Plum Gut

Gus was twelve years older than we were and an established painter with gallery representation. He was living our dream. Celeste and I were a couple of years out of Pratt with an undercapitalized fine art print shop in Brooklyn, but we’d worked well together on his project. I hoped my joining him on this fishing adventure would cement our friendship and gain me his respect. What’s a little discomfort worth anyway?

“I feel better now.” I hoped. “I’m not much of a drinker or a sailor.” 

I’m a Chicano Air Force brat who grew up in West Texas. Fishing wasn’t my dad’s idea of fun. Fish wasn’t his idea of food. Any fish that made it into our house arrived frozen in a block of ice from the commissary. 

The previous night’s hard rain and wind had scrubbed the atmosphere leaving it fresh and clean. I looked up between heaves and noticed it was a beautiful morning, not a cloud in the sky. A cluster of seagulls chattering amongst themselves soared above us.

“Gus, leave him be. He’s chumming for us.” Arnold turned to me. “Aren’t you Ben? Try to hold it in until we reach deep water.” Arnold was compact and slim, dressed in pressed khakis, a tucked-in striped shirt with a scarf, new Topsiders, and a navy brimmed cap. His curly dark hair peeked out along the edges. 

 “Arnold, who are you dressed as? Thurston Howell, the fourth?” Gus pinched Arnold’s shirt collar. “Where did you acquire this outfit?”

“My wife bought it for my birthday last month. Sorry if it offends you.”

“You can wear whatever the hell you want, but this ain’t no pleasure cruise; we’re deep-sea fishing. Your fancy duds are going to get all fucked up with blood and fish guts.” 

“I need to puke.” Arnold stumbled into Gus as he tried to stay on his feet and get to the side to vomit. “What was that shit we drank last night?”

“It was the Back-to-School Special, thirty bucks a case. I figure, why waste money on the good stuff? This crap gets you just as drunk. Quicker maybe. I hope there’s still some left.”

As the last spit of land disappeared, all conversation ceased. I pictured Celeste in a hammock reading in the shade. I envied her. Arnold studied the departing coastline. His narrow mustache quivered slightly. My guess is he was calculating if he could swim the distance to shore. 

After two hours, Gus turned from the helm to the two of us slumped on the stern bench. 

“We’re out far enough. Welcome to Plum Gut, boys – three-hundred feet deep, chock full of fish awaiting their demise. Let’s get some lines out.” He slowed the engine. “How are you doing, Arnold?”

“Just fine Gus. I’m hankering to catch something.” Arnold was originally from Tulsa. “Striped bass and tuna should be running now.”

I was pretty sure Arnold knew no more about fishing than I did, but it appeared he’d done a little research before the trip. 

“Striped Bass, for sure. I’ve never caught a tuna out here. Tons of snappers. I love snappers. You like snappers, Arnold?”

 “I don’t believe I ever ate one. They fishy tasting?”

“Well, Arnold, they’re fish. So, yeah.” Gus handed him a rod. “Stand on the starboard side.” He pointed out the correct direction.

“Gus, I brought my fishing pliers, a Schwarzwolf 3-in-1 Knife, and a Leatherman Squirt.” Arnold carefully guided the baited hook into the water, as if placing an egg in a nest. He reminded me of the kid everyone hated who sucked up to the teacher and always got straight As.

“That’s mighty thoughtful of you, Arnold. But I loaded the essential stuff – beer, sandwiches, and Band-Aids.”

“Ben, do you want to fish?” Arnold turned to me, nearly hitting me with his baited hook. 

“Your face is as gray as your tee shirt. You okay, Benny?” Gus peered into my watery eyes. “Let’s let him sit on his own for now.” He ducked below and returned quickly. “You’ll topple over puking so much. Here’s your very own bucket. When it’s full, dump it over the side, and don’t forget to rinse, I don’t want you stinking up my new boat.” 

My stomach stung like a punching bag being mauled by a short boxer. The sun beat down hot, but the strong breeze kept it tolerable. The ocean was noisier than I’d imagined it would be. The wind and water created an undulating roar we had to shout over. It smelled salty and a bit like iodine, not fishy like it does near the shore. 

The rippling blues where the sky met water blended like a painting by Monet brought to life. The horizon rose and fell rhythmically. My guts followed. Every five minutes, I hunched over the bucket with stomach spasms for thirty seconds or so. 

I tried to remind myself to enjoy the sunshine and the ride. I was on my first adventure at sea like Jim Hawkins in Treasure Island. As a kid, my family moved to a new Base every few years, so I’d been raised with four rowdy brothers. I’d never played on a sports team or been part of a group, except in the Army. A loner no more, I was now part of a group of New York City artists, as different as people could be from the ranchers and roughnecks’ kids I knew as a boy. I’d decided to come on this sea journey – to belong for a change. I hoped it would be worth it.

An hour later, Arnold still manned his post with grim resolution. No one was having the promised fun, except Gus. He was standing tall at the stern squinting into the wind with his line in the water, his rod resting in his hands, and a broad smile on his face. 

Later, he dropped down next to me on the bench. “I wish you weren’t doing so poorly, Benny. Got a headache?”

Turning my head to look at him was a huge effort. 

“I might have some Ibuprofen below. Hold my rod and I’ll take a look-see.” 

(Click number 3 to continue reading the story.)