by M.D. Lee
Not long after throwing my hook and bait in the water, I’m already finishing a meal of raw bluefish. I’m not too sure how safe it is to eat fish raw, but I remember reading in Social Studies the Japanese eat their fish this way. I think it was called sushi. Hmm…Social Studies actually helped me with something.
It took a few tries to hook a fish with a used cotter pin but, in the end, it worked. Now there’s nothing left but a fish carcass. The meal filled the void, somewhat, but it isn’t going to be a favorite anytime soon. It’s only a little better than the raw crab, but at least I can keep it down. But, as hungry as I was, I can deal with it. The only thing I can do to improve the situation’s maybe figure a way to build a cooking fire. Things are looking up. I feel satisfied with what I’ve done.
Now that I’ve food in my belly, I can think through the rest of my plan; the “brawn” part. I know Dad’s saying really means to do a task easier, think things through, but if I’m going to live on Hunter’s Island I also need to be stronger to survive. I need brawn.
Back on board The Sticky Wicket, notepad in hand, I begin to write out an exercise routine that’ll hopefully make me stronger. I need to make some weights to start getting my arms in shape. There’re plenty of rocks I can use for that. Running would probably help, too, but on this island there’s little open space to run; there’re plenty of other things I can do, instead.
I work up a daily schedule: First thing in the morning is a workout, which will be followed by some cleaning inside the shack, and any other chores that might need to be done to live on this island. Afternoons will be for fishing. It’ll be a full day, but I have nowhere to go and I certainly have the time.
My time on Hunter’s Island didn’t start out well. Everything seemed to go wrong. But now that I’m able to catch something to eat and I have a plan in place, I think living on this island isn’t going to be too bad. I feel good.
Chapter 12
Cool, Man
Summer marches along; warm, sunny days filled with a daily routine that keeps me busy. Several weeks may have passed, yet I’m not too sure because I forgot to start keeping track of my days, but I’ve kept to my plan; fixing up the shack and working out. It’s difficult to tell if I’m getting any stronger because it’s such a gradual thing, but I think a lot of the tasks on the island are becoming a little easier. Like the other day, I needed to move some of the traps around because they were in the way. I grabbed one and lugged it around. No problem. All in all, though, it’s a lot harder living here on Hunter’s Island than I ever could’ve imagined. But, boy does the time go by!
After cleaning out and fixing up the shack, I’m now living in it instead of sleeping in the little cabin of The Sticky Wicket. Now that it’s cleaned up, it’s not a bad place to live; I just wish it had electricity, and oh what I would give for running water. Without those two luxuries, it’s a lot like staying in the cabins at the boys’ camp I go to most summers. But, unlike at camp, I’m the one who’s doing the cleaning, fixing, and everything else. I’m in charge! And that feels good! I might be starting to enjoy all the hard work.
Most days I usually spend an hour or two lifting rocks as part of my workout. I need to put some muscle on my scrawny body. When I’ve gone through my rock-lift routine, if it’s low tide, I go underneath the dock, grab hold of one of the planks, and do a series of pull-ups. I hate pull-ups. It’s hard to say if the way I’m doing them has any effect on my muscles but, I figure, how can it not? At first it was all very hard but, lately, I’m getting used to it, and enjoy going to bed tired after a full day.
This morning, as I lie in bed waiting for the sun to come up, I make a mental list of what I want to get done today. In the darkness I stare at the ceiling, the wool blanket from the sailboat pulled up over me. Maybe I need to come up with a few more fishing lines? It would be great if I could catch more fish in less time. If nothing else, I sure could use a spare line. I don’t want to go hungry if I lose one. So that’s my big goal for the day; more fishing lines and hooks.
Eventually the morning darkness turns to gray, but I stay in bed a little longer until the sunlight actually creeps up over the horizon. I have things to do, but it makes no sense for me to fumble around in the dark or, at least, that’s my excuse for lying in bed just a little longer.
When I roll out of bed I pull my pants on, drag my shirt over my head, find my shoes, and then head out the door to start my day. Strolling toward the dock there’s something different. At first it doesn’t register, maybe it’s the dim light of early morning, but when I take a second look, it’s quite obvious. Tied to the dock next to The Sticky Wicket is another boat.
My heart skips a beat. I stop where I am and look down toward the dock. The boat’s an older wreck of a lobster boat, with big brown stains on the side, and faded paint that I think was once white. The name on the transom, in peeling black paint, reads Catch of the Day. The engine’s exhaust pipe, which emerges from the cabin structure in the center of the boat, looks so rusted out that I can’t figure out what’s holding it together. Each window’s so grimy that I’ve no idea how anyone can see where they’re going. If it weren’t tied to the dock, I’d say the boat was abandoned.
So the question is: Who docked it there? I’m certain there’s no one else walking around my island, but someone has to be around. It’s probably the owner of the shack. If it is, he’ll for sure boot me out of here. All that hard work right out the window.
Cautiously, I make my way down to the dock. The morning’s very quiet, with few noises other than a gull or two, calling out. Even the sea’s silent, no waves and no sounds. Each footstep I make on the old wooden planks of the dock sounds like falling timbers in the quiet of the morning. I’m aware of my breathing, and can hear my heart pounding in my head.
I try to call out, “Hello?” but it comes out as a whisper.
I walk slowly closer to the docked lobster boat. “Hello?” I say again, but a little louder this time.
Once I’m at the rail of the boat, I stand motionless and listen. Nothing. I lean over the side of the boat into the cockpit. “Hello,” I say, louder, and more confident. Still nothing.
Quietly swinging my legs over into the cockpit of the boat, I feel like I’m breaking into someone’s home. I peek into the cabin. There’re a few rusted tools lying about, a heap of foul weather clothing that look like a rotting compost pile, and old food wrappers with empty tin cans. Sitting on the floorboard is half a bottle of rum that looks out of place because it’s a clean, clear item among piles of junk and debris.
I hear a grunting sound somewhere forward in the cabin. Following the sound, I find two dirty socks sticking out of the forward bunk. The socks are attached to the feet of a man who’s lying in such a way that he’s either dead, or dead-drunk passed out. The smell of rum and bad breath overtakes me, making me gag slightly, which assures me that he’s probably passed out.
Should I poke him awake? Or just let him be? Judging from the smell of rum coming off him there’s no amount of poking that’s going to wake him. What the hell, I think; I’ll give it a try, anyway. There’s an old oar that is split down the middle and missing half the blade. I pick it up and give the guy a shove. Nothing. I do it again, only a little harder this time. An arm comes out and swats like there’s a mosquito, and then he’s motionless again. One more time; I give the guy a couple of quick jabs.
Two bloodshot red eyes crack open and blink as the man tries, without success, to raise his head. Then a puzzled look comes across his weary face and he says, “Are you a little wood elf who’s come for me?”
I think he’s serious. I know I’m scrawny and small for my age, but I’m working out hard and I’m sure I’m growing, too.
“No,” I say, a little irritated, then give him another shove with the paddle. “Who are you and what’re you doing here?”
“Hey! That’s so bogus. Stop poking me with that paddle.” The smell from his rum-drenched breath suddenly hits me like a fi
sh carcass rotting in the sun and I have to try hard not to hurl.
“Wood-elf dudes don’t attack people with paddles; at least I don’t think they do,” he says, through a slurry voice. “Man, I want to speak to the head elf!” And his head flops back down and his eyes close. He’s out again.
There’s not much I’m going to be able to find out from this guy, at least not right now, so the only thing to do is let him be. Before I leave, I pick up what’s left of the rum and dump it into the bilge.
I go about my morning routine, as there’s always plenty for me to do, but keep a constant eye on the lobster boat for any sign of life. I wonder if I ought to get in The Sticky Wicket and get the heck out of here while I can. He could be trouble. The other half of me reasons this guy’s probably harmless, so I might as well stay put, seeing as I’ve already put in a lot of work making the place livable.
A little before noon, I see the guy slowly climb out of his boat onto the dock, and look around like he’s landed on Mars with no idea how he got there.
I watch him from up in the woods on the hillside, where I know he can’t see me. The guy is skinny―really skinny. His stained and grimy jeans hang loosely on him, and his tightened belt is doing all the work holding them in place. His plaid flannel shirt long ago lost its sleeves, and his bare arms are deeply tan, with some sort of tattoo that I can’t make out. He wears a well-worn, trucker’s cap on his head, with a pony tail sticking out the back, and his beard looks like it hasn’t been trimmed in years. He might be twenty years old or maybe even thirty, but it’s too hard to tell because he is so shaggy.
Eventually he stops swaying, turns, and then stumbles off the dock onto the path that will lead him up to the shack. My shack. I’m not too excited to have him see that I’ve taken it over because he may never leave, but short of hitting him over the head with a rock, there isn’t much I can do. I just stay out of sight and keep an eye on him.
After watching the confused guy trying to figure out where he is, I eventually call out, “Hey! You!”
He turns to see who said that, and I step out from behind a pine tree. “You there!” I attempt to talk in a much deeper voice, which really only sounds like a little girl who’s trying to imitate a man’s voice. “What are you doing on this private island?”
His eyes squint as he looks me up and down, and he picks at his beard. “You here alone?” he asks.
Thinking quickly, I say, “No, my dad’s out fishing. He’ll be back soon.”
“Oh,” the man says. He seems to be deep in thought, weighing my words. “That’s cool, man.” Still rubbing his beard, he says, “Am I starved. Got anything to eat?”
“Just bluefish.”
I don’t think that interests him. He then says, “Well, how about a cup of coffee? Your mom must have some coffee going.”
“Nope, just bluefish. That’s all I . . . we, have. Just bluefish.”
“Just bluefish,” he repeats. “I can dig it. Bluefish will have to do.”
He shoves a hand out, and when he smiles he reveals a gold-capped front tooth. “Hey man, my name’s Pete. Everyone calls me Skinny Pete.”
It can’t hurt to feed the guy. As long as I keep up the illusion that my dad’s out fishing, and will be back, Skinny Pete will probably want to leave before too long. I lead the way up to the shack.
When Pete first steps inside, he squints for a while to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Once they have, he takes a good look around. His eyes stop on the single bed in the corner, the only bed in the little room, but he doesn’t say anything and sits down in the only chair at the table.
I hand him a plate of fish left over from this morning, but he doesn’t start eating it and only pokes at it with his fork. Skinny Pete looks up from the plate with a disappointed look on his face. “It’s raw,” he says. “You eat your fish raw? That’s harsh, man.”
Suddenly, he bolts upright and dashes through the door. A second later he makes a cry that sounds like someone’s turning his guts inside out. The thought of raw fish must not have agreed with him. About a minute later, Skinny Pete marches through the door and sits back down at the plate of raw bluefish, and slowly he begins to poke at it with his fork, taking a few timid bites.
“Why don’t you cook your food on that stove over there?” he asks between mouthfuls, pointing to the wood-burning stove in the corner.
Because that would require me to chop and split firewood and would take me an awfully long time each day. It’s all I can do to keep up with the things I need to do throughout the day, and if all I have to do is eat my fish raw to eliminate one hard chore, then I’m going to learn to eat it raw. But instead, I say, “We like to eat bluefish raw.”
Skinny Pete looks up from his plate and said with a questioning stare, “You like your fish raw?” I don’t think he believes me.
Without saying anything else, he stands up from the table and slowly walks around the tiny room while carefully eyeing everything. At the single bed he stands over it for a moment, taps it with his foot, then moves on to the “kitchen,” carefully looking at how things are arranged. He runs a single finger along the counter top, then turns around, leaning his body against it, with his arms crossed.
“You know what I think, Little Dude?” he says. “I think you live here alone. I don’t think your old man’s out fishing. That’s cool, we’re all hiding from something, I don’t need to know what you’re running from,” he says with a smile that tells me he’s running away from something, too. I remain silent.
“Don’t worry; I won’t turn you into The Man. I don’t care what you’re hiding from.”
Still, I say nothing, and give him a look that says I don’t really care what he thinks. He works a hand through his wild beard while his mind tries to rummage through all its rum-soaked parts.
Eventually he says, “I’ll make you a deal, man. My lobster boat is a lot of work; more work than I want to do in a day. How’s about you help me haul traps, then I’ll run them to town. I’ve got a dude who buys them freaky little critters and pays me good ching. I’ll give you a quarter of the dineros; I need some of the dough to pay for juice for my boat, and bait for the traps.” Skinny Pete sticks out his hand to shake on the deal.
I have nothing to lose, and some cash might come in useful at some point, so why not? Besides, maybe I’ll learn a thing or two if I can keep him sober enough to keep working. I take hold of his hand and give it a hard shake.
“Cool, man,” he says with a grin, shining his gold-capped tooth. “Cool.”
Then, as if a great scientific breakthrough has just entered his brain, he says, “You know, I think I have a couple of cans of beans down in my boat. If you get a fire going in the stove, I’ll cook us up some grub.”
Skinny Pete begins to walk out the door then, stopping halfway through, he quickly turns around. “Dude, I don’t know your name.”
“Fisher,” I say, before I realize it might be wise to make up a fake name. “Fisher,” I repeat.
“The Fish Man . . . cool.” He smiles, then continues out the door down to his boat at the dock.
Chapter 13
Ice Water
A week, maybe more, has passed and I’ve been working harder than I ever have before, lobstering on Skinny Pete’s boat. I’m finally getting the hang of things. It wasn’t easy at first. For the most part, I’m the bait guy. It’s not glamorous, but it has to be done. With the old, squeaky winch that’s mounted close to the helm, Skinny Pete hauls the trap out of the water, sets it on the rail, and reaches in, grabbing the lobster. If they’re big enough, they’re keepers, and get tossed in the bin. Next, I reach into the bait barrel for a handful of slippery bait, and reset the trap. We repeat this process all day long until it’s time to head back. It’s awfully hard work, and, by the end of the day, I’m usually wiped out. Most days, after the boat’s tied up at the dock, I go straight to bed.
It’s certainly harder work than I imagined, but I enjoy it―along with being
out on the water. My favorite time is when the sun comes up and all the nearby islands slowly appear out of the darkness. And even though the bait is foul-smelling, with a stink that’s nearly impossible to get off my hands, it isn’t too bad. It’s my job. I’m responsible for that part of the operation and, if I don’t do it right, we aren’t going to catch anything. It’s dumb, but I’m proud that I’m doing a good job―even if it’s just shoving a handful of rotten bait into the trap.
I wonder what my dad would think if he could see me working hard on a lobster boat. It’s good work, not the kind of work that he would do, but it’s something that people from Maine have been doing for generations. I think he’d be pleased but I’m not too sure. I know a few of my mom’s and dad’s good friends own lobster boats, so I don’t think it’s a job that he would frown on.
“Skinny Pete,” I say, as the trap I just baited splashes into the water with the colored buoy trailing behind. “How much money do you think we’ve made?”
He’s facing forward, looking out the smudged cabin window as he steers, then takes a quick glance back at the bin full of the big wiggling bugs people pay top-shelf prices for. “Oh . . . I don’t know. I never really know until I have the cash in my hand. The price seems to change by the day, and it just makes no friggin sense to me. I show up with my lobsters and they give me some ching, man. I’m cool with that.”
He works his hand through his beard as he aims the boat for the next pot. “I’ll tell you one thing, man. I think we’re doing pretty good. With your help we’ve been hitting more traps than I ever have, so I think it’s almost time to run these little critters into town and turn them into some dinero.” Then he adds, “Maybe tomorrow, I don’t feel like it today.” The next trap slides in beside the boat and we repeat the whole thing again. “Besides, the weather’s starting to get a little rough, and I think we should be heading in soon.”
He’s probably right; the day started out sunny, but now is gradually turning gray, while the wind seems to be slowly building. We should try to be tied back up at the dock in the next few hours, where it’s safe.