water.
“Go! Go! Go!” Bill screamed.
Mikey slammed the throttle forward.
The engines roared. The bow rose and the boat lurched ahead. Mikey looked back at the marlin, still charging, still wanting to kill the boat and everyone and everything on it, kill, kill, kill!
Cal reeled madly, reeled and reeled and reeled, picking up the slack in the line.
The Crystal-C spewed exhaust that swirled up into the air behind the boat. Bill and Ernie grabbed on to the back of the fighting chair as the boat leaped ahead. Alison hugged the ladder with both arms.
Then the marlin vanished way down under the boat.
Sounded.
Mikey brought the throttle down quickly, then put the boat in neutral, stopping the engines, hoping the line would creep away from the props. His heart pounded in his chest.
Watch the water.
Watch, watch.
No mistakes.
He gulped air.
But for the slapping sounds of ocean against hull, the world fell eerily quiet. Mikey’s heart wouldn’t slow. He swallowed, took a deep breath. Watch the water, watch the water.
The line slowly moved away from the boat.
“Keep moving!” Bill shouted. “Keep pressure on the line.”
Mikey shoved the throttle forward. What does he mean? There
was
pressure on the line. It was taut. Wasn’t it?
As the Crystal-C once again groaned ahead, the tip of the rod bent nearly to the sea. Mikey heard Cal gasp, trying to stay in the boat, trying to keep the marlin from yanking him overboard. Mikey envisioned the terror of being suddenly pulled into the sea by some terrible thrust from the marlin.
“Jay-zus!” Ernie whooped.
Bill signaled for Mikey to bring the throttle back.
Mikey did as Bill said, looking over his shoulder. He studied the ocean. Nothing out there now but the line, tight as a tow chain. It entered the ocean directly off the stern, squeezing out drops of seawater.
Cal rested, leaning forward. He gripped the rod with both hands, his sides bellowing as he gasped for air. The fish had been on the line for about twenty minutes.
Alison stepped down on deck, but held on to the ladder.
Bill threw a kidney harness around Cal’s lower back. He attached it to the reel. “Let your back do the work.”
Again, Bill scooped a bucket of water out of the ocean and sponged down the overheated reel.
Line whirred out as the fish pulled away.
Cal started fighting again, the veins in his neck popping out like rope.
The marlin took a foot of line and Cal pulled half of that back. The fish was too strong. Cal would have to wear it down, tire it out, beat it that way. And he’d have to do it before he himself wore out.
A half hour passed. Line in, line out.
Sometimes Cal had to sit leaning forward, having no strength left, forced to watch the marlin steal more line from the reel. Sweat poured off him like rain. Mikey knew Cal could increase the drag and make it harder for the fish. But increasing the drag might snap the line.
Behind Cal, Ernie stood with a bottle of Tecate, holding it at his side, flipping it up every moment or two to take quick swigs.
Line in, line out.
That was how it worked. Back and forth, back and forth.
Mikey did his job. Perfectly. Keeping the line directly off the stern, careful not to allow even the slightest drift to the side.
Bill seemed to have forgotten about him for the moment, so Mikey figured he was doing okay. But looking back from the pilot’s seat was giving his neck a crick. He turned away, rolling his head from side to side. All he needed was a neck cramp to ruin everything.
“Mikey!” Bill shouted.
Mikey spun around.
The marlin was charging.
Again.
Coming straight at the Crystal-C, but this time underwater. Mikey could see the point where the line met the ocean, racing in toward the boat.
Cal reeled, trying to capture the slack. “Go-go-go!” Bill screamed at Mikey, his eyes wild.
Mikey rammed the throttle forward.
The boat lurched. The hull shuddered and groaned.
Mikey looked back. The line raced toward the stern, closer.
“Go! Go! Go!” Bill screamed.
Mikey slammed the throttle forward.
The engines roared. The bow rose and the boat lurched ahead. Mikey looked back at the marlin, still charging, still wanting to kill the boat and everyone and everything on it, kill, kill, kill!
Cal reeled madly, reeled and reeled and reeled, picking up the slack in the line.
The Crystal-C spewed exhaust that swirled up into the air behind the boat. Bill and Ernie grabbed on to the back of the fighting chair as the boat leaped ahead. Alison hugged the ladder with both arms.
Then the marlin vanished way down under the boat.
Sounded.
Mikey brought the throttle down quickly, then put the boat in neutral, stopping the engines, hoping the line would creep away from the props. His heart pounded in his chest.
Watch the water.
Watch, watch.
No mistakes.
He gulped air.
But for the slapping sounds of ocean against hull, the world fell eerily quiet. Mikey’s heart wouldn’t slow. He swallowed, took a deep breath. Watch the water, watch the water.
The line slowly moved away from the boat.
“Keep moving!” Bill shouted. “Keep pressure on the line.”
Mikey shoved the throttle forward. What does he mean? There
was
pressure on the line. It was taut. Wasn’t it?
As the Crystal-C once again groaned ahead, the tip of the rod bent nearly to the sea. Mikey heard Cal gasp, trying to stay in the boat, trying to keep the marlin from yanking him overboard. Mikey envisioned the terror of being suddenly pulled into the sea by some terrible thrust from the marlin.
“Jay-zus!” Ernie whooped.
Bill signaled for Mikey to bring the throttle back.
Mikey did as Bill said, looking over his shoulder. He studied the ocean. Nothing out there now but the line, tight as a tow chain. It entered the ocean directly off the stern, squeezing out drops of seawater.
Cal rested, leaning forward. He gripped the rod with both hands, his sides bellowing as he gasped for air. The fish had been on the line for about twenty minutes.
Alison stepped down on deck, but held on to the ladder.
Bill threw a kidney harness around Cal’s lower back. He attached it to the reel. “Let your back do the work.”
Again, Bill scooped a bucket of water out of the ocean and sponged down the overheated reel.
Line whirred out as the fish pulled away.
Cal started fighting again, the veins in his neck popping out like rope.
The marlin took a foot of line and Cal pulled half of that back. The fish was too strong. Cal would have to wear it down, tire it out, beat it that way. And he’d have to do it before he himself wore out.
A half hour passed. Line in, line out.
Sometimes Cal had to sit leaning forward, having no strength left, forced to watch the marlin steal more line from the reel. Sweat poured off him like rain. Mikey knew Cal could increase the drag and make it harder for the fish. But increasing the drag might snap the line.
Behind Cal, Ernie stood with a bottle of Tecate, holding it at his side, flipping it up every moment or two to take quick swigs.
Line in, line out.
That was how it worked. Back and forth, back and forth.
Mikey did his job. Perfectly. Keeping the line directly off the stern, careful not to allow even the slightest drift to the side.
Bill seemed to have forgotten about him for the moment, so Mikey figured he was doing okay. But looking back from the pilot’s seat was giving his neck a crick. He turned away, rolling his head from side to side. All he needed was a neck cramp to ruin everything.
“Mikey!” Bill shouted.
Mikey spun around.
The marlin was charging.
Again.
Coming straight at the Crystal-C, but this time underwater. Mikey could see the point where the line met the ocean, racing in toward the boat.
Cal reeled, trying to capture the slack. “Go-go-go!” Bill screamed at Mikey, his eyes wild.
Mikey rammed the throttle forward.
The boat lurched. The hull shuddered and groaned.
Mikey looked back. The line raced toward the stern, closer.
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