A Sea Too Far

by Hank Manley

  A Sea Too Far

  Hank Manley

  AuthorHouse™

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.authorhouse.com

  Phone: 1-800-839-8640

  © 2012 Hank Manley. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Published by AuthorHouse 7/9/2012

  ISBN: 978-1-4772-2859-3 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4772-2860-9 (e)

  ISBN: 978-1-4772-2861-6 (sc)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911260

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Contents

  ~1~

  ~2~

  ~3~

  ~4~

  ~5~

  ~6~

  ~7~

  ~8~

  ~9~

  ~10~

  ~11~

  ~12~

  ~13~

  ~14~

  ~15~

  ~16~

  ~17~

  ~18~

  ~19~

  ~20~

  ~21~

  ~22~

  ~23~

  ~24~

  ~25~

  ~26~

  ~27~

  ~28~

  ~29~

  ~30~

  ~31~

  ~32~

  ~33~

  ~34~

  ~35~

  ~36~

  ~37~

  ~38~

  ~38~

  ~39~

  Other Books by the Author

  Fiction

  Bahama Snow

  Bahama Payback

  Bahama Reckoning

  Coral Cemetery

  Fundamental Behavior

  Vengeance

  A Legacy of Honor

  The Iron River

  The Isle of Women

  Non Fiction

  A Grand Quest

  Beyond the Green Water

  Tales of a Life Upon the Sea

  Dedication:

  A Sea Too Far is dedicated to my four grandchildren. Stephanie Manley is approximately the age of Mary Read. Zack Powers, Henry Manley and Devon Powers are approximately the age of Warren Early.

  Special Thanks To:

  Gretchen Manley for her tireless proofreading and helpful suggestions.

  Regina Fink for her initial impetus to encourage me to plow through the difficulties I was experiencing getting Warren past the hurricane.

  Kyle Fink who read several of the initial iterations and helped with the two crucial beach scenes.

  ~1~

  Conchshell knew the hurricane was coming before anyone else on the island. The young blonde Labrador stood nervously on the beach with Warren Early, her fifteen-year-old master and friend. She looked to the southeast, pointed her majestic head into the minimal breeze and sniffed the heavy, salt-filled air. The dog sensed the slowly descending pressure and instinctively knew it forebode a serious weather change and approaching ill winds. The faint vibrations of enormous storm waves crashing on the shores of distant islands tickled her paws through the damp sand and filled her with dread.

  A deep growl of worry rolled from her throat. Conchshell’s rough tongue smoothed the yellow hairs around her snout, and she barked twice in concern.

  “What is it, Conchshell?” Warren asked as he knelt beside his dog and scratched the backs of her ears. “What’s the matter, Shelly girl? Did you see something out there?”

  The day was splendid. Not a single cloud marred the brilliant, azure sky. The crystal clear, shallow water stretching two hundred yards from the sandy shore matched the eighty-five degree temperature of the moist air. To the young boy’s human senses, no coming threat was detectable.

  The early afternoon sun pounded over the shoulders of Warren Early and his dog. The unruffled water revealed every secret to their young but well-trained eyes. Several orange starfish were visible lying peacefully on the bottom. Small green cucumber corals and tiny purple sea fans waved in the tide along the edge of the deeper slough. Three pink-lipped queen conchs slumbered in the current. A small stingray shrugged the sand from its back and swam leisurely across the flat in search of a sumptuous crustacean to eat.

  A flicker of silver caught Warren’s eye forty yards in the distance. Sunlight flashed from the wagging tail of a nose-down bonefish rooting in the bottom for a crab.

  “Did you spot that bonefish before I did, Conch?” Warren asked in a low whisper. “Is that why you barked? You’re getting good at this, Shelly girl.”

  The boy stooped to reduce his shadow in the back lighted condition and held the seven-weight fly rod in front of his chest.

  “Stay quiet, Shelly girl,” he cautioned as he flipped the sparkly, tan and white, number four, Gotcha fly hanging from the lowest guide into the water. Without looking down, keeping his prey in sight, Warren tugged line from the reel and stroked the rod back and forth to pay the leader and front-loaded fly line through the tip of the slender nine-foot rod.

  “Let’s see if we can catch that bonefish,” he said. “It looks like a real good one from here.”

  Together, the boy and his dog tiptoed toward the feeding bonefish. Warren hunched low in the water to minimize his presence, and Conchshell tucked her head toward her shoulders and lowered her nose to the surface. Their stealthy approach barely ruffled the shallow water.

  The bonefish quickly righted itself after ingesting a small crab and moved slowly into the tide, pausing occasionally to blow into the sand to expose a fresh, hidden morsel.

  Warren and Conch angled ahead of the bonefish, halting when they had closed the distance to twenty-five yards. “Hold here, girl,” Warren hissed to Conchshell under his breath.

  The boy snapped the fly from the surface of the water with a smooth stroke of the rod and a powerful haul on the line. He added potential distance by stripping additional line from the reel with his left hand. When the weighted fly line loaded the rod behind his right shoulder, Warren drove the slender graphite shaft forward while hauling the line back through the guides with an abrupt pull of his left hand. The line rocketed ahead, and the fly neatly rolled over the leader and landed quietly on the surface of the water seventy feet away.

  The twin metal bead eyes of the fly promptly sank the slender shrimp imitation toward the bottom, six feet in front of the purposeful bonefish.

  Warren knelt in the one-foot depth and waited until the fly had reached the bottom. Conchshell hunkered down until the water covered her back. The boy gripped the fly line in front of the reel with his left hand and stripped in three inches of line. The fly hopped from the bottom and came to rest again in a tiny puff of sand.

  The feeding bonefish noticed the minute disturbance and mistook the action for a fleeing shrimp. The fish immediately dashed toward the artificial offering.

  Warren watched with pounding heart as the large fish raced forward to ingest
the fly. The under-slung mouth of the magnificent fish required it to tilt downward to gulp the mock shrimp. The powerful tail of the twenty-eight inch bonefish broke the surface of the shallow flat and waved sharply in the air.

  The steel hook and decorated shaft of the fly disappeared into the hard jaws of the bonefish. Warren saw the fish ingest the fly and tugged sharply on the line with his left hand to set the hook. The needle-like point buried into a corner of the bonefish’s mouth.

  An instant of confusion followed. The sensation of being hooked was completely foreign to the fish. Panic suddenly overwhelmed the bonefish, and it resorted to its sole means of survival. The fish fled across the flat.

  The line that Warren had stripped while enticing and hooking the bonefish lay floating at his feet. He circled the slack line with his left hand and guided it carefully to the reel as the retreating fish dashed across the sand. When the slack was safely through the guides, and the bonefish was pulling line directly against the drag of the reel, Warren stood and held the rod high above his head. The boy knew he had to keep as much leader as possible out of the water to avoid chafing the thin, ten-pound test line against potential dangers such as coral rocks and mangrove shoots.

  Conchshell rose to her full height and barked with glee at the rapidly disappearing bonefish. Silence and stealth were no longer important now that the fish was solidly hooked. The Labrador’s recent trepidation about the pending weather change was momentarily forgotten.

  “This is a good one, Shelly girl,” Warren beamed as he watched the bonefish rip the remaining fly line from the reel and begin to peel away the Dacron backing at a prodigious rate. “It’ll go ten pounds at least, don’t you think?”

  Conchshell barked enthusiastically and hopped in a small circle with unrestrained excitement. Her paws splashed small geysers of brine against her white stomach as she danced in the shallows.

  * * *

  The terrified bonefish streaked across the flat with powerful thrusts of its tail. A V-shaped wake peeled away from the speeding fish, and a steady line of splashes marked its progress toward the deep channel.

  Conchshell ceased her joyous antics and stared at the disappearing fish. She looked at Warren and barked a warning.

  “I know, Shelly girl,” Warren said. “If this fish makes it to the deep water, it’ll likely break off as it rubs the leader over the edge.”

  With delicate care, Warren eased a finger against the rapidly spinning spool to increase the drag. Experience had taught him that too much additional pressure would surely break the slender leader.

  Warren’s skillful application of finger drag worked. The spool slowed and then stopped as the exhausted fish paused against the increased pressure to briefly rest. The young fisherman recognized his opportunity. He lowered the rod, placed the padded butt against his chest, and began to reel frantically to retrieve line.

  The stubborn bonefish tugged hard against the tight line and renewed its efforts to escape. Warren carefully lifted the rod tip to pull the fish closer before he quickly lowered it to wind in the created slack. Fifty yards of the departed one hundred twenty-five yards of line were grudgingly returned to the reel.

  Then the bonefish, reinvigorated by the brief rest, made another gallant run, pulling almost all the recovered line from the spool.

  “This fish doesn’t want to give up,” Warren noted through gritted teeth. “It’s a ten pounder for sure.”

  Conchshell wagged her tail across the water and yelped encouragement.

  The second run was equally as vigorous as the first, although slightly shorter. The bonefish’s fatigue was becoming evident, and Warren was able to retrieve all the lost backing and ten feet of fly line before the third long run.

  A series of shorter efforts to flee were finally halted, and after fifteen minutes Warren was able to bring the bonefish close to his feet. He pointed the rod tip over his shoulder and grabbed the ten-foot leader in his left hand.

  Conchshell stood still behind Warren, content to watch the release procedure without interference. The experienced dog realized activity on her part would further frighten the fish and make the hook removal more difficult. A satisfied, high-pitched hum accompanied her excited panting.

  Warren clutched the fly rod between his knees and pulled the exhausted bonefish toward him with the leader. He supported the fish in the water with his left hand and tenderly removed the fly from the bonefish’s hard jaw with his right. Warren’s earlier compression of the barb on the fly made the extraction process considerably easier.

  “At least ten pounds,” he said with a proud smile toward Conchshell. “Maybe eleven.”

  The bonefish remained motionless in Warren’s hand, its gills pulsing as it sipped refreshing water to restore the energy lost in the fight.

  “Thanks,” Warren said as the fish slowly wiggled its tail and swam from his palm, tired but unharmed. “Thanks.”

  Conchshell’s sudden growl and raised tail turned Warren’s attention from the retreating fish. “What is it, Shelly girl?”

  The dorsal fin of a five-foot lemon shark cut the water fifty yards in front of Warren. The opportunistic shark was homing directly on the released bonefish.

  Normally, a bonefish has no fear of a shark. Their superior speed enables them to easily outrun such a pursuer. But an exhausted bonefish is simple prey for a determined shark.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Warren shouted at the intruding lemon shark. “You’re not going to make a meal of my bonefish.”

  Without hesitation, Warren started to run toward the shark, seeking to cut off its attack. He raised his fly rod to swat the shark, but before he could bring the tip of the rod down on the shark’s head, Conchshell bounded past him barking ferociously.

  The noise of Conchshell’s gallop, her four legs churning the shallow water to frothy foam, and her menacing growls, turned the shark from its intended prey. The lemon shark spun abruptly and retreated in the opposite direction, away from the quickly disappearing bonefish.

  “Good girl,” Warren called as he splashed to a halt beside his dog and patted her vigorously. “Good girl.”

  Together they turned from the sulking shark and watched as their bonefish faded from view into the deep-water channel beyond the broad flat.

  “Let’s head for home,” Warren suggested as Conchshell shook water from her head and back. “Mom might have some chores for us before supper. We’ve stirred up this flat enough to keep any more bonefish away for a while.”

  Conchshell nodded in agreement, but turned toward the southeast horizon, recalling her earlier premonitions of difficult weather approaching. The blonde Labrador growled as if to dare the storm to approach.

  Warren looked at the far sky and blinked once to be certain he was seeing clearly. A tiny band of heavy black clouds etched the most distant corner of the heavens. The boy lowered his gaze and scanned the water immediately beyond the channel. A long swell was developing which was completely inconsistent with the gentle breeze. Strong winds, hundreds of miles away, were pushing water toward the island.

  “I don’t like the look of that, Shelly girl,” Warren said with seriousness in his voice that belied his age. “I wish Dad weren’t off in Fort Lauderdale. We may be in for some trouble.”

  ~2~

  Warren and Conch departed the bonefish flat and walked up the beach toward the single lane macadam road that ran along the ridgeline above the small bluff. Brightly painted houses in a variety of pastel colors dotted the simple thoroughfare. Wooden shutters hung on the sides of the windows, and Warren wondered idly if the inhabitants would soon be closing them for an approaching storm.

  Hurricanes were a common threat in the Bahamas as well as the Caribbean, although most of the storms passed to the north or south of the island chain. A direct hit from a killer storm was thankfully a rarity.

  Wa
rren had watched his parents prepare for storms in the past. He knew the potential for destruction from the stories of those who had survived major assaults on their homes and possessions. Why had there been no warning of this apparent storm? The information was always available on the satellite weather channel or the Internet. Had he misread the threatening sky?

  “Hello, Warren,” Mrs. Rolle called from her garden beside her yellow house. “You been fishin’ again?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Rolle,” Warren yelled back with an enthusiastic wave of his fly rod. “Yep! Conch and I caught a big bonefish on the east flat.”

  “Is there ever a day you don’t catch somethin’?” Mrs. Rolle laughed.

  “Not many,” Warren said shaking his head with a wide grin across his face. “My Dad taught us pretty well.”

  “Us?” Mrs. Rolle repeated with a smile. “I swear you treat that dog like another human bein’.”

  “My Mom says Conch’s about as smart as some humans she’s met,” Warren said. “There isn’t much she doesn’t seem to understand.”

  Conchshell barked happily at the sound of her name.

  Warren turned and pointed to the southeast. “Mrs. Rolle, I haven’t heard of a storm coming our way, but that sky looks very threatening. You might want to think about closing your shutters this evening.”

  The woman looked in the direction Warren indicated and squinted her old eyes. “I didn’t see anything on the television,” she said. “But I don’t like the look of that cloud line, either. Thank you, Warren.”

  “No bother, Mrs. Rolle,” Warren said brightly. “If you need some help later, just call our house.”

  “You’re a good boy, Warren Early,” Mrs. Rolle said as she resumed her digging. Her cheery countenance had been replaced by a concerned frown.

  * * *

  “Mom,” Warren called as he opened the unlocked front door and stepped into the living room. “We’re home.”