Plum Gut

“Thanks, Gus. But I probably can’t keep anything down.” He disappeared below.

I prayed no fish would find his hook while he was gone. I knew there was no chance Gus would return to shore without a catch. He had that same look on his face I remembered when we were working on his print at our shop. He wouldn’t let us take a break until he was satisfied with the results. I’d have to endure the day, at least until one of us landed a substantial fish or the weather turned stormy. Looking at the flawless blue canopy overhead was depressing. The day was perfect. I hoped Celeste was enjoying it.

“Sorry Benny. I don’t have anything.” Gus took his rod back. “Face into the wind and take deep breaths.”

We trolled east and drifted, then north and drifted, keeping in the deep water. I closed my eyes and waited. Time became elastic. By then, even Gus had vomited a few times and was lying on his back on the deck. There was only the sound of the wind and the water sloshing by. In all directions, the vast water extended without land or ship for company. I pictured us as sunburned mariners adrift on a lifeboat lost at sea for days.

Abruptly, Gus sat up. “We have cold beer, egg salad sandwiches, and spicy taco chips. Who wants what?”  

“Who brings egg salad on a fishing trip?” Arnold shouted over his shoulder. 

“You’re damn lucky Jenny arose at four-thirty to pack this stuff or you’d be eating bait washed down with warm piss.” Gus dug through the cooler. “It might settle your stomach to eat something, Benny.”

“No way. But thanks.” I concentrated on the horizon.

Arnold jammed a stick of Trident into his mouth. “I’m fine.”  

 “More for me.” Gus was King of all he surveyed, he settled at the wheel, eating sandwiches and guzzling beer. 

Arnold let out a loud sigh and stared out at the water. His shirt was sweat-stained, and his pants were wrinkled. He’d already stuffed his scarf into his back pocket. 

Suddenly, his rod jumped as if possessed by a violent spirit. “Holy cow! I hooked a fish, Gus! It’s a big one. Come help!” Arnold screamed like a little kid. 

Gus dropped his sandwich and charged over to him. “Look at that sucker. I think it’s a striped bass. He’s a real fighter!” 

Arnold struggled to stand with the rod recoiling in both hands. “You think so?”

I hoped he wouldn’t lose his grip and get pulled overboard into the water. “Gus, can we bring him in?” I was afraid the fish would sink the boat.

Gus took command of Arnold’s gyrating fishing pole, as it bucked and strained against his considerable strength. Arnold hovered nearby rubbing his hands together.

“We’re going to have to spell each other. My arm’s aching already.” Gus gaped at the fish’s wild movement as it momentarily breached the water. “Arnold, you little bastard. It’s a fucking tuna!”

“No shit.” Arnold wiped his forehead with his grimy scarf.

Gus spun around and shouted. “Benny, go below. There’s a book called, Saltwater Game Fishing. Look up tuna. I recall you need to bleed them. Read it and talk to me.”

I struggled to my feet, crawled below, and located the book. I found the section on tuna and shouted out the procedure to Gus who passed the rod to Arnold to battle for the fish.

“Stay steady. Feel it? He’s getting tired. We got him, boys. We got him,” Gus was grinning like he won a MacArthur Award. “Patience, men. Fish are very smart creatures. They’ve survived for millions of years. We’re the visitors here. Let out a bit of line. That’s right. Slowly. I never landed a tuna before. What a day!”

Gus and Arnold alternated in guiding the rod and shortening the line little by little. It was oceanic choreography. Their teamwork was a spontaneous blend of adrenaline and instinct. It seemed to last forever, the two men jockeying around the pole, holding it or each other while the big creature fought for its life in the sea. The distance between the fish and the boat slowly decreased. The wind seemed to increase, forming tiny whitecaps, mirroring our excitement. I pictured those Winslow Homer paintings of a fisherman in a small boat, the ocean churning around him, and Ishmael in Moby Dick describing the whale hunts.

One last pull and whap! The heavy fish struck the boat’s side making it vibrate. Gus walloped the fish’s head and pierced its side with his gaff hook. He flung himself backward and the tuna soared into the boat, flapping and fighting for oxygen. 

The fish’s mouth wagged like an auctioneer as it gasped and skated from side to side on the deck; we each jumped out of its way. As it panicked, desperate to breathe, its dark eye shone in alarm. The iridescent scales on its body sparkled like sequins in a million shades of violet, blue, orange, yellow, and silver, altering in hue as the fish thrashed. The fish’s body was about a yard long with a thickset middle tapering to a delicate tail.

“It’s about 30 pounds.” Gus rubbed his wrists. “It felt much bigger in the water.”

“It’s huge, Gus.” Arnold clapped Gus on the back.

In water, fish scales seem like calloused skin, though the colors are visible. Our bluefin tuna lying on the deck, gasping for breath shimmered as if lit from within; it was a supernatural entity, unearthly, a mystical presence. The late afternoon sun caught the scales’ edges dancing like sparkling neon fairy lights. 

How could a creature who lived on the earth look like this? Our skin was dull by comparison – assorted tan tones with patches of hair. Humans with a head on a stalk, legs, and arms, boney appendages erupting from a roughly rectangular body. We were awkward, ungainly, poorly formed in comparison to the fish whose body was compact, sleek, and streamlined for speed in the water. The fish’s head was perfectly integrated into its tapered body with delicate fins and a wide tail. Glorious metallic, twinkling scales covered its skin.

(Click number 3 to continue reading the story.)