d never close my eyes at night and see the water above that man’s face, waving his hair so gentle…”