Something Fishy

by Derek Hansen

  Karl went and lay down on the day bed but could neither concentrate on reading nor sleep. He checked his watch. Four fifteen. He climbed back up to the flying bridge. Both throttles were as far forward as they could go. He could hear the fuel being sucked into the cylinders and tried not to think of the fuel bill. Ahead of him, the coastline began to resolve in definite features.

  ‘It’s closer than it looks,’ said Gerardo. ‘In sailfish weather things always look further away than they are because of the gloom. If there were no clouds you would see how close we are.’

  Karl looked but was unconvinced.

  ‘We will make it, patrón. I know now we will make it. By five minutes at least. Trust me.’

  ‘This is our last chance,’ said Karl.

  ‘No,’ said Gerardo.‘We still have tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ve ridden our luck,’ said Karl.‘I kinda think our luck is about ridden out.’

  ‘There,’ said Gerardo, pointing to a blip on the radar.

  ‘There is the committee panga. And look, patrón, there are still two boats behind us.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t have fish to weigh in,’ said Karl.

  He checked his watch and tried to judge the distance from the channel leading into the marina. They had twelve minutes in hand. How many kilometres did they still have to travel and how quickly would they cover them at fourteen and a quarter knots? Karl gave up on the maths. He could clearly see the committee panga through his binoculars.

  ‘Are we going to make it?’

  ‘Si, patrón. With minutes to spare. Trust me.’

  ‘I’ll go below and get the paddle ready to exchange for the disc.’

  ‘Good idea, patrón. And patrón? Don’t worry.’

  At seven minutes to five, Gerardo began to throttle back. Even in an emergency he was thinking of the motors. Karl wanted to shout up to Gerardo to tell him to get the disc first then run down the motors in the bay, but held his breath. Sometimes you had to trust people and he had to trust Gerardo not to do anything foolish now. He strode onto the stern deck and peered forward along the side of the boat. A pangero was just leaving the committee panga. He checked his watch again. Five to five. The committee panga was less than two hundred metres away. They were going to make it. He began to smile as the twin diesels throttled further back.

  He checked the ship’s clock. Four minutes to five. His watch. Again. Four minutes to five. The clock on his VCR. Four minutes to five. They were going to make it with two whole minutes to spare.

  ‘No!’

  Karl heard Gerardo’s anguished cry and stiffened. What now? He heard Billfisher’s horn blast. What was happening? Were they running over somebody? Had somebody cut in front of them?

  ‘Bastards!’ Gerardo sounded distraught.

  ‘The committee panga saw us coming and packed up early,’ said Karl.‘We would have made it with two minutes to spare.’

  ‘Typical,’ said Captain Pete.

  ‘We couldn’t chase them because they’d disqualify us for speeding in the channel.’

  ‘They’ll get you, one way or the other.’

  ‘It’s that damned panga,’ said Karl. ‘They must radio back our catch to give the committee time to figure out how to cheat us.’

  ‘That’d be right,’ said Captain Pete.‘Sort of thing they’d do.’

  ‘I should have listened to you back in Buena Vista.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . . but look on the bright side. You’ve caught some fabulous fish, the kind of fish any fisherman would give his right arm to catch.’

  ‘True,’ said Karl.

  ‘Anywhere else, you’d be tournament champion.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘You just picked the wrong tournament. In the Calima, it’s always pangeros first, gringos second.’

  Karl closed his eyes and gritted his teeth at the sound of the hated word.

  ‘There’s still tomorrow,’ he said.

  Karl set out on the last day of the tournament with few expectations. He’d done everything right but had been shamelessly cheated out of his just rewards and, worse, he’d been treated as though he was a cheat. The whole experience offended him deeply and was an affront to his conservative Midwestern values.

  ‘There’s still tomorrow,’ he’d said to Captain Pete. But what did that mean? Even if by some miracle he caught another championship marlin, the committee would find a way to deny him. He stared morosely at the panga tagging along behind.

  Gerardo found a pod of porpoises with yellowfin tuna feeding just metres ahead of the pod, but Karl wasn’t interested in yellowfin. Jose spotted dorado stampeding across their bows in hot pursuit of flying fish. Karl still wasn’t interested. He wanted blue marlin. Sometimes you have to fish for what you want, not what is there.

  The panga left them to pursue the dorado but was back shadowing them within forty minutes. Karl didn’t care. It was perfectly clear what the pangero’s mission was and any fish he caught were merely a bonus.

  Karl was down but his gloom was not infectious.

  ‘Lots of bait fish,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘Good water temperature. Over twenty-eight degrees.

  ‘This is good marlin weather, patrón.’

  Karl was mystified by their good spirits. The organisers had robbed Gerardo of his dream truck and Jose of a new outboard motor to give to his father. Yet they behaved as if they hadn’t a care in the world. As long as he lived he didn’t think he’d ever really understand Mexicans.

  At noon he made sandwiches and coffee for himself and his crew.

  ‘Patrón, I have a feeling here in my belly that we are going to catch a marlin.’

  ‘That’s hunger,’ said Karl.

  ‘No, patrón, I think we are going to catch a marlin. I feel it.’

  ‘And I feel like another coffee.’ Karl went below and lay down on the day bed. He didn’t feel like another coffee and he didn’t feel like fishing. He just felt down, cheated and defeated. He felt exactly the same way he’d felt as a kid back in Salina when he’d come second in class, second in athletics and second in everything else he’d had a mind to try.

  ‘Damn it!’ he said. He leaped to his feet and strode onto the stern deck. The heat and brightness of the sun hit him like a blow to the head, waking him up, reminding him of who he was and where he was. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? It was just a dumb tournament nobody had any regard for. So what if he was cheated? There were other tournaments, fair tournaments. He let the sun burn through his T-shirt and counted his blessings. The sky was clear dazzling blue and the sea a picture. He was on his own boat, doing what he loved doing in the Sea of Cortez, a place he’d dreamed about. Any moment a marlin could take a lure. How many people back in Salina would willingly change places with him? A smile began to spread over his face as he gazed back down Billfisher’s wake, and froze the instant it formed. He saw the flash of colour by the closest lure, the unmistakeable electric, fluorescent glow of an excited marlin. He saw the tip of its tail rise and cut through the waves, saw the head break free of the water and the bill slash down upon the lure.

  ‘Marlin!’ he screamed.

  But the sound of the ratchet as line tore off the reel had already alerted Gerardo and Jose.

  Karl grabbed his game belt, jammed the butt of the rod into the gimbal and pushed the drag up against the stops. Against all odds he’d been given one last chance to snatch victory. He only carried three rods and there was plenty of time to get back to the channel and exchange his paddle for a red disc. If the fish was big enough, he was in with a definite chance. Two hundred and two point four kilos, that was the weight he had to beat.

  ‘Is it big enough?’ he shouted up to Gerardo.

  ‘Close, patrón,’ said Gerardo.‘I think it will be very close. I think at least two hundred kilos.’

  Karl settled down to the hard work of fighting his fish, heartened by the fact that his skipper consistently under-called the weight of fish so that he wouldn’t be disappoi
nted when the fish was weighed.

  ‘Look at him jump!’ said Gerardo.‘Nine jumps in a row.’

  Just as Karl started to apply pressure to the fish, he heard an explosion and saw a sheet of flame rise in the air about three hundred metres away.

  ‘Patrón! Patrón! The panga has blown up!’

  ‘Blown up?’

  ‘Yes, patrón. The pangeros have been thrown into the water.’

  To his credit, Karl didn’t hesitate. He turned to Jose.

  ‘Cut the line.’

  Billfisher heeled over hard as Gerardo turned towards the stricken panga, which was ablaze from stem to stern. Karl waited for Gerardo to throttle back before joining Jose on the swim platform. One of the pangeros was semiconscious and being supported by the other. These were men who had played a key role in cheating him, yet Karl only saw two blackened and scorched human beings in desperate need of help. He managed to bring the semiconscious man aboard before Gerardo elbowed him aside and took over.

  ‘We’ve got to get this man to hospital as soon as possible,’ said Karl. When he examined the other, it was clear that he wasn’t in much better condition. ‘They both need a doctor, and soon.’

  ‘I’ll radio for help,’ said Gerardo. ‘If we take them back, it will take too long.’

  ‘Did they tell you what happened?’

  ‘We all know what happened, patrón. Their fuel tank exploded, that is what happened. Maybe they had a leak in the fuel line, who knows? It is a risk all pangeros take. They all smoke.’

  Gerardo disappeared up the ladder to the flying bridge. Karl heard him sending out a distress call in Spanish. He stared helplessly at the stricken men. The burns were red and raw on the men’s legs and arms and on the sides of their faces exposed to the first flash. All their hair and eyebrows had been burned off and they had the dazed and distant look of people in pain.

  ‘Jose, ask them if I can get anything for them.’

  ‘Water, patrón, they ask for water.’

  Karl brought them water and all his aspirin, and rigged up a temporary canvas cover to give them some shade. He also brought out a saucepan filled with water and gently encouraged one of the men to rest his badly burnt hand in it.

  ‘Tell him to keep his hand in the water. Water is the best thing for it. Okay?’

  The man did as Karl asked, grateful for the consideration.

  ‘They thank you, patrón, for rescuing them,’ said Jose. ‘They say they are sorry they caused you to lose your fish.’

  My fish, thought Karl. He’d forgotten all about his marlin. What did a fish matter when men’s lives were in danger?

  ‘Tell them it doesn’t matter about the fish. The fish is not important. Tell them I’m sorry they are hurt and I’m sorry about their boat.’ Karl turned and climbed the ladder to join Gerardo.

  ‘The pangero’s brother is nearby in another panga. He is coming to fetch them. He can get back to Barra in one hour, maybe one hour and a quarter.’

  Karl remained on the flying bridge as the injured were transferred into the panga. The brother looked up and waved to him in salute as he pulled away.

  ‘What now?’ said Karl to Gerardo.‘The day is a disaster. We may as well go back in.’

  ‘The brother is very grateful to you for rescuing these men,’ said Gerardo cagily.‘He is sorry about your marlin. He suggests we keep fishing.’

  ‘What?’

  Gerardo set course due north and gazed steadfastly ahead.

  ‘He has given me directions, patrón.’ Gerardo dialled a bearing on the autopilot but still refused to look at Karl.

  ‘What directions?’

  ‘Like I said, patrón, the brother is very grateful. Those men could have died.’

  ‘What directions?’

  Gerardo sighed. ‘You don’t want to know, patrón. The brother is a longliner. I have heard of pescadores cheating this way.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said Karl, but he was beginning to.

  ‘It is justice, patrón. It’s like Captain Pete said. Sometimes if you want to win, you have to beat the committee at their own game.’

  ‘You mean cheat.’

  ‘No, patrón, not cheat. Bend the rules. Maybe we don’t win the way we would like to win, but even God knows we deserve to win.’

  They found the marker buoy exactly where it should be and began tracking along the longline, checking it as they went. The marlin was all but drowned and killing it was an act of mercy. Provided no one else had caught a big blue that day, they had the winner. A little further along they came across a string of tuna. Gerardo and Jose selected the biggest. It was dead when they hauled it aboard.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Karl.

  ‘But, patrón, there is sailfish and dorado further along. The brother told us.’

  ‘Go!’ said Karl, but for once Gerardo and Jose ignored him. They knew what they were doing and they knew what was fair. The sailfish was also dead when they hauled it aboard.

  ‘These fish were not all caught on this line, patrón. See? Two hook marks. They keep the fish here and sell them to the highest bidder. Maybe chilango, maybe pangero.’

  Karl studied the marlin stretched out on the swim platform. It was big, big enough to win, but not as big as the one he’d had disqualified. It was the same with the sailfish. The tuna was compensation for his disqualified dorado.

  ‘Okay, patrón?’ said Gerardo.

  Agreeing went against everything he’d been brought up believing in. It went against everything he’d taught his kids.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he said.

  ‘We won,’ said Karl.

  ‘You what?’ said Captain Pete. His surprise was so great Karl had to move the phone away from his ear.

  ‘Biggest blue marlin, biggest sailfish and biggest tuna and there wasn’t a damn thing the committee could do about it.’

  ‘You won three categories? In the Calima?’

  Karl told Captain Pete everything that had happened.

  ‘Love it!’ said Captain Pete. ‘And you gave those cheats a dose of their own medicine. My man, you’ve just become a legend. I can’t wait to tell Low Gear Joe. Hell, I’m going to tell every gringo I know!’

  ‘The funny thing is, everybody knew where our fish had come from. The pangeros knew, the chilangos, the other gringos and even the committee. But we were heroes, you see? We’d cut off a trophy fish to save the lives of those men. I think there would have been a riot if the committee had disqualified us this time.’

  ‘It just keeps getting better,’ said Captain Pete.

  ‘I gave the Honda outboard to the pangero who lost his boat. That brought the house down.’

  ‘Genius, pure genius,’ said Captain Pete. ‘What about the Chev truck?’

  ‘Gerardo has the truck. I’ve never seen a happier man.’

  ‘And the Yamaha?’

  ‘Jose is giving it to his father.’

  ‘So you’re left with nothing?’

  ‘Way it is,’ said Karl in his broadest Midwestern drawl.‘But I’m kinda used to coming second.’

  Men in White

  The day Gregan stopped wearing white shoes the best part of his wardrobe became redundant. His favourite sports trousers remained on their hangers along with his array of white and off-white linen jackets and all the Ralph Lauren shirts that went so well with them. They’d been the clothes that had singled him out from the pack, signalled his success and signified his occupation. He’d worn them with pride and swagger even after they’d become a symbol — especially the white shoes — of brashness, duplicity and environmental vandalism. Gregan saw himself as a man who made people’s dreams come true and regarded his wealth and success as just reward. He was astonished to discover that the rest of the world saw him differently. They saw a man for whom no complimentary adjective could be found. They saw a rapacious Queensland property developer.

  Gregan was proud of the fact that he was one of the original few who’d helped make the Gold Coast, especially S
urfers Paradise, what it is today. He liked nothing better than to drive guests and prospects up the coast from Tweed Heads to Southport, pointing out along the way all the glass-and-concrete towers he’d had a hand in developing. But the ride didn’t stop when he ran out of beach. Oh, no.

  Gregan also liked to regard himself as a visionary. When waterfront blocks became scarce and too expensive, he decided to create more. People want waterfronts, he argued, not necessarily beachfronts. So he turned his back on the ocean and attacked the mangrove flats and wetlands behind Surfers. It didn’t matter that the flats were vital little ecosystems, providing food and lodging for fish, crabs, prawns and a whole catalogue of water fowl. He dredged and bulldozed until the mangrove flats were no more and in their place built a series of canals and spurs with newly paved and sewered circuits and cul-de-sacs, upon which people could build their outsized waterfront dream homes. The result was monumental testimony to what men in white could do.

  At 4.22 am on Friday, 18 January 2000, all the crabs, prawns, calamari, oysters and beer Gregan had consumed over the course of what his associates liked to regard as working lunches took their revenge. A sizeable piece of plaque broke away from the wall of his vena cava and caused a partial blockage leading to the right atrium of his heart. Gregan might have died in the moments that followed if he hadn’t exchanged his wife of thirty years for another twenty-nine years his junior. She frequented gyms and was strong enough to get him out of his bed and into his car, and drive him to hospital at a speed normally associated with the Indy Grand Prix. (Gregan was also a vocal supporter of the car races that took over the streets of Surfers once a year.) More plaque detached as he was stretchered into Emergency. Gregan had another shot at dying and would have succeeded if the cardiac arrest team hadn’t jolted him back to life.

  For Gregan, this near life-ending event was life changing. While he’d never actually considered himself immortal, he did tend to put death in the same category as poverty, disease and retirement — things that affected other people but not him. The realisation that, despite his wealth and success, he had no firmer grasp on life than lesser mortals cut to his very soul. After all he’d done for people, he believed he deserved better.