Chapter 2: “Ya got fins to the left, fins to the right, And you’re the only bait in town!”

Chapter 2

“Ya got fins to the left, fins to the right,

 And you’re the only bait in town!”

The fuel dock at Key West municipal marina has the usual signs screaming at you to not smoke while tied-up and fueling, but it also had a unique bit of local color: a 22’ taxidermy mako shark hanging by its tail from a scaffold, midway between the pumps and the storage tank.  Over the years, Fred, the shark, had acquired quite a colorful coating of seagull guano and graffiti, sporting a tie-dye peace sign on his dorsal fin, lots of names of fishermen’s girlfriends, and a suggestion to “Smoke Panama Red” that some stoner spray painted on Fred’s port side.  ‘Westie fishermen being as superstitious as fishermen all over the world, it became mandatory to high-five Fred on the dorsal fin and low-five him on the snout in order to ensure a good catch.

Billy Ray sidled his buddy P.T.’s Pennyan sport fisher up to the dock, hopped off, secured his lines, and hooked up the fuel line.  “How much you want today, Billy Ray?” called Sketcher from up in the control shack.  Folks called him Sketcher because working the fuel dock was just a day job for him; Sketcher was a bona-fide artist, whose charcoal sketches of Key West hung in art galleries up in Naples, and whose occasional oil-on-canvasses adorned many a corporate boardroom both North and South.

“We’re going after blue marlin with Japs payin’ for the ride, so better fill her up,” Billy Ray called back.  “Oh, and P.T. neglected to give me any cash, so can we…”

“…can y’all pay me once your Japs have paid you?  I suppose so.  But y’all be sure y’all don’t sink or get grabbed by that Bermuda Triangle, or take off to South America without paying me ‘n Mr. Texaco fust,” said P.T. in a mock serious voice.

“Why Mr. Sketcher, I don’t believe what anybody else says –you are a real human being, bless your heart,” Billy Ray came back with.

“G’wan now, make sure that fuel line’s on tight.  If I want someone to kiss my ass, I can always ask yer daddy.”

“Funy you should mention that: Daddy died a couple of months back.”

“Oh Billy Ray, I am so sorry,” said Sketcher, seriously this time, “I had no idea.  Y’all were never all that close, right?  I seem to remember you chewin’ my ear off about somethin’ he had done…”

“Thanks, Sketcher.  No, we were not close.  And it wasn’t something he had done, so much as something he had said.  Right after Deirdre left with my boy, he had the gall to say I was better off rid of white trash like her, and called my boy a redneck-in-training.  Now granted, me ‘n her didn’t always see eye to eye, but Christ, I still had feelings for her, and to call your own grandson a redneck-in-training…  Well, we just never had anything more to say to each other after that.”

“I forget ‘cause you’re just a good-old-boy, but ain’t you from some kind of plantation-society people back in Carolina?”

“Yep, I allow that I’m the last living descendant of John C. Calhoun, founding father of the Confederate States of America.”

“Wow,” said Sketcher, “that’s pretty impressive.  I don’t remember much about history, but that name rings a bell.  So, what with your Daddy passing, you must be set somethin’ pretty now.  Gonna sell the shack?  Can I buy the bar if ya do?”

“No plans to do that, Sketcher.  Daddy left me a little bit, just enough to put me in some old folks home around Tallahassee once I get too old to wipe my own behind.  He also left me with his precious “family papers,” more crap about J.C. Calhoun, I’d allow.  I might get me a parrot and line the cage with them.”

“Hey ol’ boy, that’s your family there.  If you don’t want ‘em, betcha the library might.  There’s probably historical stuff in there an’ all.  Might even be able to sell some of it to a collector.  Some of my gallery buddies might know people…”

“Thanks anyway, Sketcher.  I just might give them to the library.  Lord knows, I ain’t interested.  So, we full yet?”

“I believe you are.  Don’t forget Fred on the way out, and bring back some marlin,” said Sketcher cheerily as Billy Ray waved over his shoulder.  He unhooked the fuel line, hung it up, paid his respects to Fred, untied and giving the dock a shove with his foot, climbed up to the bridge and started up the Pennyan’s diesel.  Slithering through the inner harbor, Billy Ray next sidled up to the bait dock where his friend, P.T. was waiting for him with two buckets of live bait fish at his side.

“You didn’t put on a full fuel load, did ya?” asked P.T. as he handed Billy Ray one of the buckets.

“Of course I did,” said Billy Ray, stowing the bait fish in the aft compartment.

“You think I got an A.T.M. card for the Richmond Treasury or somethin’?  Why’d you do that?  You know I can’t afford a full load?”

“Aw, quit yer belly-aching, P.T.  Japs’re paying for the gas this time out, and besides, no telling how far we’ll have to go for marlin this time of year.  Besides, Sketcher let me have it on credit, so long’s we pay him when we get back.”

“Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?  Let’s go git us some marlin, good buddy!”

“You forgetting something, boss?  We gotta go git us some Paying Jap customers before we git us some marlin.”

“You know, I knew there was a reason to include you on this outing my friend, more ‘n just because you got the best free bar I’ve ever smoked a Cuban cigar at.  Come on, I feel lucky.  By the way, did you…”

“Yeah, I high-fived Fred before I left.”

“But did you low-five him too?  Curtis once forgot to low-five him and his boat…”

“…run aground off Key Biscayne.  I know.  It wouldn’t be because Curtis was actually headed for Bimini and couldn’t read a chart even if it was printed in scratch ‘n sniff format, would it?”

“Maybe,” said P.T. thoughtfully, “but just don’t mess with Fred, ok?  That ol’ shark’s been there since the 50’s, so there’s something to be said for that.”

Billy Ray threaded his way through the harbor, putting into the boat slip that P.T. had rented for the winter sport fishing season.  While P.T. made fast the lines and schmoozed the Jap businessmen who had chartered them for the day, Billy Ray studied the charts and listened in on the chatter from the c.b. radio and the loran, trying to figure out where the fish might be today.  Once their guests were settled with a Red Stripe and some seaweed crackers, P.T. joined him on the bridge.  “Where you reckon we should head?”

“Sounds like the Annabelle is getting some action off of Dead Rebb Ledge, right close to #77 buoy.  As I remember, that’s got a nice up-well that the marlin like to hang-out in, especially with a rising tide.  Think we can make it in two hours?”

“Two hours ought to do it,” answered P.T.  “I’ll take the bridge and you show our guests how the rigging works.  And be nice.  Those Japs are all about politeness and respect.”

“It’d be the other way around if the Yankees had of whupped them in the war,” groused Billy Ray, who didn’t relish explaining how the long-lines and marlin-seat worked to somebody whose second language was English.  Still, Japs tipped pretty well when they caught a fish, so Billy Ray didn’t really mind them all that much.  And they only came in the winter, besides.

While P.T. gunned the Pennyan over the waves, Billy Ray explained and demonstrated to the five dapper, courteous subjects of the Divine Emperor Akahito how to hook a marlin and play him all the way back to the boat.  He figured they picked up on about 75% of what they said, but at least it passed the time while they motored out to their station.  They even offered him a Red Stripe and tried to teach him a Japanese drinking song, to much hilarity on both sides of the language barrier. 

It seemed like no time at all when P.T. throttled-back and called down to Billy Ray to get up into the flying bridge.  P.T. went down to the deck, baited up 10-15 hooks, set the four long-lines out on his wings, and buckled the first guest into the marlin chair.  “Annabelle 3 points off starboard,” Billy Ray sang out. 

As the two boats passed each other, Sam, the Annabelle’s owner, hailed them with “Sorry Phineas, we done grabbed all the marlin here.  Early bird gets the worm, good buddy.”

“That’s P.T. to you, you ol’ flounder!” P.T. shot back.  “An’ what I heard was that it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese!”  This produced general laughter from both boats as the Annabelle throttled-up and made way for Key West.

After trolling the ledge for about a half hour, Billy Ray spotted what he was looking for: “Sails 2 points off to port!”

“You sure they ain’t fins?” P.T. called back.

“No sir, they’re marlin sails.  Prepare to get hit!”