Beauty And The Boat-Beast
The roar of the motor deafens me as the boat rears up on its prop. I am being hurled in darkness across Tarpon Basin toward Dusenbury Creek. Inertia glues me to my seat. I cast a sidelong glance at the beast that’s driving. He bears a striking resemblance to the loving husband I left at the dock.
A sense of impending doom settles over me as the beast tries to anchor in the creek. Only a numbskull like me couldn’t keep the fifteen-year-old motor from stalling while the beast sways on the
bow, trying to
untangle the anchor line.
“I’d like to get a hold of that ____of a ______ who sold me this ____ing piece of
line!””
I must be deaf too, or I’d be able to hear, and interpret, every vile curse shouted over the motor’s roar: “Throw it in reverse!” “Cut the damn motor!”
The beast is in his element now as he tromps about the boat. “Where the hell is my tackle box?”
I point to the bow.
“It shouldn’t be up there!” He grabs the rods. “Oh crap!” he says, pointing mine at me like a weapon. “I always have to tie your rigs. You should learn to do this yourself! Why do I have to do everything? Snarl!”
So, as always, I watch intently while he ties the leaders, and I say in a pacifying voice, “If you’d let me, I know I could do it.”
“Forget it! I have to do everything! Snarl! Where the hell are the new hooks I bought? They’re not in the tackle box!”
Searching the boat, hoping to calm the beast, I find the hooks in a bag, in the cuddy cabin where he put them last week. He snatches the bag from me like an osprey snatches a mullet.
Finally, the rods are ready. The beast ties the chum-bag and drops it over the side. Dipping into the bait bucket, he swears, “Damn it! That creep sold me half-dead shrimp again. Snarl!” Then, remembering that I won’t plunge my bare hand into a swarm of slithering, snapping sea-roaches, he dips out a sickly one and throws it on the deck. (He has some cut up mullet in the motor-well but I don’t relish its lingering bouquet.) I use a cloth to pick up the shrimp lest it give one last violent snap as I put it on the hook. I finally cast my line toward the middle of the creek
“What are you casting out there for?” the beast bellows. “Why don’t you just drop it over the side? Snarl! Can’t you see where the chum-bag is?”
I know where the chum-bag is, I say to myself, eyeing the beast. Then as I begin to reel in my line, he says, “You might as well leave it there now.”
Suddenly I remember the radio. I place my rod in the holder and head for the cabin. While I’m trying to tune in some soothing music, the beast becomes frantic and yells, “You got a bite! Look at your rod! What are you doing up there anyway? Turn off that damn radio!”
My rod is bent and quivering over the water. I spring from the radio and grab my rod. I tighten the drag and begin reeling.
“Don’t horse it!” the beast yells. “Keep your rod up!”
I reel the fish to the surface.
“A damn catfish!” the beast whines.
I hate to catch them; they’re so cute with those whiskers. And since I can’t get the hooks out of their soft mouths, the beast has to do it. I watch helplessly, hoping he doesn’t hurt the fish. He throws it back. I sigh in relief.
Now I need another shrimp but dare not ask the beast. So I pull the bait bucket up as quietly as I can. Slipping on the gardening glove I keep stashed under the seat for just such an emergency, I feel around in the bucket for a not too live one.
The beast snaps, “What are you doing with that stupid glove? How can you be afraid of a few little shrimp?” He grabs the bucket and fishes one out. “Here!” he says, slinging it on the deck.
He leers at me as I try to pick it up with my cloth. Then as I break off that sharp little horn right between the shrimp’s eyes, the beast howls with laughter. Only a moron would believe that story (told by a neighbor who catches a lot of rather large fish) about how this releases the shrimp’s essence and attracts the big fish. But what the heck, I always think, it’s worth a try.
Right then a fish yanks on the beast’s line. “Oh no!” he groans, storming toward his rod. He begins to reel it in. It looks like a big one. The beast’s eyes are glazing over as he reels it toward the surface. But suddenly the fish lets go. The beast loses his balance and staggers. Then he whirls around, a froth of saliva oozing through his bared fangs.
“If you’d do your own dirty work – snarl – I wouldn’t lose so many damn fish!” His eyes, two slanted slits, he hoists the shrimp bucket again. This time he fishes out three. “Here!” he snarls, pitching two at my feet. “So I don’t have to keep gettin em for ya!” After securing his rod, he rummages in the cooler, craving a beer – the stuff boat-beasts are made of. And contrary to popular belief, this beast thrives on the silver bullet. However, another fish picks that very instant to strike. The beast crashes past me shouting, “Are you blind? Couldn’t you see I had a bite? Get the net! Get the net!”
I stick my rod in the holder and stand by with the net.
“It’s a big one,” the beast says, his voice almost human.
Oh please, I pray silently as he seizes the net from me, let him land it. And please let it be a big one. That would appease him. I hold my breath now as he slops a nice fat mangrove snapper on the deck.
“Heh, heh, heh,” he snickers, the light from the lantern catching the primitive glint in his eyes.
Suddenly, a loud zing! My rod is arching and dancing over the water. I grab it and begin reeling. Without the help of the beast, I manage to land a snapper twice the size of his. That’s when he begins his tirade of excuses: “One of these days I’m gonna get me some good fishin equipment. How can anybody do anything with this junk? Look at this rod! Look at this line! It’s all balled up. Snarl!” His voice grows louder as he thumps his snapper on the deck again. “I can’t even get the hook out of this damn fish! Where the hell are the pliers?”
“I have the pliers,” I say, calmly. With my glove on, I remove the hook from my prize, remembering that this is what makes it all worthwhile. This is why I repeatedly suffer such abuse. Dropping my catch into the cooler, I sidestep the beast to avoid his tormented eyes, lest he catch me gloating and give me the world’s worst hickey. I turn on the radio and tune him out while dreaming of the delectable fish, poached in wine, my loving husband and I will share tomorrow. Tomorrow – when the boat-beast is gone and altogether forgotten.
The roar of the motor deafens me as the boat rears up on its prop. I am being hurled in darkness across Tarpon Basin toward Dusenbury Creek. Inertia glues me to my seat. I cast a sidelong glance at the beast that’s driving. He bears a striking resemblance to the loving husband I left at the dock.
A sense of impending doom settles over me as the beast tries to anchor in the creek. Only a numbskull like me couldn’t keep the fifteen-year-old motor from stalling while the beast sways on the
bow, trying to
untangle the anchor line.
“I’d like to get a hold of that ____of a ______ who sold me this ____ing piece of
line!””
I must be deaf too, or I’d be able to hear, and interpret, every vile curse shouted over the motor’s roar: “Throw it in reverse!” “Cut the damn motor!”
The beast is in his element now as he tromps about the boat. “Where the hell is my tackle box?”
I point to the bow.
“It shouldn’t be up there!” He grabs the rods. “Oh crap!” he says, pointing mine at me like a weapon. “I always have to tie your rigs. You should learn to do this yourself! Why do I have to do everything? Snarl!”
So, as always, I watch intently while he ties the leaders, and I say in a pacifying voice, “If you’d let me, I know I could do it.”
“Forget it! I have to do everything! Snarl! Where the hell are the new hooks I bought? They’re not in the tackle box!”
Searching the boat, hoping to calm the beast, I find the hooks in a bag, in the cuddy cabin where he put them last week. He snatches the bag from me like an osprey snatches a mullet.
Finally, the rods are ready. The beast ties the chum-bag and drops it over the side. Dipping into the bait bucket, he swears, “Damn it! That creep sold me half-dead shrimp again. Snarl!” Then, remembering that I won’t plunge my bare hand into a swarm of slithering, snapping sea-roaches, he dips out a sickly one and throws it on the deck. (He has some cut up mullet in the motor-well but I don’t relish its lingering bouquet.) I use a cloth to pick up the shrimp lest it give one last violent snap as I put it on the hook. I finally cast my line toward the middle of the creek
“What are you casting out there for?” the beast bellows. “Why don’t you just drop it over the side? Snarl! Can’t you see where the chum-bag is?”
I know where the chum-bag is, I say to myself, eyeing the beast. Then as I begin to reel in my line, he says, “You might as well leave it there now.”
Suddenly I remember the radio. I place my rod in the holder and head for the cabin. While I’m trying to tune in some soothing music, the beast becomes frantic and yells, “You got a bite! Look at your rod! What are you doing up there anyway? Turn off that damn radio!”
My rod is bent and quivering over the water. I spring from the radio and grab my rod. I tighten the drag and begin reeling.
“Don’t horse it!” the beast yells. “Keep your rod up!”
I reel the fish to the surface.
“A damn catfish!” the beast whines.
I hate to catch them; they’re so cute with those whiskers. And since I can’t get the hooks out of their soft mouths, the beast has to do it. I watch helplessly, hoping he doesn’t hurt the fish. He throws it back. I sigh in relief.
Now I need another shrimp but dare not ask the beast. So I pull the bait bucket up as quietly as I can. Slipping on the gardening glove I keep stashed under the seat for just such an emergency, I feel around in the bucket for a not too live one.
The beast snaps, “What are you doing with that stupid glove? How can you be afraid of a few little shrimp?” He grabs the bucket and fishes one out. “Here!” he says, slinging it on the deck.
He leers at me as I try to pick it up with my cloth. Then as I break off that sharp little horn right between the shrimp’s eyes, the beast howls with laughter. Only a moron would believe that story (told by a neighbor who catches a lot of rather large fish) about how this releases the shrimp’s essence and attracts the big fish. But what the heck, I always think, it’s worth a try.
Right then a fish yanks on the beast’s line. “Oh no!” he groans, storming toward his rod. He begins to reel it in. It looks like a big one. The beast’s eyes are glazing over as he reels it toward the surface. But suddenly the fish lets go. The beast loses his balance and staggers. Then he whirls around, a froth of saliva oozing through his bared fangs.
“If you’d do your own dirty work – snarl – I wouldn’t lose so many damn fish!” His eyes, two slanted slits, he hoists the shrimp bucket again. This time he fishes out three. “Here!” he snarls, pitching two at my feet. “So I don’t have to keep gettin em for ya!” After securing his rod, he rummages in the cooler, craving a beer – the stuff boat-beasts are made of. And contrary to popular belief, this beast thrives on the silver bullet. However, another fish picks that very instant to strike. The beast crashes past me shouting, “Are you blind? Couldn’t you see I had a bite? Get the net! Get the net!”
I stick my rod in the holder and stand by with the net.
“It’s a big one,” the beast says, his voice almost human.
Oh please, I pray silently as he seizes the net from me, let him land it. And please let it be a big one. That would appease him. I hold my breath now as he slops a nice fat mangrove snapper on the deck.
“Heh, heh, heh,” he snickers, the light from the lantern catching the primitive glint in his eyes.
Suddenly, a loud zing! My rod is arching and dancing over the water. I grab it and begin reeling. Without the help of the beast, I manage to land a snapper twice the size of his. That’s when he begins his tirade of excuses: “One of these days I’m gonna get me some good fishin equipment. How can anybody do anything with this junk? Look at this rod! Look at this line! It’s all balled up. Snarl!” His voice grows louder as he thumps his snapper on the deck again. “I can’t even get the hook out of this damn fish! Where the hell are the pliers?”
“I have the pliers,” I say, calmly. With my glove on, I remove the hook from my prize, remembering that this is what makes it all worthwhile. This is why I repeatedly suffer such abuse. Dropping my catch into the cooler, I sidestep the beast to avoid his tormented eyes, lest he catch me gloating and give me the world’s worst hickey. I turn on the radio and tune him out while dreaming of the delectable fish, poached in wine, my loving husband and I will share tomorrow. Tomorrow – when the boat-beast is gone and altogether forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment