Alexander Key
Red Snapper

    I got six bits left in my jeans, but it don’t worry me none, except that I know it’s tune to git to work again. When I got dough I don’t care how it goes, ’cause it’s a short enough life an’ you got to live it full; but when I git down to my last six bits, then there ain’t but one thing to do with it, I go over to Dago Johnnie’s place an’ I buy me a bottle o’ swamp dew. When a man gits ready to do what I’m aimin’ to do, he wants a whole lot more for his six bits than a fancy brand an’ a Gov’mint stamp.
    I take one swaller of it – just enough to build me up an’ put a sharp edge to my eye – then I wrap the bottle careful in my oilskins an’ start down to the docks.
    Near all the snapper boats is in, but there’s only a few with a yen to go out. I look ’em over careful; Symi an’ Greek Girl with their sponger hulls, Martha K an’ Star, an’ Dorothy, that jigger rig out o’ Cedar Keys.
    They ain’t the best boats in sight by a long stretch, but this is September, an’ every skipper with a touch o’ God-fear left in him is stayin’ home till his glass reads normal again.
    Any other month o’ the year I’d niebbe have to fight for a berth an’ be glad to take whatever come my way, but in September I’m the cock o’ the dock an’ I can have my pick o’ whatever’s goin’ out. So I look ’em all over, an’ I look sharp, ’cause a bum guess might cost a man plenty.
    At first I don’t notice this towheaded kid who is standin’ near, studyin’ the hulls an’ squintin’ at the riggin’. I pass up the Martha K an’ the Greek Girl, an’ I’m walkin’ down to figger on the Symi when I Bee this kid is doin’ the same. He’s about fifteen, brown an’ skinny an’ hard lookin’, like he’s been around salt water all his life, an’ he’s barefooted an’ dressed in an old pair o’ blue jeans a couple sizes too large for him. Slung over his shoulder is a roll o’ duffel an’ oilskins.
    He stops at the Symi an’ bites himself a chew from a plug o’ tobacco. His eye travels down the Symi’s riggin’ to her curved decks, an’ he spits like he don’t care much for what he’s lookin’ at. “Sponger,” he says, an’ walks off.
    I know what he’s thinkin’, an’ I’m thinkin’ the same myself. This Symi, she’s a fine ship to look at, solid cypress an’ built down at Tarpon for the divers. There ain’t a thing wrong with her except that a sponger hull is hell for rolling; something the Greeks ain’t never worried about, since they never go out nohow save when the water’s slick as glass.
    It’s goin’ to be bad enough out on the middle ground, tryin’ to keep your feet an’ haul in fish at the same time, without takin’ a double dose of it on a sponger; so I amble on down to the Dorothy, An’ there’s this towheaded kid askin’ for the skipper.
    * * *
    This Dorothy, she’s a right hefty ship, an’ beamy. Only, bein’ from out o’ town, I don’t know nothin’ about her. You can’t take no chances with a strange boat.
    The kid says to the skipper: “What’s she draw, mister?”
    “Six foot,” he answers. “Is that enough for ye?”
    “Mebbe,” says the kid. “Is she a calked boat?”
    “Sure she’s calked,” the feller tosses hack. “An’ she’s drum tight.”
    The kid walks away. I follow him, headin’ for the Star.
    “Hey!” the skipper hollers. “If’n ye’re so damned particular, why don’t ye try gittin’ a berth on the Endeavor or the Ranger? What you got agin a calked boat? ”
    “Nothin’,” I says over my shoulder. “Nothin’ a-tall!” An’ I keep right on walkin’ till I come alongside the Star. The kid ain’t nobody’s fool. A calked boat ain’t got no business in the Gulf o’ Mexico. I’ve talked to Yankee fellers out o’ Cape Cod an’ they all swear by plenty o’ calkin’. But they don’t know the Gulf. Come along a breeze o’ wind an’ a poundin’ sea, an’ that calkin’ all falls out. If’n you don’t drown, you git et by sharks.
    The Star is the only boat left to choose from, an’ though she’s got eight pleasant feet below her boot-toppin’ to keep her steady, she don’t tempt me a bit. She’s little an’ stinkin’, an’ bein’ owned by that Magnus crowd who never take care of a bottom, she’s likely et up with worms – them little borin’ shellfish what, git in a keel an’ make it look like Swiss cheese.
    The kid spits down at her rusty chain plates. His eyes are pale blue, an’ his mouth is as stubborn an’ cussed as any mouth I ever seen on a kid.
    “Say, mister,” he calls to a man comin’ out the afterhatch, “who’s takin’ her out this trip?”
    The man swings on deck. He’s big an’ built like a block o’ granite, an’ he’s got a grim square face that might have been chipped from flint. It’s Cap’n Mike Grady.
    “I’m takin’ her out,” says Cap’n Mike, lookin’ at me. “An’ I’m shy three hands.”
    “That’s enough for me,” I says, an’ it seems to be enough for the kid, for he heaves his duffel over the rail. No matter how sorry a boat may look, if Cap’n Mike Grady’s aboard, her bottom’s sound an’ her riggin’s tight. It ain’t no picnic to ship with Cap’n Mike, but he’s a comfort in a sou’easter, which, with plenty of beam an’ draft, is all a man can ask for in September.
    But I see right off he don’t want the kid. “Take your duffel off my deck,” he snaps. “An’ you, Jake.” he says to me, “I’m signin’ you on as cook.”
    “No, you ain’t,” I says, “It’s goin’ to be tough enough out yonder without me havin’ to worry about five other stomachs besides my own.”
    The kid busts out, “If you sign me on I’ll git you a cook!”
    “This ain’t no pleasure trip for schoolboys,” Cap’n Mike growls.
    “I ain’t no lousy schoolboy,” the kid retorts. “I been out on the middle ground before, an’ I kin haul in fish as fast as any so-an’-so on this coast!”
    “Oh, yeah?” says Cap’n Mike. “How old are ye, an’ what was the last boat ye shipped on ? ”
    “I’m eighteen,” snaps the kid, stretehin’ the truth by maybe three years. “An’ my last trip out was on the Mary Crockett.”
    Cap’n Mike an’ me both stare at him. “Eh?” says Cap’n Mike. “The Mary Crockett? Why, you lyin’ hellion, that boat went down last month!”
    “I ought to know it,” says the kid. “I—” He swallows, an’ his voice turns harsh: “Are you gonna sign me on, or have I gotta ship with them Dagos on the Symi?”
    “Rarin’ for punishment, are ye?” says Cap’n Mike softly. “All right, git me that cook you promised, an’ you can stow your duffel. But I’m wantin’ him aboard before the tide turns, or the deal’s off.”
    The kid rubs his knuckles, thinkin’ fast. “Pair enough,” he says. “But you gotta give me four bits to git ’im Iikkered.”
    Cap’n Mike hands over the money without a word. The kid lights out in a hurry. Cap’n Mike stares after him, then swings on me.
    “Where did that young devil come from, Jake?” he asks.
    “Dunno,” I says. “He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
    “I don’t like it,” says Cap’n Mike. “I don’t like takin’ no kid out on the middle ground. If good hands wasn’t so scarce—”
    “You needn’t worry,” I tell him. “Where would he be findin’ a cook in two hours?”
    * * *
    The kid fools me. In hardly more’n an hour he’s back with a wreck known as Whiney in tow. This Whiney is fair shakes as a cook, though at the moment he’s down by the stern an’ listin’ bad, an’ we can tell he ain’t the least anxious to go fishin’. Every few steps he tries to break away, but he ain’t got a chance with this cussed kid steerin’ him on.
    “Here’s your cook,” says the kid, haulin’ him on deck. “He ain’t much to look at, but he’ll do.”
    “You lemine ’lone!” Whiney keeps mumblin’. ” I don’t wanna go! I—”
    “Sure you wanna go!” snarls the kid. “An’ you’re sure gonna go!” An’ with that he yanks Whiney forward an’ stows him in the foc’sle an’ slams the hatch shut, so he can’t git out. Cap’n Mike don’t, say nothin’. He can’t because he’s got his cook, an’ he’s a kind of man what ain’t goin’ back on his word.
    While we’re waitin’ for the icehouse niggers to lay in the ice, I go after the rest o’ that bottle I been savin’. The rest o’ the crew – two lanky yeller-eyed rascals known as Hennery an’ Lem – both does the same.
    Cap’n Mike he lets us alone. He knows what that likker means. He’d git likkered himself if he wasn’t skipper. But he’s the one who’s got to be on his pins. An’ to take a little ship out yonder on the middle ground, an’ keep it out there for days on end with nothin’ but squalls and heaving water around him, a skipper has got to be as cold as a fish an’ as hard as granite – which is what Cap’n Mike is.
    So we stow our likker. It’s the last we’ll have for maybe two weeks, an’ it’s got to fortify us for the trip. It’s got to do for extra grub an’ cussedness, for a man don’t git much chance to eat an’ sleep out on the middle ground, an’ when his second wind is gone, it’s that likker in his veins what keeps him goin’.
    We don’t git drunk. No, sirree! There was a time, but that was only when we was raw kids, takin’ a trip on a snapper boat for the fun of it. Yeah, for the fun of it!
    This towheaded kid sits there chewin’ his cud, watchin’ us. “That rotgut ain’t gonna help you catch fish,” he says.
    “Shut up,” says Hennery. “You’ll be wishin’ you had a drink before you fetch home again.”
    “I don’t need to drink my courage out’n a bottle,” says the kid.
    Hennery turns ugly. “Think you’re tough, do you?”
    “Don’t git funny with me,” says the kid, “or you’ll find out.”
    Hennery grabs his bottle by the neck, fixin’ to swing at him, an’ the kid’s hand flashes from his belt with the longest, sharpest-lookin’ fish knife I ever clapped eyes on.
    Cap’n Mike kicks ’em both apart before they can do anything. “Save it for the fish,” he says. “ Git that motor goin’ an’ east off.”
    * * *
    We head out down the river channel, Cap’n Mike at the wheel. When we hit the outer beacon, Cap’n Mike just gives his chin a jerk an’ we heave the canvas up. He gives his thumb a twitch an’ we trim sheets. He don’t speak till we’re through the island pass with Carrabelle light astern. Then he looks us over, picks the soberest, calls him to the wheel an’ says, “Hold it.” The course is south an’ a quarter east, an’ the teller knows he better hold it. I know of a feller once what didn’t hold it – ’twas in a bad sea at night an’ he near piled the ship on Oehloekonee Shoals. Cap’n Mike knocked him cold, an’ a swell raked the deck an’ carried the feller to the sharks. Cap’n Mike just reported it an’ that was all ever said about the matter.
    Cap’n Mike shuts off the motor, takes a lone look at the glass. an’ leans against the after house. He don’t say nothin’ an’ don’t nobody else say nothin’. Salt water holds a man quiet. We’re really sloggin’ into it now, the wind on the beam, the stack’d rail down an’ while suds whippin’ off the swells an’ slappin’ us in the face. We’re rollin’ like a porpoise already an’ I’m mighty glad I ain’t on a sponger deck. I don’t look at the glass; I don’t want to know what she reads. That’s Cap’n Mike’s worry.
    I keep tryin’ to remember where I’ve seen this crazy towheaded kid before, lie’s plenty tough, an’ I can’t quite figger out whether he’s just skylarkin’ or goin’ fishin’ for the same reason the rest of us are. At the moment he’s braced against the wind’ard rail, starin’ at where the sun is setlin’, red us blood, off Cape San Bias. The sky is a sight to look at, for it is streaked with forty-nine kinds o’ blue, shot with gold, an’ the sea is black an’ purple. To sou’ard there’s a line o’ squalls like black horses runnin’ wild, an’ they’d be a wonder to watch if you didn’t know what they was.
    The kid is drinkin’ it all in, eyes bright an’ lips parted like he’s lookin’ at heaven.
    I ease up to him an’ ask, “What’s your name?”
    “Billy,” he says, not takin’ his eyes off the sky.
    “Did you really ship on the Mary Crockett once?” I ask.
    The light goes out the kid’s eyes an’ he swallows. He mumbles something, but with the ship smashin’ through the swells, I can’t make out what it is.
    He ain’t in a mood for questions, an’ after that we don’t git a chance to talk. The squalls are closer, an’ it’s all hands out to shorten canvas before they hit.
    * * *
    It is not a sweet night. Them what is too likkered to work ship takes the watch below, an’ me an’ Cap’n Mike an’ the kid spells one another out at the wheel; We pound along under jib an’ reefed spanker, an’ the squalls snarl over us so hard I think two-three times we’ll bust a spar. A trick at the wheel in such weather is enough to beat down any man, let alone a kid. But Cap’n Mike don’t spare ’im – an’ the kid don’t ask to be spared. He grabs on to the spokes like he’s handled ’em before, an’ he knows just how to ease the ship over the high spots. It’s a wicked night, an’ we’re wet through an’ worn to the bone by mornin’. But we git over it in a hurry, ’cause we know this ain’t even a start.
    It calms as the east pales, an’ Cap’n Mike goes to the foc’sle an’ slaps Whiney an’ the other two awake. “Coffee an’ grits,” he says short-like to Whiney.
    Whiney he reels up red-eyed above the hatch, his head rollin’ on his stringy neck as he gulps for air. “Oh, Gawd!” he whines, suddenly seein’ where he is. “Oh, Gawd, ’elp me!”
    “You’re cook on this luxury liner,” the kid says. “You better git that breakfast under way.”
    “I’ll cut yo’ ugly throat fer this,” says Whiney, an’ then he catches Cap’ll Mike’s eye an’ ducks down to business. I don’t envy him none. There ain’t no room on the Star for anything but fish. The foc’sle is a greasy hole in the bow with a pair o’ bunks on either side, an’ the galley is a two-burner oil business hung to the bulkhead. There ain’t space in front of it to change your mind.
    By the time the sun comes up through the mist, Whiney says, “Come an’ git it!” An’ straightenin’ in the hatchway, he starts slidin’ cups o’ black coffee an’ plates o’ gray-lookin’ grits out on the foredeek. It’ll do for food, an’ it’s hot. There won’t be many times when we can have it hot, or when we’ll want it at all.
    The wind dies an’ the roomin’ turns as still as death. The Gulf she is like quicksilver in a thousand colors, an’ the clouds they is piled heaven-high an’ hell-deep all around us, temples an’ palaces an’ angels, an’ their reflections in the water is a sight strange an’ dazzlin’. The Star she floats in a great bowl with no horizon, with land mebbe a hundred sea miles astern. An’ we’re on the middle ground where the deep coral lies.
    The kid sucks in his breath an’ he says, “Will you lookit?” Then he shuts up an’ nobody else says nothin’, because the sea makes a man respectful, an’ all this around us is a frightenin’ thing, like bein’ on the edge o’ the world with nothin’ to keep you from slidin’ off. An’ out here the Star seems mighty small, an’ us that are on it terrible alone.
    Then I look over the side an’ see fish. Fifteen, twenty fathom down mebbe, iu water so blue it is like all the blue in the universe poured together, an’ every bit of it as clear as swamp dew. An’ in among the grunts an’ grouper I see the snapper; no bigger than my finger they seem, an’ bright red. Oh, it is a sight!
    “Lines!” barks the skipper. “Bait in the buckets!"he says to the kid. An’ while the kid is choppin’ skipjack an’ mullet for the hooks an’ we break out the gear, Cap’n Mike heaves over a spar buoy with a red flag to mark the spot. It is a piece o’ luck lindin’ snapper so quick, an’ a double piece o’ luck Lo have slick water an’ no sharks.
    I bait my line, a hunk o’ fish on each hook, an’ let it smoke over the rail. There ain’t no waitin’. The second it hits the right depth the fish take it. Two at the first crack. This is somethin’ ! I got thick leather guards on my hands to keep the line from learin’ my flesh off. I heave on the line an’ I’m sweatin’ like a horse by the time I git the fish up. An’ what fish ! Them finger-lings is ten, fifteen pounds each. They come up out o’ that blue water like red livin’ cold, an’ nigh ns heavy, an’ it is somethin’ to see! I gouge the hooks out quick an’ sling ’em down the fish hatch, an’ in no time I’m heavin’ on more fish.
    Everybody else is doin’ the same, includin’ the skipper. All six of us are fightin’ lines at the rail, an’ the kid is workin’ harder’n any of us. Nobody says a word. We is too busy to talk.
    It gits hotter an’ hotter ns the sun climbs higher, but nobody takes time off to rig the awnin’s. We can’t fool with awnin’s when the fish is floppin’ over the rail. High noon comes an’ we don’t stop to eat, We ain’t got time to stop, an’ there wouldn’t be no grub ready if we did stop. Whiney he is too busy yankin’ up fish. The only time we ease up a bit is when a lull comes in the bitin’ an’ we find we’ve drifted mebbe a half mile from the buoy. The skipper he starts the motor quick an’ a couple of us hop in the hold an’ start icin’ the fish down in the bins. We work fast, but we work careful, a layer o’ ice an’ a layer o’ fish, an’ it’s got to be done right or the whole catch will spoil. An’ if the catch spoils, it’s out our own pockets, ’cause it’s share an’ share alike on a snapper boat, with a share for the ship an’ two for the skipper.
    We fetch the buoy again an’ start fightin’ lines again. All of us are prayin’ that our luck holds, for two-three days o’ this will fill the bins an’ we can head for home. We want snapper for they brings the best price, but grouper is nigh as good an’ we’re glad to git ’em. Red grouper an’ black. I hang one as big as a barrel an’ it takes two of us to git him on deck, usin’ gaff an’ block an’ tackle. We catch grunts an’ other things, but they is no good an’ we heave ’em back.
    It is a day! Slick water an’ the fish comin’ up fast. Near two thousand pounds already.
    An’ all at once the sharks finds us. One minute they ain’t there, an’ suddenly the water is churnin’ with ’em. Every kind under the sun. Blues an’ grays an’ whites an’ hammerheads. Wolves out o’ hell. They take every fish off the lines. We can’t land a tiling. Then they start takin’ the bait the second it goes over the side. The big ones bust our lines an¹ the rest tangle ’em under the boat. We’re all cussin’ now, an’ Cap’n Mike’s face ain’t a pretty thing to see.
    The kid gaffs a six-footer an’ heaves him on deck. He cusses that shark like he was crazy, an’ then he whips out his knife an’ cuts off its tail an’ fins, an’ I throws the varmint back in alive. He does the same to every shark we pull in. The other sharks leap out an’ grab it before it hits the surface, an’ soon all the waiter around us is a red foam. I’m so mad I could cut a mini’s throat, an’ Cap’n Mike knocks Lem flat m the scuppers when he goes to start the motor.
    We move away from there as fast as the motor will run, an’ we even forgit to take up the buoy. The afternoon wind rises after a while, but the sharks don’t, stop followin’ till the water gits choppy.
    I’ve knowed all day we was in for weather, an’ now it comes – hard an’ sudden, like it always does in September. Everything comes sudden in the Gulf, only it. is terrible sudden this time o’ the year. We hardly have time to claw in the canvas an’ bend on a storm stays’l; then wind an’ rain is whippin’ across decks an’ the Star begins plungin’ an’ rollin’ fit to tear out our hearts.
    It’s too rough to keep your feet an’ fish, but the kid ties himself to the rail, so he won’t git washed over the side, an’ he tries fishin’ anyway. I know now he ain’t skylarkin’. He needs the money bad. We ain’t goin’ to stand by an’ see a fool kid back us down, so the rest of us do the same.
    We don’t catch much, but every pound counts, an’ we manage to keep at it till it’s too dark to see. With night the weather slacks enough for Whiney to dish out beans an’ coffee without spikin’ ’em all over the place; we gulp ’em down an’ flop in our bunks, too whipped to take off our boots an’ oilskins.
    We don’t bother with a lookout; Cap’n Mike just lashes the wheel hard up an’ lets the ship ride it out.
    But it seems I’ve hardly closed my eyes when I’m bein’ shook awake an’ hauled on deck. There’s no tellin’ the time, but it is blowin’ every which way, an’ if it wasn’t for the phosphorus it would be too black to see. The water is glowin’ with phosphorus like it was on fire, an’ all around us are mountains o’ fire on which the Star goes slidin’ way down an’ way up, rollin’ an’ heavin’. Those seas o’ livin’ fire near make my hair stand on end, for they is like the hell my Holy Roller preacher used to holler about when I was a boy.
    We keep trimmin’ the stays’l an’ runnin’ the motor slow, so’s to cut down the pitchin’ an’ heavin’. But it gits worse by mornin’, an’ at noon the seas are roarin’ at us masthead high. Every one that comes looks as if ’twould smash over us an’ finish us, but the little Star she begins climbin’ before the crests break, an’ by the time they break we’re on top o’ the mountain an’ slidin’ down the other side.
    It ain’t no use to even try to fish in this. All we can do is cuss our luck an’ hang on, an’ hope that the thing blows itself out soon.
    The night comes again, an’ then the day, an’ it’s still cuttin’ up. By now I’ve lost all track o’ time. We’re plum’ wore out with takin’ half-hour shifts at the wheel an’ workin’ ship, an’ we’re cold to the bone an’ hungry, but all we want is coffee. It’s funny how you want coffee at sea. Only we don’t git coffee, ’cause it’s too rough to boil it. An’ after a while we don’t even want coffee. We’re too sick to want anything. We’re dog sick. It is a horrible thing an’ we wish we was dead. The only one of us that ain’t sick is Cap’n Mike, an’ he’d sure like to be – only a skipper can’t afford to git that way. Somebody has to handle ship.
    The only thing I remember durin’ this time is the kid pluckin’ my sleeve an’ pointin’ up. Way over my head there is a school o’ porpoise swimmin’ by, happy as larks. They look like they’d fall right out the water an’ land on deck.
    The wind hauls west that night, an’ then north, an’ suddenly there comes a lull an’ we’re able to sleep a little. I’m thinkin’ it’s over, but at dawn I git a real fright.
    There’s no wind a-tall; the whole sky is a gosh-awful red, an’ in place o’ clouds there’s a swirlin’ steamy haze like the whole world is on fire. The sea is ugly, though we’re able to stand up an’ fish. But after one look at things, nobody wants to fish. We all know now that what we just come through was only the preliminaries.
    “Last month it was the Mary Crockett,” Hennery says hoarsely. “Only one hand come through it, they tell me.”
    “Cap’n Ned Crockett he was a good man.” mutters Whiney. ” I hear he left a wife ’n’ a hull house o’ young’uns. I ain’t got no young’uns, but—”
    “Shut up!” Cap’n Mike raps out. “There’s plenty time to catch fish before we have to run for it.”
    Nobody wants to argue with Cap’ll Mike. An’ we need the fish, for we ain’t caught enough yet to hardly pay for the gas an’ grub.
    The day is unlucky from the start. A soundin’ shows we’ve drifted way off the coral gullies where the fish are. We waste nigh the hull mornin’ heatin’ back to good bottom on the middle ground, an’ tills time the fish are deep – forty fathoms or worse – an’ they ain’t a bit hungry. We keep snag-gin’ hooks on the coral an’ losin’ lines.
    We’re kinda desperate as we break out new lines. We can’t afford to go home without, a catch, an’ by the looks o’ things we can’t afford to stay out here till we git one. I keep thinkin’ about the Mary Crockett, an’ wonderin’ where the wind is, an’ hopin’ Cap’n Mike has judged it right.
    All that is bad enough, but the fish we’re catchin’ takes the heart out a man. They’re all little an’ only half o’ them is snappers. Even so, it ain’t no picnic to haul ’em up from forty fathoms; I’m dead on my feet an’ the others is the same, an’ the choppy water makes it hell to stand at the rails. But we got to stick to it an’ make a catch somehow.
    The cry goes up for coffee, an’ Whiney has to hold the pot in his hands until it boils to keep it from spillin’.
    Come evenin’ an’ handlin’ the lines is plain torture. My hands is near tore off, my back is near bust, an’ I ache from my shoulders to my shanks.
    The kid is workin’ right beside me; he’s wore down to a shadow, but he ain’t whipped. One look at that stubborn jaw o’ his, an’ I git my second wind. We fish right on into the night. I don’t know how long we keep it up, for wo both fall asleep in the scuppers. We’re sprawled there like logs when Cap’n Mike kicks us awake at dawn.
    * * *
    I’m scared to my gizzard when I see how the sky is now. It’s redder an’ darker an’ uglier, an’ there’s a high moanin’ wind comin’ out the north. That swirlin’ haze has turned into mare’s-tails, an’ them mare’s-tails are flyin’ straight toward Tortugas.
    You can’t mistake them signs. Somewhere south of us, all the wind in creation is winding itself up, twistin’ itself tighter an’ tighter. I give it any hour to bust loose, an’ when it does it’s goin’ to blow the roof off the world. Mebbe it’ll never git nowheres near land; things happen in the Gulf you never hear about; it’s hell’s breedin’ ground, an’ half the time when ships git lost in it, nobody ever knows why. We’d never ’a’ knowed what come o’ the Mary Crockett if some steamer hadn’t picked up a feller from her crew. He’d swum three days lashed to a scuttle butt, an’ they say the only reason he wasn’t et by sharks was that he was mighty handy with a knife.
    I wanna go home, an’ so does Whiney an’ Hennery an’ Lem. Cap’n Mike looks at the sky, whistlin’ soft through his teeth. He ducks below to see what the glass says, an’ we all start coilin’ our lines. All but the kid. He spits over the rail an’ begins cussin’ fit to make our hair uncurl. “Damn farmers!” he sneers. “Now who’s yappin’ about quiltin’? What you all done with that stinkin’ courage you swallered out’n a bottle?”
    Cap’n Mike straightens in the hatch. “They throwed it up when they lost their dinner,” he tells the kid.
    The kid snorts an’ Hennery snarls at him; “Y-you cocky hellion! That’s a hurricane a-comin’! If you ain’t got the sense fo know what a hurricane kin do to you—”
    “Aw, stop yo’ bellyachin’!” the kid flares up. “I come out here to catch fish, but we ain’t caught no fish yet! Look in them bins!”
    Them bins ain’t a quarter full.
    Cap’ll Mike swings on deck. “No more argumints,” he bites out softly. “We still got time to make a catch – an’ we’re goin’ to do it.”
    When he talks that way we don’t talk back.
    It’s double the work it was at first, ’cause it’s double the depth. When we yank up the snapper they’re swelled like balloons, an’ it puts me in mind o’ the bends a sponge diver gits when ho goes too deep an’ comes up too fast. I try to keep my mind off the weather, but my eyes keep swingin’ to the south where all hell is windin’ up. A big Cuban well schooner, a three-sticker, is hove to only a mile off in the red dawn, but I don’t even notice her till the sun pops up. The sight o’ her comforts me some, for a Cuban is mighty sharp about skinnin’ a blow.
    They is curious things, them well boats, for they have a big tank amidships with vents to the sea, an’ in it they keep their fish alive. An’ there’s always a feller on deck who is a sort of fish doctor, for he stands by with a needle, which he uses in a clever way to stick them swelled-up fish an’ let the air out ’em. If he didn’t they’d all float in the tank an’ die.
    The sun is hardly a hand’s breadth above the sea’s rim when that well schooner makes sail an’ begins bearin’ off towards Tarpon. My fright comes back. When a Cuban starts runnin’ from weather, it’s time everybody else was runnin’ too.
    Hennery blinks at the Cuban, an’ he’s green under his tan. Whiney’s mouth keeps workin’ without makin’ a sound. The kid straightens a second to bite himself a chew, then he spits on his hands an’ sings out: “Git busy! They’re goin’ for the bait now!”
    We ain’t aimin’ to let no tough weasel of a kid back us down. No sirree! We may be wore to the bone an’ scared to the marrow, but ir the fish are willin’ to be caught, we’re goin’ to catch ’em just as long as he does.
    An’ it is at a moment like this, when the fish are comin’ over the rails an’ we’re battlin’ against time to fill the bins, that a fool shark takes it into his head to tangle all our lines under the boat.
    It’s the sort o’ thing that happens near every trip an’ you got to expect it. But it’s bad this time ’cause it’s our last set o’ lines. I don’t see the shark, though I know it’s a big devil, on account o’ the results. He’s taken one line, made a quick run an’ swirl that twists every other line together, an’ he’s departed leavin’ all our gear hung on the keel.
    I forgit the weather an’ start cussin’. In a second the hull ship is in an uproar. We’ve fought agin wind an’ water an’ bard luck an’ human failin’s – an’ now, when we’re set to beat the game, one lousy shark has to come along an’ whip us.
    The kid runs the length o’ the deck lookin’ for where the lilies is bunched, then he spils out his cud and kicks off his boots. I holler for somebody to stop him, but before anyone can lay hands on him he’s streaked over the side with his knife in his teeth an’ is down under the boat.
    I trot aft, searchin’ for him, but all I see is the shark comin’ back. All’ God help me if it ain’t a big spotted rascal. Sixteen, eighteen, mebbe twenty feet long. The kind we call a leopard, an’ there’s nothin’ worse in the Gulf. You can scare most o’ the breed with a splash, but you can’t scare a leopard shark with anything. When he sees you he goes for you right now. An’ when he hits you, he goes slap through you like a flyin’ meat cleaver.
    I yell an’ the rest yell, an’ Cap’n Mike takes one quick look an’ is down the hatch an’ out again with his shotgun.
    He blasts away at that shark. The shark ain’t seen the kid yet, an’ all the shot does is stir him up a bit an’ send him streakin’ clean round the ship lookin’ for trouble, spray flyin’ from his dorsal. The kid’s head pops up to starb’d art’ he an’ the shark see each other at the some time. An’ what does that crazy kid do but spit at the varmint. an’ dive right down under the ship again.
    The sight o’ the kid playin’ tag like that scares me out of a year’s hard drinkin’. Then it comes to me that this Billy has done a clever thing, for while the shark is still lookin’ for him to starb’d, the kid comes up on the port side, hollerin’ for a rope.
    I never knowed a rope was so hard to find on a ship’s deck. I try an’ tear a halyard oil the pins, an’ Whiney is blubberin’ an’ failin’ all over himself to git a spar buoy over the side.
    I heave the halyard over, but when I look down at where the kid was, I can’t see nothin’ but a bloody mass o’ foam, with the shark swirlin’ in the middle of it. That leopard can move like lightnin’.
    For a second I think I’m goin’ to turn sick an’ fall over the rail, an’ then I hear the kid cussin’. He’s keelhauled himself as quick as an eel an’ swum back to starb’d.
    Hennery skins over the rail, swings down on the chain plates an’ grabs the kid’s arm.
    I’m right behind him an’ we jerk the kid up fast. The leopard comes streakin’ around the ship again, trailin’ blood where the kid knifed him; he makes a final snap at the kid’s foot an’ misses, an’ his jaws look wide enough to cut a dory in two.
    The kid hits deck lookin’ as sassy an’ cussed as ever, an’ Cap’n Mike lets out a long breath he’s been holdin’ an’ hands him a slap that near knocks him in the fish hatch.
    “Don’t try any more stunts like that!” he raps out.
    “I got yo’ damn lines loose!” the kid hands back. “I ain’t afraid o’ no lousy shark; I got too many mouths to feed back home.”
    “You’ll never git home if you keep fiddlin’ with a leopard,” snarls Hennery.
    “I’ve fiddled with ’em before,” says the kid. “Now we gotta catch the varmint or we can’t land no more fish.”
    Cap’n Mike rigs a shark hook with a chain leader an’ a two-inch line, an’ baits it with a twelve-pound grouper. The shark grabs it right now, an’ we spend a half hour gittin’ him on deck with block an’ tackle. It takes a lot o’ buckshot to quiet him down, an’ then everybody has a whack at him with his knife, for that’s the way we feel about leopards.
    We leave the carcass hang, so it won’t draw’ more sharks, an’ then we go after the snappers with all that’s left in us.
    We catch ’em, all right. Lord, how we do catch ’em! I’m hatin’ the sight of ’em now, an’ the longer I stand at the rail the more it seems that I’m in the middle of a nightmare that ain’t never comin’ to an end. But that devilish kid wants fish, an’ we’re goin’ to give him fish.
    The swells git higher an’ higher as the sun climbs, an’ higher still as the sun goes down; an’ how we’re able to keep on our feet I don’t know’. The air turns deadly calm an’, as the dark comes, there’s a feel about it like it’s goin’ to explode any second. All through the day an’ the evenin’ an’ on into (he night we keep a-workin’, prayin’ every minute that Cap’n Mike will give the order to quit. An’ wo hope the kid lots out just one squawk that he’s had enough. But he don’t.
    It’s black ugly dark when Cap’n Mike bawls out: “Stow your lines! Git them hatch covers on an’ lash everything down tight. Up with the canvas an’ double reef it. Lively!”
    An’ about time, I’m thinkin’.
    We’re hardly under way with the motor when the first line o’ squalls come rippin’ over us. It’s a devilish night an’ a still more devilish dawn, with a full-grown storm roarin’ at us out the southeast. But we ain’t even in the path o’ the real breeze – which Cap’n Mike was figgerin’ on all the time. He’s got a Cuban beat for skinnin’ the weather.
    Even so, I never seen a boat drived so hard, an’ whipped down as we are, it’s all we can do to hang on. Until we fetch the river channel at noon, the kid sits right there on the after house, legs clamped on the hatch slide, so he won’t git blowed away, an’ I see he’s cut out the jaw o’ that big shark an’ is scrapin’ it clean. It’s big enough to pass right over him, with six, seven rows o’ teeth so sharp they’ll out hair. An’ he’s got all the shark’s fins strung on a. line to dry, for they sells quick to the Chinese trade.
    To hear the rest cuss him, you’d think they hated his guts. But I notice he’s the first one served when Whiney staggers on deck with a pot o’ coffee – an’ how Whiney ever boiled it in such weather I don’t know. An’ when the kid finds he’s lost his tobacco durin’ the night, it’s everybody handin’ him a plug o’ his own, includin’ the skipper.
    In all the time we been out I ain’t had the chance to really talk to him an’ git acquainted. An’ now, after we make it through the channel an’ tie up at the dock, there ain’t no talk left in us. The earth is slidin’ every which way under our feet, like it’always does after a rough trip, an’ the only thing any of us can think about is gittin’ our pay slips an’ crawlin’ off somewhere to sleep till the world kinda straightens itself.
    But before we can do that we got to help the icehouse niggers unload an’ weigh in the catch.
    Cap’n Mike an’ me check off the weights, an’ he signs the slips. When the kid gits his he grabs his shark’s jaw, fins an’ duffel, an’ runs. Cap’n Mike stares after him.
    “No wonder he needed the fish,” he says. “There’s three, four young’uns to think about, besides his maw. But I reckon ye know ’em; you used to live down at Indian Pass.”
    “Know who?”
    “I’m talkin’ about Cap’n Ned Crockett’s family. ’Twas Billy Crockett I made out the pay slip to.”
    I been wantin’ a drink bad, but now I sorta lose my taste for it. For it comes to me all of a sudden that the feller what swum three days out on the middle ground, after the Mary Crockett went down, was Cap’n Ned’s son.

    1939
    (Saturday Evening Post, vol. 212, issue 4, July 22)

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