Soon we were strolling again, and I was wanting to know more about her. "How can you own a house and continue, you know, going away like that?"
"I rented it to some girlfriends last time. Before that, I'd been doing minor restoration, painting, landscaping. My dad helped me fix the porch. I could sell it to help finance my next trip, wherever that may be."
Our pace slowed, and I thought her career path odd, though intriguing. "Let me guess the possibilities ... Mongolia?"
"Nope."
"Uganda?"
She was staring at the sky again. "No, probably not."
I was scrambling for countries. `Jamaica? 'Cause you need to be near seafood to keep your throwing arm in shape?"
Her laughter was intoxicating. "I'm not sure where, yet. But the answer will come in its time. How about you? Any big plans?"
I tried to think of something impressive but had eaten way too many scallops. "Compared to you, Allie, my plans are pretty mundane."
"Then why don't you ask God to give direction?"
"Do you really think he does that?"
"I'm certain of it," she said. "We'd better turn around now."
Returning up the beach, I watched the footprints from our walk fade and melt beneath a rising tide. It was almost 1:00 A.M., there was an awkward silence, and as we neared the fire, the waves lapped up close behind the logs.
I tossed one last handful of sand over the embers as males lagged females, who were already between the dunes, shoulder to shoulder and chatting away. Across the oceanfront road, puddles of rainwater lay stagnant in a grassy ditch. The water puddles had given hatch to mosquitoes; the mosquitoes had gone forth and multiplied. They buzzed our ears, teased our faces, and hovered against the streetlight.
We stepped up the pace to catch the ladies, caught them, and said good night at their driveway. Jamie got a peck from her husband, I got a wave from Allie, and we walked down a blackened Seaspray Drive-Steve with his stubble, me with my salty marshmallow hair, and Ransom with his unfulfilled lust.
"Get her number?" asked Steve. He carried hangers in one hand, lighter fluid in the other.
"Where, in Central Africa?" I said, slapping at nothing in the dark.
"Now you see what I mean. You gotta have no job and a million frequent-flyer miles to keep up with her."
"So much for white picket fences," said Ransom.
"She thinks God directs her to do that mission stuff."
Ransom paused on the crushed shells. "I think she's right."
Up the stairs and into the screened porch, we peeled off our sandals and knocked off the sand. Steve held a finger to his lips. "Shh."
Five sleeping bags fanned out in perfect symmetry across our livingroom floor. Three contained bodies, two were empty and unzipped.
We had claimed a bedroom upon arrival, a long room with a slanted ceiling, two single beds, and a dresser; we even had our own bathroom. Taped to the door, on a dangling sheet of official church letterhead, was a copy of the weekend agenda, including a suggested midnight curfew for all participants in church-sponsored retreats.
Steve and Ransom took the beds. Me, I wadded the agenda into a paper ball and agreed to take the floor on this, the first night of my very first churchy beach trip.
Sea green was our motif. The room was painted sea green, and the lone window at the far end had sea-green curtains pulled back to allow air through the screen. Seashells occupied the dresser and the bathroom wallpaper; obligatory beach art hung above the headboards.
I cut the lights and inserted myself in the sleeping bag. We enjoyed a full minute of silence, until Steve asked, "Do ya miss your wife?"
"Go to sleep, dude," said Ransom from his dark corner.
"This has got to be weird," I offered. "Staying with guys, two houses away."
"Not really. While you guys were unloading the groceries this afternoon, me and Jamie were upstairs in the hot tub over at that pink house. We heard the five of you eating Oreos in the kitchen, and when you all left, I snuck out the back door and took my surfboard to the beach."
"I hate your guts."
"Yeah," said Steve, "we hate your guts. And we ate more than just Oreos."
"G'night, boys," said Ransom.
"We had gourmet cookies."
I slapped my forehead during the night, near the same spot where the marshmallow had splattered. The faint buzz grew louder, and only a pale splotch of moonlight shone through the window. I backhanded the blackness but missed again.
Soon it brought friends, some still faint, others within inches of my head. I tried the forehand and the overhead smash, but the mosquitoes flew closer, teasing, lurking, suspending above me until I heard the sudden thud of a heel hitting the wall.
`Jarvis?"
"Hmmm?"
"They're everywhere," whispered Steve. "Got any bug spray?"
I hated whispering to a guy but did it anyway. "I think I saw a can under the kitchen sink. Those other guys are sleeping in the living room, so don't step on 'em."
Another thud, maybe his toe ramming the door. He said ouch under his breath. I heard skeeters circling my head and Ransom snoring in the corner. Convinced that surfers had immunity from insects, I swatted again, made contact, felt one brush my ear.
Groping in the dark for a shirt, a towel, anything, I heard the door open, then the sound of a can shaking. Steve was silhouetted against the window, spraying with abandon, the buzzes converging from all corners of the bedroom.
"I think there's a hole in the screen," he said.
`Just kill 'em."
"I'm tryin'." The whistling hiss of bug spray muted the snoring and the buzzing. I saw the outline of his arm waving back and forth and up and down around the window. My next swat also missed. The pale light in the window went dim.
Steve turned and said, "Here's a shot for ya."
The smell was overwhelming; my eyes burned and a stickiness lingered in the air. "What kinda bug killer is that?"
He flipped on the light to reveal long white streaks, still wet and shiny, arching across the window screen, the sea-green curtains, and the seagreen wall. A smattering of tiny white dots were drying on my sleeping bag.
Steve stood motionless, blinked twice. He looked down at the silver can and began reading to himself, wide-eyed.
"Whatsa light on for?" mumbled Ransom, finally waking.
"Steve just killed a platoon of mosquitoes with Krylon," I said. "White semigloss."
"I want my wife back." And he pulled a pillow over his head.
It was now 3:00 A.M., our beach trip off to a fine start. Steve and I dragged his mattress and two blankets onto the kitchen floor, slept there, and left Ransom in the corner of the bedroom, longing for his wife and domesticity.
Seaweed lounged in beds of foam to mark the high tide as my eyes adjusted to the sunrise, my nose to the salt air. Jogging along the hard sand near water's edge, I admired the unmarked beach, all footprints and sand castles washed smooth within nature's Etch A Sketch, shaken clean twice a day.
Down the shoreline, against a backdrop of pink sky smudged with orange, the two surf fishermen had returned, old guys side by side and staring out to sea. One pudgy, in cutoff jeans and a red baseball cap, the other short and thin, all whiskery-faced in his ragged gray shirt, sleeves lopped off at the elbows. He looked frail, fragile even. Both poles stood anchored in the sand, bending in rhythm with the push and pull of the waves.
I passed their empty bucket, then glanced over in midstride and met the gaze of the pudgy one. He nodded, a quick nod, but it seemed twice as sincere as the one from the bulletin guy back at North Hills.
Orange sky blended to yellow as I passed a woman and a toddler picking through shells among the sticks and foam, the Atlantic's lost and found. A rock jetty thwarted my run, the gnarly pile of boulders all surfslathered and immense, the massive mediators of ebb and flow. Barnacles clung piggyback to the boulders, and tiny crabs scurried away with one oversized claw, snapping in disgust at my intrusion.
I turned south again, and now the woman held the toddler by her hand, leaning over and scrounging in the surf. The little girl looked no more than two, and she dropped one shell for every new one she picked up. I gave a two-fingered wave, but it went unnoticed. A narrow slice of sun threw my shadow long and thin. Ahead, the two anglers moved toward the ocean. I continued running and saw the frail fisherman in front of the pudgy one, bending seaward, arms extended. He leaned back, pulled his arms in, then bent toward the water again.
I jogged closer and saw Pudgy take the pole from the frail one. He braced himself in wet sand, standing rigid and determined, retaining his posture as I stopped, sweaty and curious, beside their bucket.
"Watcha got?"
"Don't know," he said over his shoulder. "Can't get any line in."
"Tried to slow the drag," said the frail one. And he held his thumb up to show me the burn mark, a narrow crevice, red and raw.
Tinted orange, their fishing line contrasted sharply against the ocean. It moved north for a minute, then reversed and headed south. Pudgy spread his feet for balance, and the line neither entered nor exited his reel, a standoff at sea. I was betting on the fish.
"Gotta be a shark," said Pudgy, lowering the brim of his cap.
"What kind?"
"Several kinds out there. Saw a couple fins yesterday while you guys were surfing, but nothin' bit."
The frail one elbowed Pudgy and asked if he could hold the pole again, since he was the one who had actually hooked the fish. Pudgy handed him the pole in slow motion, as if passing a barbell to a buddy. They inched out to ankle-deep water, where receding surf burrowed their feet farther in the sand.
I quickly took off my running shoes, edged closer, and asked what they used for bait.
"Cut mullet," said Pudgy. "Just thread 'em on a six-aught hook, then cast it deep."
"Whadda you do when you catch one?" I asked. More orange line spun out undisturbed.
He was distracted by the fish and took a moment to answer. "To be honest, son, I just pet 'em on the head and let 'em go."
A broadening slice of sun reflected off the waves. More line spun off, singing out in low then higher octaves. Minutes passed; no one spoke, and the fish moved in a spasmodic, north-south pattern.
"Wanna feel him pull?" asked the frail one, offering me the pole.
"Sure," I said, taking hold of his surf rod.
It felt as if I had hold of a car that had slipped out of gear and was rolling down a driveway. The next tug yanked my body forward. Sand swirled out rapidly beneath my feet, tickling as it departed, but my only thought was retaining balance. I leaned backward in imitation-to at least look proficient in the art of shark fighting-and watched even more line strip off the reel.
"Put your thumb on the spool to slow it," said Pudgy, an urgency in his voice.
The line sung out, and now I, too, had a red, raw crevice to match his friend, who'd actually hooked the fish. The pole grew heavy, the butt end stressing my ribs, the business end jerking with crazed bouts of quivering opposition.
"Lemme have it," said the frail one.
His arms were deeply tanned, his hands dry and weathered. He seemed mad at the fish now, his fish, and got back the four turns of line I'd lost, plus two more. After cranking the reel and finding it stubborn, he began taking slow steps away from the sea, as if to tow the creature from the depths.
Pudgy put one hand on his friend's back, then grabbed the bottom of the pole with the other. Together, they dragged backward for ten feet, stopping at the shoreline.
After two more cranks, the strategy resumed. They dragged and reeled, then reeled and towed. The line no longer moved north and south, but lay idle, resting on the waves.
"Need a break?" I asked. And suddenly I had the pole to myself again, trying to perfect the tow and reel procedure. My feet dug and slid in the wet sand, my arms tensed from the strain, and one step back took longer than finding Galatians to the east of Psalms.
"Don't point the pole straight out," cautioned Pudgy. "The line'll snap; keep it pointed up."
My next step backward was no quicker than the first, but I got three turns of line in, and the frail one gave me a nod of confirmation.
"Give the pole back to 'im," said Pudgy. "After all, it's his fish."
I handed the pole back. But I didn't want to.
"Let's get it in," said Pudgy, motioning for me to join him.
"Sir?"
"Follow me, son."
I had no idea what we were about to do, but I was back in the Atlantic, knee-deep beside Pudgy. Then behind Pudgy. In front of us, the gray figure of a shark swam beneath sea foam, the foam hiding him, then revealing.
Three-footer was my guesstimate. The stringy remains of a mullet hung from its snout. Its tail thrashed side to side, and Pudgy said for his buddy to drag a little more up the beach. The frail one stopped near a dune, his rod bent nearly in half, and we had to yell in order for him to hear us.
I stepped away from the shark and was immediately reprimanded.
"You gotta pet'im on the head or it doesn't count as a catch," said Pudgy, hunched over in a stalking position, like a kid chasing grasshoppers.
"Say what?" My olive shorts were soaked, and I thought the old man was nuts.
He reached in his back pocket and produced a glove, thick and layered with tiny wire mesh, chainlike. Cool waves splashed over my knees. The shark thrashed again, then disappeared, camouflaged by sea foam. I shadowed Pudgy as he stalked the shark, and he stalked it right into the shallows. In one motion he gripped the tail with his bare right hand, pulled the shark into a foot of water, and thrust his gloved hand firmly on top of the head, forcing it down in the sand.
"Go on, rub it on the head," he demanded, as if this were a test.
I rubbed it on the head. Nicely. The head felt slick, warm even, and strained to rise beneath Pudgy's chain glove.
"Okay, let's switch," he said, moving left to allow me access.
"Oh, great."
Lethargic, the shark conceded defeat, its tail no longer thrashing but moving in a relaxed swoosh. Pudgy let go of the tail, stripped off the glove, and asked if I was right-handed.
"Hold tight," he yelled at his buddy, who had one foot up on the sand dune, his pole bent again to the snapping point.
I slid my newly gloved hand up behind the slick head, pressing down while Pudgy stroked the shark. He performed this act of affection gently, as one would with a poodle. Then he began talking to the shark in a soft voice. "You wouldn't eat surfers, now would ya, boy?"
With one hand on the head and the other gripping the tail, he pushed and pulled the shark through the water, saying he always revived them before he turned 'em loose.
"Are you two trying to catch sharks?" I asked, certain that there were laws against such behavior near public beaches.
He didn't look up from his work. "No, son, not exactly. It's just that they seem so ... plentiful."
"You gonna remove the hook?"
"Patience, son."
The tail swooshed faster, resuscitation complete.
"Can I try that, too?"
`Just hold him here and push forward like this," he said. "But put the glove back on."
The shark's head spun around so fast I could not react. Front teeth grazed the glove and back teeth snapped the line. A flash of tail, a violent stirring of the sand, and the next wave wrapped limp orange line around my leg.
The frail one, now backward on his butt at the base of the sand dune, yelled, "Why'd you guys cut the line on me?"
Salt water stung the back of my left thumb. Pudgy said, "Let's have a look." The glove came off, and two drops of 0-positive faded to pink in the backwash.
`Just a scrape," he said. "I been cut deeper'n that plenty of times."
Confident that shark fishermen never complain, I ignored the sting, my pride intact. "Is that the biggest you guys have caught?"
"Nah, not even close." He stepped back in the shallows and was
hed his face with a splash of seawater.
The frail one wound in the line. "Got a 120 pounder to our credit," he said, pausing to scratch his whiskers.
"Caught on the beach?" I asked.
"Sure. They're closer than you'd think. Most fun you can have with a chunk o' mullet." He extended his hand. "My name's Theo."
,Jay„
"I'm Asbury," said Pudgy. He said his name with a wink, as if to welcome me into some secret early-morning anglers club.
Content with the morning battle, they tossed their hooks and weights into a rusty tackle box and began passing a blue thermos back and forth, taking deep swigs and saying ahh the way only old guys can.
"Wanna swallow?" asked Asbury, wiping his chin on his sleeve.
Now the gash really stung. "What's in it?"
"A mixture," he said, admiring his thermos. "Gatorade, grapefruit juice, and grenadine."
"No thanks."
I was retying my running shoes and craving breakfast when Asbury slapped me on the back.
"Pleasure meetin' ya," he said. "You fish a lot better than you surf."
It was after 9:00 A.M when I arrived, panting, back at our beach house, my story rehearsed twice, trickles of blood spread around my hand for proof. Through the screened porch and into the living room, I saw five sleeping bags rolled, tied, and stacked in a corner.
"Mornin'," I said to preoccupied strangers. There was no response.
Stanley and his four buddies sat against the far wall, reading verses while scooping cereal from plastic bowls. Pastel beach art hung above their heads, notepads rested at their feet, and I thought they all looked clean-cut, cliquish, and just a bit pale.
I watched them for a moment. No one looked up. Stoked by the desire to share my story with Steve and Ransom, I backpedaled to the bedroom, turned, and opened the door. Long white streaks slashed across our walls and window, like the beginning of some hurried, inner-city graffiti. My roommates were gone, but a note dangled from inside the door.
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 5