He turned in one story for the Thursday paper and filed the rest of the articles away in his “pending publication” file, which was almost empty. Ray felt good about his work for the first time in a long while. He noticed with some satisfaction that since he had started writing with Victoria in mind, his style had improved dramatically. After the new editor, who cared about nothing but word-count, had taken over he got lazy. Writing for a discriminating reader forced him to slow down and consider his choice of words more carefully. He knew he was back in his groove when he found himself struggling with an awkward sentence, which he copied down on a piece of paper and diagrammed the way his junior high English teacher had taught him to do.
By Thursday afternoon, he was more or less finished with his work for the entire week. He called Marcella to confirm their plans for Saturday. He noticed that her calling card listed only her name, cell phone number and email address. It did not give a physical address. Her cell number was evidently an old one because the area code was from Atlanta. Marcella answered, and they chatted for a few minutes. Based on the weather report and tide chart, Ray calculated that the best time to go fishing on Saturday would be early in the morning. He asked her how early she could be ready.
She laughed, “It will probably surprise you to know that I am a very early riser. I'm always up by 5:00 a. m. at the latest. Do you want to go out and watch the sun come up on the water?”
He made a face even though they were speaking on the phone, “Actually, given the changeable channels in the canals I have to go through to get from the marina to the Gulf, I generally don't like to go out before daylight or stay out after dark. Call me a chicken, but I am not thrilled about the idea of hitting a sand bar in the dark.”
“That's an understandable concern. What time is sunup?”
“6:07”
“How about we plan to take off about 6:30. That way we'll beat the Saturday rush of boat traffic.”
“Works for me. Shall I pick you up?”
“No. I'll meet you. Where do you keep your boat?”
He gave her the address of the marina. She added, “Do you want me to bring snacks and/or lunch?”
He said, “No. This is my treat. What say we snack for breakfast. I'll bring some granola bars and coffee or whatever. We'll fish until we either have enough fish to cook for lunch or we're too hungry to continue. If we have a good catch, we can go back to my place and throw it on the grill. If we don't catch anything, there are a couple of fish-camp type restaurants in the vicinity of the marina that serve excellent local seafood. Either way we can have fresh catch for lunch.”
“That sounds great. I'll plan to meet you at the marina around 6:15. I'm looking forward to it.” She paused. “Oh, by the way, I have my own poles. Are we going into the Gulf or are we staying in the intracoastal?”
Ray said, “That depends entirely on the winds and the weather report. My boat is a 21' open bow runabout. I only take her out in the Gulf on days when it's not too wavy and there is absolutely nothing on the radar. As I said, I'm a big chicken.”
“Not a chicken. You're a man who's lived his entire life near the water and who understands the risks. What kind of gear to you use?”
“I have a relatively light pole with sort of medium-weight line. That way I don't tire out my arms holding up a heavy pole, but I can bag some pretty decent sized fish, if I were to get lucky, which I never do. I'll have a couple of deep sea poles on board in case conditions are right for us to go off-shore, but we'll probably stay close in. It's a good time of year for redfish, if you like that.”
“I like almost any kind of fish. I'll see you on Saturday.”
On Friday, he cleaned the boat from top to bottom, checked the line on all his poles and got everything squared away for a day on the water. On the way home, he stopped at the store for snacks and water. He bought a large thermos so he could take enough coffee for both of them. He had noticed that she enjoyed a couple of cups of regular coffee after dinner: the hallmark of a fiend. That was something they had in common.
On Saturday, he got up about 5:00 a. m., packed the cooler and checked the weather report and radar one last time. Everything looked good. The winds were expected to be calm. It was cool in the pre-dawn hours, but shortly after dawn the temperature was supposed to rise to the high 70's and later in the day into the 80's. For a second he stopped to remember his boating expeditions with Deborah. She didn't fish, but she loved being out on the water. She would sit quietly for hours on end, occasionally reading, but mostly just soaking up the sun and enjoying the beautiful scenery. He shook his head and tried not to think about her.
He arrived at the marina a few minutes after 6:00 a. m. He kept his boat in out-of-water storage, but if he called ahead they would have it in the water, at the dock, gassed up and ready to go. She was tied up at the dock, ready to go. He checked out the boat and the poles, and sat down with a cup of coffee watching the finale of the sunrise and anticipating the new day coming to life. As much as he loved the drama of sunset, there was always something about daybreak that thrilled him.
He didn't notice Marcella approaching until he heard her laugh. He looked up, startled, and she said, “You look like the picture of contentment. The title of the painting could be: 'Man in a boat with coffee, smiling'.”
He chuckled, “Yeah. I guess the prospect of a day on the water is always a thrill.” He looked at her. She was carrying what he could tell was a very good fishing equipment, but not the extravagantly expensive stuff he had expected. Her tackle was the kind of outfit really good anglers used. She was dressed for fishing, too. He was sure her clothes were expensive designer stuff, but they were obviously comfortable and perfect for fishing. Incongruously, she was wearing an old beat-up slouch hat that made him want to laugh. There was clearly a story there. He continued, “Especially when I plan to spend the day with a pretty lady in such a lovely hat.”
She laughed, and then stopped before stepping on the boat, raising her eyebrows, in the timeless manner of sailors, seeking permission to board. He held out his hand in a welcoming gesture and she stepped on the boat like someone who had been around boats her entire life. She grinned and touched the brim of the hat, “Isn't it just the loveliest thing? I never go fishing without my lucky hat. It's a superstition, but I have to tell you, it works. I am about the luckiest fisherman, er, woman around. Prepare to be amazed.”
“That's good, because I have lousy luck. I can be right in the middle of a huge school of fish, with folks all around me catching them like crazy and I'll go home empty handed. My dad always told me the problem with me was I let my mind wander.”
She shook her head. “That is the deadliest sin in fishing. Concentration is key.”
He fired up the engine and nodded. “I know. I know. And I try. It is just so hard for me to concentrate on the water and my line when the scenery is so beautiful and there are so many stories rattling around in my otherwise empty head to distract me.”
She smiled, “There are some writers who are good fishermen, and they often turn out some awesome fishing stories, but I imagine most writers suck at fishing for that reason. You're too distracted by the interesting stuff going on inside your head to pay attention to the fish.”
“You're probably right. What about you? What distracts you?”
“Absolutely nothing. When I am on the water, I am totally focused on fishing.”
“Sounds like we should have a real fun day.”
She laughed and said, “Sorry. Maybe I should have warned you....” She stopped suddenly and, like a snake striking, grabbed a net, “There. Look. A school of perfect bait-fish.”
He swung the boat around to put the nose directly in the school facing the opposite direction from which the school was headed and cut the engine to idle. Marcella leaned forward and in one smooth and graceful movement dipped the net into the school of fish. When she raised the net, it was full to over flowing of quivering silver bait-fish. She could barely hold it up. Ray op
ened the bait bucket and she dumped in the haul. Ray whistled and a said, “Good eye.”
She smiled, and for the first time he saw her eyes light up as well, “Oh, my dear man, you ain't seen nothin' yet.”
She was absolutely right. What followed was six hours of the most incredible fishing he had ever witnessed. She was not familiar with Sarasota waters from first-hand experience, but he soon learned she had spent most of the week reading fishing reports on the Internet and she had studied a navigational map of the area. She may not have fished Sarasota before, but she was an unsurpassed expert angler and she was prepared. That proved to be more than enough. After a very short time, he simply drove the boat to where she told him to go and then helped her haul in her catch. He did very little fishing of his own. He was too enthralled with watching her.
At one point, he simply sat back with a cup of coffee and stared at her. He knew she wouldn't notice because she was concentrating with her mind, body and soul on the point where her line entered the water. He recalled that newspaper articles usually described Marcella as “attractive”. That was often a sort of journalistic code-word for a woman who may not be technically beautiful but who fixes herself up well, usually at considerable cost and and often with artificial enhancements.
He looked at her carefully, smiling to himself and wondering if those same reporters would use that adjective at that moment, what with her standing there in the bow of his boat, with fish blood smeared on the front of her pants and sweat running down the backs of her legs. Several tiny fish eyes were stuck on her vest. Her hands were slimy from the gore in the bait bucket. Her hair was pulled up under that big, floppy hat, but a few strands had escaped to fly around her face and curl up on the back of her neck. She must have tried to push some of that stray hair back under the hat because he noticed she had a little smear of fish blood on the back of her neck. He thought to himself, “attractive” was not an appropriate desription for Marcella. She was freaking drop-dead gorgeous!
He tried to shake that thought from his head, but at that very moment she had a bite. He could see her entire body tense for a second and then her arms went up and she flicked the rod to set the hook. She smiled and he heard her whisper, “C'mon, baby, let me see you.”
Ray watched transfixed for the ten minutes or so she spent fighting the fish. She fished with not only her body and mind. She fished with her soul. She talked to the fish. She talked to her fishing gear. She seemed to have forgotten Ray was even there. If there had been any doubt that Marcella Wilson had spent at least a large part of her life, probably her entire childhood, near the water, it was put to rest that day. Wherever she was from, Ray knew the fishing was good.
After a while, she whooped, “Look at that sucker!” She reeled fast and smooth and brought the fish along side. Ray grabbed the net and a gaff, not knowing what kind of fish it was.
He leaned over the side and whistled, “Holy smoke! That is the biggest red fish I have seen in long time.” He netted it and pulled it in the boat.
Marcella picked it up and said, “What do you think? Five pounds?”
Ray nodded, “Oh, at least.”
She grinned, her face glistening with sweat, salt water and joy, “That's lunch!”
Ray nodded, “And dinner, as well as fish dip for tomorrow.”
He put the fish in the cooler, which was almost full. He said, “Ma'am, I salute you. I have fished with some wonderful anglers. Since it is well established that I suck at fishing, I usually do what I did today: I drive the boat and help pull the catch aboard. You are the best I have ever seen.” He took off his hat and bowed.
She was sitting in the bow of the boat, sweaty and smeared with fish gore, but to Ray she looked like Guenevere on her throne. She inclined her head and accepted his salute. He half expected her to raise her hand in a kind of blessing. She said, “Speaking of lunch. I'm hungry.”
“I'm not surprised. I may have to feed you lunch. After all you caught this morning, I'd think your arms may be too tired to lift the fork to your mouth.”
She laughed. “I think I'll be able to manage.”
He turned the boat around and headed back toward Sarasota. They were quiet most of the way. He found that odd. He usually felt it awkward to be quiet with someone he didn't know well. He and Marcella did not seem to need to fill up the silence. When they pulled into his slip at the marina, she helped him clean the boat. They needed assistance from a couple of guys hanging out on the dock to get cooler up on the dock. A couple of fishermen who knew Ray followed them to the fish-cleaning tables. One old salt remarked, “Well, well, Raymond, looks like you finally figured out the secret. Since you couldn't catch a fish if it jumped in your boat, you found yourself a lady-friend who can fish. Very smart.”
At that very moment, Ray opened the cooler and the old guy added, “Holy shit! Can that lady fish!” He turned to her and said, “Any time Ray is busy, I'll take you out for free.”
She laughed but didn't answer.
Ray started to clean the fish. Since he didn't typically catch many fish, he did not have a lot of experience cleaning them. He was a little nervous with so many people standing around watching. Marcella cleared her throat and said, “Why don't you let me do that?”
Ray looked at her, astonished, “You clean your own fish?”
“Damn right I do. I have rarely met a mate anywhere who can clean fish better than I can. Outta my way.”
She pulled a knife from a sheath at her waist and then proceeded to put on a virtual clinic on how to perfectly clean fish. Her knife flashed as fish after fish was cleaned, skinned, filleted and bagged with a speed and efficiency that drew a crowd. When she finished her exhibition the fishermen applauded. She rinsed her knife and her hands and started to wash down the cleaning table. Ray took the hose away from her and said, “At least, let me do that.”
She handed him the hose and he washed down the table. When he was finished, he heard Marcella giggling. He turned around and looked at her. Her arms were bloody to the elbow and she had bloody streaks running down her legs. She took off her shoes and said, “Perhaps you should turn that thing on me.”
He laughed and said, “You look like a crime scene.” He squirted her legs and she bent over so he could rinse her arms. She dried herself with a beach towel and threw it over her arm. “I'll sit on this in your car to avoid getting the seat nasty.”
They loaded their poles and their catch into the trunk of his car and headed for his house. When they pulled into the driveway, she looked down at herself and said, a bit sheepishly, “While you're getting the fire going, would you mind terribly if I use your shower. I promise to clean up after myself, but I'm starting to smell really bad and it's going to get much worse very fast if I don't apply some soap and water soon.”
“Absolutely.” He led her directly to the bathroom, pulled out some clean towels from under the sink. He asked, “Do you want a sweat suit or something to put on so you don't have to put on those dirty clothes?”
She shook her head and held up her large tote bag. “I brought a change of clothes. I know myself to be a very messy angler.” She shooed him out of the bathroom.
He unloaded the car and started the gas grill on the deck. In an amazingly brief time, she walked into the kitchen grinning. Her hair was wet, pulled back in a pony tail. She had on no makeup, and the lines in her face showed her age. Her khaki crop pants and black shirt showed off her excellent figure without being too revealing. Ray thought she was very beautiful.
She looked around the kitchen. He was heating oil for hush puppies. He asked, “Do you want fries or should we have veggies?”
“We're grilling the fish. Let's grill some veggies. Fried hush puppies are of course crucial. I happen to make outstanding tartar sauce. Why don't you shower, and let me take over here.”
Without even thinking about it, he simply did as she suggested. As he stepped in the shower, it crossed his mind that only a few minutes earlier she had been there, naked. He put
that thought out of his mind as soon as it bubbled up.
He showered, changed and returned to the kitchen. She had whipped up a bowl of home-made tarter sauce and was mixing up a batch of hush puppies. He watched her without saying anything. She minced a small onion and put about half into the batter. Then she pursed her lips and looked at him, “More?”
He smiled and nodded, “Oh, yeah.”
She dumped the rest of the onion in the batter and then reached for the cayenne pepper. Once more she looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“Just a tad.”
She sprinkled in a little heat and stirred the lumpy batter ever so slightly. She turned to him and said, “I'm not much of a grill cook. My fried fish is like nothing you've ever tasted, but I have never learned the knack of grilling fish. Why don't you man the grill and I'll do the inside work.”
“That sounds good.” He picked up the plate of fillets and headed for the door. Then he turned around and put a few pieces on a plate. “If you're so handy with the Fry Daddy, how's about tossing a few of those in there with the hush puppies for a little variety.”
“Sure. I noticed in the fridge you have the cole slaw made. Do we need anything else?”
“I'll slice some onions and zucchini for the grill and throw on the fish at the last minute. I think that will do us.”
“Do you want tea or beer?”
“What would you prefer?”
She smiled. “After a day on the water like that? What do you think?”
He went into the garage where he had a second fridge. He came in with two bottles of beer. He set one on the counter in front of her, and took the other along with the plate of fish and veggies out onto the deck.
Less than half an hour later, he came back into the kitchen. She had the table set, and was taking the last batch of fish out of the fryer.
He set the platter of grilled fish and vegetables on the counter and picked up her beer bottle. It was still nearly half full, but it but it was warm. He emptied it in the sink and fetched each of them a cold one from the garage.
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