booty?"
He
chuckled and peered down over the side into the water.
Nothing
but smooth green ocean with hardly a ripple to break the surface.
Perhaps something had caught underneath the fishing boat. If it was a
line or piece of discarded net it could foul the propeller when
Blackwood came to start the engine.
"Right,
we can't see anything-let's see if we can feel anything on you, old
girl." Rolling up his sleeve, the fisherman knelt down at the
side of the boat, leaned forward over the side and ran his hand along
the hull below the waterline.
Carefully
he worked his way to where the sound had seemed to come through the
planking. Leaning so far over he was within an ace of rolling forward
into the water, he felt the underside of the boat, fingers tingling
with the cold now.
"Nothing
... You're as clean as a whistle, old girl."
It
was as he began to pull his hand from the water that something
touched him.
"Now,
what was that?" He reached down under the boat again, his hand
clutching at sea water.
Nothing.
Probably
just a stalk of sea kelp floating by.
He
stood up, flicking the water from his hand, then drying it with a
rag.
"Reckon
it's Davy Jones up to his old tricks again."
He
reached the next lobster pot, caught the plastic bottle marker
floating on the dead-calm surface, and began pulling in the line.
Blackwood
returned to his singing again. Then he stopped. The line had snagged.
He pulled harder. It still held firm.
He
was just about to yank it when the line cracked tight, jerking his
hands down toward the water.
"Ach
... Damn, damn-damn!"
He
let go of the line and watched as the slack he'd already pulled on
board shot over the gunwale and disappeared, taking the bottle marker
with it.
He
looked over the side. The bottle had disappeared.
The
sod had actually sunk like it was made out of stone.
Incredulous,
Blackwood shook his head. "Well, I've never seen that before.
Something pulled that bugger straight down ... Hmm, we've got
something bloody peculiar going on here ... Ach, that's sore."
He
looked at his fingers. A friction burn ran across them in a
raw-looking groove. It began to burn like hellfire.
The
fisherman knelt down and reached over the side of the boat again to
dip his hand into the water. He stayed there for a moment, letting
the cold ocean take the fire out of the burn.
"Suzy
... What did I say about it being a good day? That sod nearly burnt
away my finger ... But what the hell could snag the line and yank it
down like that? Mmm ... Might be submarine trouble again. Last year
old Bob ended up with a periscope through his keel. If the bloody
Navy want to-"
Blackwood
stopped and stared down at his hand in disbelief. It was below the
surface of the water; he could see nothing, but-
"That's
odd. You know, old girl, it feels as if someone's holding my-Christ!"
It
had him.
He
tried to pull back his hand.
He
couldn't-something held it there beneath the water. For all the world
it felt as though another hand were gripping his. Strong fingers
around his fingers ... Shark? Conger eel? It had to be-
Get
it out of there! Get it out!
Blackwood
wrenched backward until his back muscles creaked.
He
couldn't shift it.
He
strained harder. He could see nothing, but now the water swirled and
boiled under the boat like big fish in a feeding frenzy.
"Let
go ... Let go ..."
The
pull on his hand increased. The boat began to tip sideways. She was
going to capsize.
Blackwood
shifted his balance so he could pull harder, his mind spinning like
fury.
Something
was trying to drag him overboard... . Something wanted him in the
water. ... Something ...
"Let
go!"
But
the hand only tightened around his. Then pulled harder.
Now
his face was nearly in the water that threshed and bubbled to foam.
He
felt the boat tipping; now he was lying at an angle so steep his
blood ran from his legs to his head. The lobsters slid from the
catch-box back into the ocean.
His
face
He
chuckled and peered down over the side into the water.
Nothing
but smooth green ocean with hardly a ripple to break the surface.
Perhaps something had caught underneath the fishing boat. If it was a
line or piece of discarded net it could foul the propeller when
Blackwood came to start the engine.
"Right,
we can't see anything-let's see if we can feel anything on you, old
girl." Rolling up his sleeve, the fisherman knelt down at the
side of the boat, leaned forward over the side and ran his hand along
the hull below the waterline.
Carefully
he worked his way to where the sound had seemed to come through the
planking. Leaning so far over he was within an ace of rolling forward
into the water, he felt the underside of the boat, fingers tingling
with the cold now.
"Nothing
... You're as clean as a whistle, old girl."
It
was as he began to pull his hand from the water that something
touched him.
"Now,
what was that?" He reached down under the boat again, his hand
clutching at sea water.
Nothing.
Probably
just a stalk of sea kelp floating by.
He
stood up, flicking the water from his hand, then drying it with a
rag.
"Reckon
it's Davy Jones up to his old tricks again."
He
reached the next lobster pot, caught the plastic bottle marker
floating on the dead-calm surface, and began pulling in the line.
Blackwood
returned to his singing again. Then he stopped. The line had snagged.
He pulled harder. It still held firm.
He
was just about to yank it when the line cracked tight, jerking his
hands down toward the water.
"Ach
... Damn, damn-damn!"
He
let go of the line and watched as the slack he'd already pulled on
board shot over the gunwale and disappeared, taking the bottle marker
with it.
He
looked over the side. The bottle had disappeared.
The
sod had actually sunk like it was made out of stone.
Incredulous,
Blackwood shook his head. "Well, I've never seen that before.
Something pulled that bugger straight down ... Hmm, we've got
something bloody peculiar going on here ... Ach, that's sore."
He
looked at his fingers. A friction burn ran across them in a
raw-looking groove. It began to burn like hellfire.
The
fisherman knelt down and reached over the side of the boat again to
dip his hand into the water. He stayed there for a moment, letting
the cold ocean take the fire out of the burn.
"Suzy
... What did I say about it being a good day? That sod nearly burnt
away my finger ... But what the hell could snag the line and yank it
down like that? Mmm ... Might be submarine trouble again. Last year
old Bob ended up with a periscope through his keel. If the bloody
Navy want to-"
Blackwood
stopped and stared down at his hand in disbelief. It was below the
surface of the water; he could see nothing, but-
"That's
odd. You know, old girl, it feels as if someone's holding my-Christ!"
It
had him.
He
tried to pull back his hand.
He
couldn't-something held it there beneath the water. For all the world
it felt as though another hand were gripping his. Strong fingers
around his fingers ... Shark? Conger eel? It had to be-
Get
it out of there! Get it out!
Blackwood
wrenched backward until his back muscles creaked.
He
couldn't shift it.
He
strained harder. He could see nothing, but now the water swirled and
boiled under the boat like big fish in a feeding frenzy.
"Let
go ... Let go ..."
The
pull on his hand increased. The boat began to tip sideways. She was
going to capsize.
Blackwood
shifted his balance so he could pull harder, his mind spinning like
fury.
Something
was trying to drag him overboard... . Something wanted him in the
water. ... Something ...
"Let
go!"
But
the hand only tightened around his. Then pulled harder.
Now
his face was nearly in the water that threshed and bubbled to foam.
He
felt the boat tipping; now he was lying at an angle so steep his
blood ran from his legs to his head. The lobsters slid from the
catch-box back into the ocean.
His
face
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