The Forty Fathom Bank and Other Stories by Les Galloway

words. And upon that silence that bridged our separate thoughts, I sensed something not quite right, some shadow of suspicion in May’s mind. All during breakfast I had the feeling he was watching me with those innocent green eyes of his, that possibly he was puzzled or curious or even disappointed. No doubt all this was nothing more than a product of my imagination, a projection of some guilt or other. But whatever, I could not bring myself to look up at him and ate my eggs and Spam with my gaze consciously averted.
    The sound of the surf had all but disappeared and the
Blue Fin
lay still and silent as though she were beached. The weather had changed. There was a thickish quality in the air that was not entirely from the settled stench of the sharks. And through the open port a low star glittered fiercely.
    Perhaps I was merely suffering the anxiety of a guilty conscience, but the subtle change I’d detected in May’s expression continued to disturb me. I was certain with that almost mystic insight that had enabled him to locate the sharks he had seen at a glance all that had been in my mind during the night. No doubt the full meaning of those oppressive dreams and fruitless speculations were as clear to him as they were obscure and confused to me. What satisfaction I’d gotten from my unexpected good fortune was completely forgotten. The clearheadedness I’d experienced earlier vanished.
    With the Primus going the cabin was quite warm. Yet I suddenly felt cold. I did not drink my coffee, but sat with the heavy mug cupped in both palms staring at the oily film on the thick black surface. The silence, the unfamiliar lack of motion and the glittering star dilating grotesquely through the thick glass in the portlight lens all combined to add to my growing disquietude and sense of foreboding. Everything around me seemed suddenly strange and unreal. It was as if I’d awakened from a bad dream only to find myself in the grip of another, even more disturbing. And, as in a bad dream, an aura of impending disaster, dark and of unknown magnitude, seemed to lay like a sinister presence, not only over the
Blue Fin
’s cabin, but over the whole vessel as she lay dead quiet at her anchor in the pre-dawn starlight.
    Yet I had no cause to feel guilty, I reflected, trying to console myself. My night thoughts could easily be justified,not only by my genuinely desperate needs, but by May’s mysterious and possibly suspect deal. As for the dreams, whatever they might have symbolized, they were, unquestionably, just garbled reruns of the day’s bizarre events and certainly beyond my conscious control. And besides, when the fishing was done and the sharks unloaded, it would be May with his quiet compassion—taking the wheel when I was exhausted, cooking the dinner and even washing the dishes so I could rest—it would be May with his deep inner joyousness and that almost other-worldly serenity who would walk off with most of the profits. If anyone felt guilty, I concluded indignantly, but at once considerably relieved, it should be May.
    In spite of my relief, however, I still did not look up. By the light, sweet odor of tobacco smoke I knew May had finished his breakfast. I heard him gather up the plates from the table and set them quietly on the sink, then caught a quick glimpse of his gray sweatshirt as he disappeared up the companionway ladder. If he had suspected anything, either by my expression or behavior, I thought, he certainly did not show it. His lithe, strong body and light step seemed, as always, all innocence and goodwill.
    The star was gone from the portlight, and, though the sky was still quite black, I could sense the approach of dawn. My coffee was cold. I put the cup down and lit a cigarette. With May already on deck, probably getting the sardines out of the hold, I knew we’d soon be heading back to the forty fathom bank.
    But I felt no desire, or rather, could find no good reason