There was an incontestable fact that pro—net ban advocates conveniently ignored: Every netter who fished Florida waters was issued a commercial saltwater-products license by the state. The state did not hesitate to sell those licenses to any wandering, itinerant fisherman who could plunk down the money. They sold the licenses to out-of-state netters as eagerly as they sold them to native Floridians whose families had fished the same waters for a hundred years. While the state stamped out licenses, state bureaucrats sat back, brows furrowed, expressions aloof, and made dire, but curate, predictions about the imminent collapse of the fishery.
The irony was lost on legislators, who chose an uncharacteristic haven—silence—then watched safely from the background as special in-rest groups battled it out and finally brought the net ban to the ballot.
Would the ban revitalize Florida's shallow water fishery? Absolutely. But there would be a long-term price. When disturbed, water oscillates far beyond the point of contact. The same dynamics apply to the environment—and to society. With netting banned, many of the back-bay fish houses would be forced to close. Most of them were located on the rater in delicate mangrove littoral zones. They were already zoned for commercial use, they already had docks and dredged canals. Who would uy them out? Big condo developers and marina investors, that's who. No permits required, no environmental hoops to jump through. And where would Florida's banished netters go? They would join the growing numbers of migrant fishermen and thereby contribute to the decimation of fisheries in states—such as the Carolinas—that still allowed netting.
The world market demands sea products. Nothing is going to change hat. When there are innate conflicts between man and the environment, I believe it is wiser to dilute the problem by sharing and wisely regulating the burden. Saltwater and sea creatures do not acknowledge the boundaries of states or nations.
I told the guides that. I could have added that because the amendment had been couched as an ultimatum, a reasonable person had no choice but to vote for the ban—unless that person wanted to register a protest vote against the spineless behavior of the legislature. But I didn't tell them that. Didn't want it to sound as if I were trying to contrive an excuse. Instead, I said, "Truth is, I voted against the ban."
Nels looked at Felix and nodded: See? I told you.
The men shuffled around on the dock, no longer hostile, but neither were they conciliatory. Nels said, "I'm sorry to hear that. I truly am. I always figured you for a friend of ours."
Jeth was upset, becoming impatient. "He told you why he did it. Jesus damn! He had reasons. What's the big deal? A lousy vote."
"The big deal," Nels said, "is, you looked at my boat lately? I'll shoot the next one. You tell your netter buddies that, Doc. I swear to God I will.
When you're up there on Sulphur Wells, trying to make 'em feel better 'cause that sonuvabitch burned up, you tell 'em."
I was getting a little impatient myself. "You think I approve of them blowing up boats because of the way I voted? That's stupid. You can take that any way you want to take it, Nels. Like you said—I thought we were friends."
"Well. . . it's something we're gonna have to think about. Yes it is. This is serious shit and we need to know who stands where."
I started the engine and pushed away from the dock. Tomlinson was over by the canoe ramp talking with Mack. When he saw me, he strolled out. I pressed bow-up to the pier so he could step aboard, then backed into deeper water.
"Just like you wanted," he said, "I got the information. Gumbo Limbo, that's where Jimmy Darroux lived." He held up a six-pack of Coors Light. "Brought the entertainment, too."
I didn't say anything; wanted to get away from the marina first. When we were out of the harbor, I let it go: "You damn dumb old hippie! Why'd you tell the guides we're going to Sulphur Wells?"
"Hey," he said. "I'm not that old. What's this 'old' business?"
"It didn't cross your mind they might be just a little upset about their boats?"
"For sure. Exactly what I intended, too. Those fellas—I love 'em, don't get me wrong—but those fellas, they're way too hung up on material possessions, man. Man gets killed, all they can think about is their boats."
"Yeah, and making their mortgage payments and feeding their kids. Jesus, Tomlinson!"
He was making a calming motion with his hands. "Don't freak out on me here, Doc. You'll ruin the whole ambience of the trip. Although . . . although ... at least you're showing some emotion. A growing experience—that's good. Any kind of emotion—for you, that's real good."
"A growing experience, my ass! Like you're doing me a favor? Let me tell you something, Tomlinson—I may have lost a couple of friends tonight. And I disappointed a lady who doesn't appear to need any more disappointment. All because of you."
He was suddenly interested. "A lady, huh? No shit. Pretty? Who's the lady?"
I told him. Watched him fold his hands and nod sagely. "Yes, Janet has had some trouble. Heavy domestic stuff. . . but I can't go into it. We've had some long talks."
I found that irritating—was there anyone who didn't pour out their soul to the guy? But I didn't want to hear anymore of his Ping-Pong talk. I stood at the wheel and pressed the throttle forward. Felt the wind-roar torque, felt the trim of the skiff settle low and fast over the water as I steered us out past Woodring Point, then west toward the Mail Boat Channel, running backcountry as far off the Intercoastal as I could get. The sun was low, diffused by clouds. The clouds resembled desert mountains . . . bronze-streaked, like an Arizona landscape. To my right, far across the water, was St. James City. To the left, Sanibel was an expanding mangrove hedge above which a crown of milky light bloomed: they were playing Softball at the school field; already had the lights on even though there was an hour of daylight left.
Tomlinson went forward and began to rummage through the cold-storage locker. "Want a beer?" he yelled.
He'd forgotten that I no longer drank beer during the week. Popping three or four Coors prior to bedtime had gotten to be a habit, and habits have a way of ultimately dominating the host. So I now drank only on Fridays and Saturdays. Today was Thursday.
"Nope," I said.
Ten minutes later, when Captiva Pass was a small breach of silver in the charcoal void, he was pawing through the ice again. Looked up at me to say, "You ready for another one?"
Chapter 3
Sulphur Wells was a back bay island named for the artesian springs that Spanish fishermen found when they settled there in the 1700s. The island was isolated by shallow water and a haze of mosquitoes that bred in the mangrove fringe. Because Sulphur Wells had no beaches, it had yet to be divvied up, reconstituted, and sodded by resort conglomerates and international investment groups. But the island's day would come. Florida developers were running out of beachfront property, so the back bay islands were the next logical target of the concrete stalwart. Now, though, the economy of Sulphur Wells—what there was of it—was still based on agriculture, commercial fishing, and blue-collar winter residents who didn't have the money for big-ticket properties over on Gasparilla Island or Manasota Key.
In this way, Sulphur Wells was a Florida anachronism. The people grew peppers and pineapples and mangoes; they wholesaled mullet and blue crabs caught from boats that they had built up from wooden stringers and glassed themselves. There were a couple of stores, but no mall, no 7-Elevens, no car lots. The Florida of Disney World and Holiday Inn, the slick destination of interstates and jetports, was far away, over on the mainland, across the steel swing bridge that joined Sulphur Wells with the current decade; a decade which, inevitably, presaged the island's own future.
I ran up the eastern rim of Pine Island Sound toward Charlotte Harbor, hugging the mangrove banks. I had visited the island a few times by truck on recent buying trips. Still had a few friends who lived there; guys I'd known back in high school. But it had been years since I had boated to the small settlement where Darroux was said to have lived, Gumbo Limbo.
Which
meant that I wasn't familiar with the submerged creeks and gutters that constitute channels on the flats. The water was seldom more than a couple of feet deep and, worse, the weak light made the bottom tough to read. The tide was up but falling, so I held to the wind-roiled water; avoided the slick streaks that can be created by the surface tension of protruding sea grass or oysters. Had the engine jacked high, Tomlinson on the bow, running sheer.
Sulphur Wells lay to the east, a long ridge of mangroves and casuarinas. Occasionally, the mangroves would thin to reveal the docks of a fish camp or a cluster of mobile homes. The trailers were set up on blocks, like derelict cars, their aluminum shells faded a chalky white or pink. As we flew past, a man looked up from a fish-cleaning table and stared. A woman gathering wash gave us a friendly wave. Both were quickly absorbed by the marl shore and crowding mangroves. Just east of a mangrove thicket called Part Island, we raised Gumbo Limbo: a curvature of land that extended into the water, its perimeter fringed by a strand of coconut palms. Now, at afterglow, the trunks of the palms were yellow, the canopies black, their heavy fronds interlaced like macaw feathers. A dozen or so wooden houses were elevated on shell mounds beyond. I could see the glow of their windows through the bare limbs of gumbo-limbo trees. Some of the windows were still trimmed with Christmas lights. Houses and palms appeared buoyant on the small raft of land, supported by the mass of water, but adrift, as if the freshening wind could blow the village out to sea.
"I don't suppose you know which house was Darroux s?"
Tomlinson was standing beside me at the console, staring. Probably tuning in the vibrations, expecting karma to point to the place. "Don't know," he said. "One of them." He shrugged. "There aren't many."
"Then we'll have to use the commercial docks. I don't want to beach it. The tide's going, we're losing our water."
"Those hills, the shell mounds. Reminds me of Mango." He was talking about a place where an uncle of mine, Tucker Gatrell, lived. "Old Florida, man, with those Indian mounds. They still do farming—smell the cow manure?"
"I smell it. Open that bow hatch and get the lines ready."
The channel into Gumbo Limbo was lined by a bank of limestone— that much I remembered. Miss the cut and you could kill your boat—
maybe even kill yourself—on the rocks. So I used the good water to run in close to shore, then dropped down off plain when I picked up the first wooden stakes that served as markers. The markers led us into a dredged canal, at the mouth of which was a warehouse on pilings. The docks were lined with simple plywood boats that were brush-painted blue or white. Men in jeans and white rubber boots moved around beneath the lights. Someone's radio was blaring. The whine of twangy, achy-breaky music was louder than my outboard. There were commercial scales and a cable hoist mounted on the loading platform. A sign above the warehouse read: Sulphur Wells Fish Company.
As we idled down the channel, men on the dock stopped what they were doing. Put down the crates they were carrying and watched us. Tomlinson smiled, waved—got blank stares in return. Still looking at the workers, he spoke to me out of the corner of his mouth: "These fellas don't seem too friendly. Kind of standoffish."
"That's one way to put it. Standoffish."
"The way they're staring at me."
"I noticed."
"Hey . . . I'm not still wearing that damn sarong, am I?" He had his chin on his chest, inspecting himself.
"Nope."
"That woulda explained it. A sarong would get some funny looks around here. Not as sophisticated like Sanibel."
"What you look like is a soap opera doctor in those scrubs."
"There's a possibility. Maybe they think I'm on TV."
Was he serious? "No, what they're thinking is, we're crazy. Come here in a flats boat at night, enemy territory. And they're right. The smart thing to do would be turn around and head back to Dinkin's Bay. You want to talk to Hannah? Track her down over the phone."
"Let's at least ask somebody first, okay? They probably don't get many visitors. Like country people, not used to dealing with strangers."
We had come to the end of the canal, and I swung into an open area of the dock. "Yeah," I said, "probably just shy," as a couple of men who had been trailing us along the dock caught up.
As the men approached, I called, "You mind if we tie up here for a while?"
They waited until they were above us: both of them tall, one maybe six three, bony-looking. Probably in their mid-twenties, jeans and T-shirts with long arms hanging out, showing their biceps. The taller one was the talker. Had a couple of generations of Georgia piney woods in his voice, and proud of it. He answered, "Tie up? Sure, you boys can tie up. Tie up just long as you like." Which came out: "Show-er, yew boys kin tah up,"; the dialect exaggerated, and with a mock friendliness that Tomlinson took at face value.
"Thanks, man." Tomlinson had the bow line in his hand, already reaching for the galvanized cleat. Then, as he reached up over the dock and took a wrap, the talker—he was wearing a bandanna on his head knotted pirate style—moved with an amused, catlike laziness and used his rubber boot to pin Tomlinson's wrist between the deck and the cleat.
"Uh-h-h—whoops-a-daisy—you're stepping on my hand, man."
"Huh?"
"My hand. You've got your foot on my hand."
The talker turned and looked at his partner blankly. "What the hell this boy talkin' about? He got an imagination in his brain, don't he?"
The partner was laughing—big joke. "That's what he got. 'Bout the only thing, Julie."
I thought: Julie?
Tomlinson gave a yank, trying to get free. "Seriously, man . . . really! You're like cutting off the circulation."
"Naw-w-w. Me?"
"See—there's your boot. That thing under it? My hand. Look for yourself."
Julie lifted his right boot, putting the full weight of his left on Tomlinson's wrist. He peered at the space beneath his right boot, said, "You must be invisible 'cause I don't see a damn thing."
If Tomlinson hadn't already taken a solid wrap around the cleat, I would have backed away. Let Julie decide if he wanted to be pulled into the canal, then pop my skiff up on plane and wash all those net boats into the pilings to thank Sulphur Wells Fish Company for its hospitality. But I couldn't go anywhere because we were already secured to the dock.
When I switched the engine off, the blaring radio became the dominant noise: Redfish ain't ro-o-o-ses to my baby—lyrics that were strangely familiar, but I didn't take the time to try and remember why. I stood there a moment, not saying anything, letting my inactivity draw their attention. When they were both looking at me, I said, "The smart thing to do would be get your foot off him."
"Hoo-wee, a tough boy! You don't mind, I'll stand where I damn well please."
"Just a suggestion."
"You take your suggestions and leave. That's my advice."
"Move your foot, we will."
"You have a mind to do somethin' about it?"
I was shaking my head. "Walk clear up his arm for all I care, I'm not going to help him. Take a look at those clothes he's wearing. Those are hospital clothes. You know why? Because he's sick. The guy's a leper."
Julie made a face, saying, "Huh?" then lifted his foot just as Tomlinson gave a tremendous pull. . . and backpedaled across the bow . . . teetered for a moment, almost caught himself, then sprawled into the water.
I leaned away from the splash, aware that other men were now coming along the dock toward us, hurrying.
"He ain't sick. You serious?" Julie was thinking maybe he'd been duped, but didn't want to show it. I ignored him, waiting for Tomlinson to scull to the surface. Held out a hand to help him vault back aboard as the partner said, "He ain't no leopard, what a bunch'a shit. It ain't a disease anyway. I seen pictures'a leopards."
Heard Julie say, "Mr. smartmouth fuckin' with us. Got his girlfriend all wet!" Laughing, as if that had been his plan all along.
To Tomlinson, I said, "You okay?"
; He was wringing out his hair. "Water's kind of refreshing. Cold but nice."
"One of these days, you'll learn to listen to me. See that mob coming?"
He didn't; he was looking at Julie. Wiped water from his eyes and yelled, "Violence covereth the mouth of the wicked, and the name of the wicked shall rot! You hurt my hand on purpose!" As an aside to me, Tomlinson said, "That's from Proverbs, man. When you're pissed off, the Pali just doesn't have the juice."
I was shaking my head. "Just close your mouth and do what I tell you to do. You start the engine while I try to get the bow line. When I tell you, gun it. Run us straight into the bay." I stopped to place my glasses on the console . . . and the world became a blurry place of bright coronas and moving shapes. Then I stepped up onto the casting deck to confront Julie.
I am not an eager let's-prove-something-here fighter. I'd much prefer to talk it out. Or leave. Or even run. Which is probably why I have been in so few street fights. But when there are no options, when it is fight back or else, I do not double the fists and start swinging—except, long ago, when they placed us in a training ring with leather gloves and substantial chunks of Everlast headgear strapped around our ears. But no bare-knuckled boxing. Ever. By the time I was nineteen, I'd seen enough fistfights to know that no one ever wins; one man just loses more painfully than the other. I also knew that the clean, bare-knuckled choreography that constitutes fighting in books and movies has no more basis in reality than film's absurd lionization of the martial arts. A fistfight—or any fight—is ugly, bloody, and brutal; a quick descent to the primate roots. It is proof that, in the deepest wells of our own brains, Neanderthal man still lives. There is always a lot of grunting and growling. A lot of scrambling and panicked scratching amid the sweat and adrenal stink. And a fight always, always ends up on the ground. Which is why an average college wrestler could humiliate any one of Hollywood's kung fu movie stars—or a good professional boxer—were he so inclined.
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