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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Trolling
>> Waters off Kona
He'd always preferred trolling to just bobbing on your butt in one place and hoping a hungry fish would find you in the middle of the sea. Sure, trolling burns fuel, but there's always a breeze in your face. And at least you're doing something. It's active fishing. He thought of it more as hunting.Passive did not work for him. Good things did not just walk into his life -- with the exception of Sonya. Well, until 12 hours ago she was a good thing.
Anyway, with the yacht's solar electrical panels to power low-speed cruising, he didn't have to worry about fuel. That was good because he couldn't use the yacht's pink sails. They would be a dead give-away, so he kept them stored below with the matching pink life rings and jackets.
The boat also had the fanciest downrigger he'd ever seen, designed to keep the bait down where the big fish swim. But even hooked to the downrigger, his bait displaced so much water, it looked like a torpedo chasing the yacht. It was about the same size as a torpedo. A sailboat cruising without sails and being followed by a torpedo might attract attention, but he wasn't worried about that.
He was out of sight of the Big Island, and inter-island airline routes didn't come this far north.
He was getting the feel of this boat and loved its grace in the water, even towing the bulky bait that was tied at the ankles. But he resented the boat's luxury -- the polished brass and teak, the freezer full of food, the Red Hook beer tap, the huge TV screen, the symphony hall sound system, and gadgets like the laser depth gauge that he had always coveted for his boat but could never afford. And the solar-powered motor.
All those things fueled his anger and reminded him of all that he gone without for all those years since his father died. It brought back the anger from when his father died and the insurance company screwed his mother and him.
The boat shuddered and slowed for a moment. The downrigger arm popped up with a clang, rousing him from his resolute reverie. Below the surface, he saw the bait disappear into the manhole mouth of a tiger shark. He well knew the shape and color of tiger sharks. When it disappeared, only two feet and a few inches of ankles dangled from the end of the line. He cut them free, and they too went to join the food chain.
And now there was just one more body to dispose. His plan was going very well.
Then there was Sonya, who on the night he proposed to her had betrayed him. Sonya as fish food?
He could see no other way.
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com