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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
A small sacrifice
>> Alenuihaha Channel
The sun slipstreamed toward the horizon, pulling light from sky and sea. It was time to reel in the marlin lure, head closer to shore and drop another kind of bait in the water. The ice had melted this afternoon, and when Daren opened the big ice chest the body was barely chill to the touch.
The neon orange bell at the top of the downrigger rang out sharply and the arm of the downrigger snapped up with a clang. Fifty yards behind the yacht the sea erupted. A blue marlin, the biggest he'd ever seen, danced on its tail across the surface, trying to shake the hook.
It splashed back into the sea and he quickly eased the drag on the reel, letting the big fish run, and slid the butt of the pole into a narrow titanium cylinder stitched into his chest harness.
The marlin leaped again, closer this time -- he'd finally hooked his first 1,000-pound marlin! A grander! This one was 1,000, easy! It had to be weighed to be official, but he'd seen enough granders. He'd often gazed in wonderment at the one that actor William Conrad caught, eternally preserved at the Keauhou Beach Hotel.
For three hours he kept the fish on the line, letting out a little line when it ran, always taking back more than he'd given. The sun set, the moon rose. But he didn't need light. It was all feel at this point, and experience. And he was winning, his grander was inching closer to the boat, 40 yards now, he figured.
And then he swore again because actually catching a marlin is a two-man operation, a slight fact he forgot in the focus and fury of the fight.
Somebody has to gaff it, maybe stun it with a 12-gauge pop stick or two at the back of the head.
And it has to be done quickly because marlins, even small ones, have been known to attack the boat with their spears, to puncture and sink it, or to leap into the boat and thrash and slash the living hell out of everything.
He swore again, even if he did catch the fish there was no place he could take it to be weighed. He was supposed to be dead.
But he kept reeling in the monstrous fish that still resisted. And in the moonlight they made eye contact, man and marlin. He'd heard that marlins never forget a human face, and wanted this one to see his face.
"You know and I know. I could have had you."
He cut the line with a pocket knife. It pinged like a high-C piano wire. The fish disappeared with a powerful flash of its tail.
A grander, gone. But in the long run, a small sacrifice.
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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