“Dang!” I whispered, looking over my shoulder half-expecting to see Dad.
He wasn’t there of course.
Still shouldn’t have cussed.
But the Whistle Buoy itself was already a long ways offshore, 15 miles at least. Not a quick trip. No man’s land beyond that. Well, no man’s water I guess.
The wide open Gulf of Mexico.
I already knew Mom would fillet me alive if she found out I’d been fishing by myself instead of working for tips like I told her. But offshore was for experienced captains. I always stayed inside the bay where the water isn’t as choppy. Caruso would have known all of that. So why’d he give me the numbers?
Then I thought about the way he called me Jim, not Jimmy like the other captains. The way he knew I didn’t want charity any more than Dad did. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Even a halfway decent haul of red snapper would solve our problems for a month. A monster haul would pay for everything–the overdue dock fees, the house payment, the doctor bills.
But I’d never gone offshore before on my own. Especially not at night.
It’s a dumb idea, I thought. And then I made myself stop thinking about it. I’d do just fine staying inshore.
I had bait. My gear was rigged. I kicked at one of the ten gallon gas tanks that sat under the bench seat. A pitiful sip of fuel sloshed inside. The other was bone dry. I wasn’t going anywhere without fuel.
As if I needed one more problem. At least I had a hundred extra dollars to solve it.
Normally I’d haul the tanks up the road to fill them at the local gas station. But it was already late and I didn’t want to risk funny looks from the station workers or some nosy sheriff’s deputy wondering why I wasn’t home on a school night.
But to fill up at the docks, I had to talk to fish-faced Franky.*
That was going to be a problem.
Fish-faced Franky did what I told my mom I was doing–running errands for the captains for tips. He told everyone he was sixteen. Maybe even looked the part with his big shoulders and ratty mustache, but he was only a year ahead of me in school.
Still, if anybody could get me fuel it’d be Franky. I just had to ask him right.
“No way,” he said, cheeks puffed out like a blowfish.
“Come on,” I said.
He shook his head, letting out a sigh. “I’ll look the other way when you go off by yourself because of your Dad and all. I just ain’t selling you the fuel to do it.”
I figured he might try and pull something along those lines.
But I wasn’t licked yet. After all, what kind of fisherman would I be if I couldn’t figure out how to work up a bite? I just needed the right bait.
“What if I told you where Captain Caruso found those snapper?”
Franky’s eyes went wide, which made him look even more like a blowfish. Reason is, if a dock hand has a hot tip on where to find fish, he’ll end up with a pocket full of cash from a captain who just brought in a big haul.
A hot tip for a hot tip.
But then Franky shot me a hard look. “You don’t know the spot.”
I pulled out Captain Caruso’s hundred-dollar bill. Pointed at the numbers. Told him what Captain Caruso had told me. A hungry smile curled at the corner of Franky’s mouth.
He didn’t say okay or yes or sure thing. Just a little twist in his neck that told me he was in. I knew Caruso would cuss me when he found out I told. But I needed the fuel and Franky wanted the spot so he could give it to another captain.
It was a fair trade.
I handed him the money. “All right,” I said. “Fill ‘er up.”
Franky swiped the money out of my hand and stuffed it in his jeans pocket. Then he smirked at me with that fish-faced smile of his and turned his back like we hadn’t just made a deal. “Thanks for the tip,” he said. “Now run on home before I call your mom and tell her what you’ve been up to.”
“What?”
He couldn’t have done worse to hit me in the mouth. My fingers balled into fists and a different kind of heat shot up my neck. Nevermind that he was older than me and half again as big.
You don’t go back on a deal.
“Hey!” I hollered.
The docks were only lit by a few overhead lights, but the sound carried and I could see a couple of heads turn our way. Franky must have seen the look in my eye and took a scared step backwards. That was a mistake. I jumped into the empty space and grabbed a fist full of extra large t-shirt.
“You’re gonna sell me that fuel.”
I yanked harder, pulling my nose to his chin. He even smelled like fish. I could feel threads starting to rip.
Out of the corner of my eye, people-shaped shadows began to gather.
Franky clamped two meaty hands around my wrists. “No. But you’re gonna let go right now and pretend we was having a joke,” he hissed.
“Why would I do that?” I pulled even harder, flexing against his grip. He might have been big but I was strong enough to hold my own.
“Cause otherwise I’ll stop looking the other way when you come in at midnight. Maybe mention to the dockmaster we’ve got an underage kid working way past what’s legal. Maybe then your boat goes to auction ‘cause you ain’t paid your dock fees. Might even buy it for myself at a discount.”
I let go, forced a chuckle.
What else could I do? Here I thought I had Franky hooked and he’d gone and hooked me instead. He laughed too and brushed off his shirt like I’d got it dirty. Then he sneered at me and walked away.
Dadgum Franky. Dadgum snapper.
Then a thought hit me. “You going to school tomorrow?” I called after him.
He stopped dead. Slowly, he turned back toward me with a dangerous look in his eye.
I could feel myself smirking as I lowered my voice to a whisper. “You know, middle school.”
Franky’s eyes got wide and, even under the dock lights, I could see his face going blotchy. I guess neither one of us was really supposed to be working that late.
“You want me to say it louder?” I hissed.
He scowled at me and turned away.
“And put the change toward our dock fees,” I called after him.
Ten minutes later both gas tanks were full. I finished stowing my gear in the skiff, ready for another night of inshore fishing. If I was lucky, I’d make back the cost of the fuel plus a few more dollars to put towards the dock fees.
The Montauk’s two-stroke Johnson chugged to life in a puff of white smoke when I turned the key. I loved to feel the steady thump of that engine in my chest. I felt powerful. In control.
Just as I cast off the dock lines, I heard Captain Caruso’s Yamaha fire up from three slips down. He was headed back out past the Whistle Buoy where the monster snapper were biting fast as you could bait a hook.
And that’s when the terrible thought I’d told myself to stop thinking crept back into my head.
Me n' Dad had gone offshore quite a few times in the Montauk, on days when the bite was supposed to be good and the water looked like glass.
That’s why I knew I could do it.
That night, the water looked like glass.
And besides. It was only 20 miles.