The more the man steered his boat, its bow cutting into the growing chop, the bigger those white-cap-covered waves ahead became.
Until, as he chugged along, hand tight on the throttle, his boat would ride one swell, then slap down and land with a belly-whopping splat.
Nothing he hadn’t hit before. Get as many rough days out here as calm ones.
But all that chop, the white caps looking like icing atop the gray sea, continued to grow. One thing was for sure: when he finally found a spot, dropped anchor—assuming he actually could hit the bottom—the boat would be bobbing wildly as he tried to pull in any fish.
Maybe he should have stuck to one of the more sheltered spots in the bay itself?
Fewer fish. Maybe . . . no fish? But at least he’d be spared the rocking to and fro.
But, that thought aside, he carried on.
* * *
Finally, looking around where he was, just past the tip of the North Fork, right between Gardiners Island and the much smaller Plum Island, he guessed he was close enough to the spot Joe had pointed out.
He looked just a little past Plum Island to an even smaller island. Supposedly private—but since when did that stop the curious?
Still—he imagined the Coast Guard kept an eye on it.
And there were stories about that island . . .
Yes, private, so no idle visitors ever went there. And for the past decades, maybe nobody at all went there, though once it did contain a mansion and—supposedly—secrets.
Some old Connecticut family who liked having the place all to themselves, even though no one ever saw it.
There were rumors of things hidden, even from hundreds of years ago. Blackbeard had indeed been in these very waters before being captured.
Anyone who tried to sneak onto it to look, to hunt, would, he imagined, be soon caught.
Of course, he well knew . . . yes. There were ways to do things like that—so many islands here—and not get caught.
For now, he grabbed his traditional fluke anchor, with big twin points to dig into the bottom, and lowered it over the side, hoping he’d still be at a depth where he had enough rope and it could indeed hit the bottom and dig in.
As the rope slipped through his fingers, now calloused and worn by doing this so many times, he watched the anchor sink fast between the fighting waves of the choppy sea.
Until—there! It went slack.
He hit bottom and went back to the motor to give it a few short bursts in reverse, helping the anchor’s twin flukes dig in.
And with that, he took a breath. The air gusts felt so chilly here. Another sweater would have been good.
But it was time to fish.
* * *
One good thing about fishing out here, he knew, was that there was no need to cast the line far at all.
Just toss the line a few feet away from the steadily rocking boat. Let it drop, the weights pulling the hook down, and then slowly let the line play out until . . . guessing just when the hook and its chunk of bait would be some meters off that unseen bottom.
Lock the reel—and wait.
Then do what he guessed most people who fish really do.
Just sit there. Look at the show the sea and sky were putting on. Think about things, good things, bad things. The past. The future. Problems to be solved.
And problems that had been solved.
All while waiting for the bobber to dip. To feel that exciting tug on the line as something way down below went for the juicy and slimy piece of squid he had threaded carefully on the sizable hook.
Until . . . not too long . . . he felt something there. Always hard to tell whether it was hooked or just nibbling around the edges.
And he started to slowly, deliberately reel it in. Not so fast that it would slip away. Just enough to drive the hook deeper into the mouth of whatever fish had taken a chance dining on the chunk of bait.
* * *
Reeling it in, now only feet away from the surface, he saw something swimming, struggling.
The sea was making such choppy peaks and valleys it was hard to see. Never easy anyway, but nearly impossible now. But he kept reeling it in. Not a bad weight on the other end of the line.
What he had was no tiny porgy that he’d just unhook and throw back, free to get caught another day.
But in this case, the fish was wildly wriggling, violently twisting this way, and then . . . he saw what he got.
Right. A damn sea robin.
A spiny fish that was like a sea-going porcupine, with bony needles in its winglike fins and pointy parts sticking out all over that made getting the inedible animal off the hook so damn hard.
Everyone hated sea robins.
As he brought it into the boat, a series of even bigger waves a ppeared, surprising him, and rocked his boat so that it tipped nearly low enough to one side that water could rush over.
Bad enough that removing this thing from the hook was a pain, but to do it under these wobbly circumstances?
He debated simply cutting the filament and just fixing up another hook.
But he put a glove, well stained from the innards of many fishes, on his left hand and worked the sea robin’s mouth roughly, left and right, its grimacing teeth showing it was not enjoying this at all.
As luck would have it, the hook was deep into the fish’s jaw.
Until it finally slid free.
And then . . . well, this nuisance fish? He didn’t throw it back into the sea.
It might not mean much, but at least he could make it so there was one fewer of them out here.
He tossed it hard toward the front, banging it against the hull.
He then turned to his box of squid. Grabbed a piece. Then, bent over the box of bait, the boat still rocking back and forth, he saw something out of the corner of his eyes.
He stopped—and looked up . . .
* * *
He saw a boat, a good-sized one too.
At first, he thought: a fishing trawler.
But then he noted its profile—no, not a fishing boat. Looked more like a high-speed pleasure boat, big enough with room for people to sleep.
Not the type of boat one would normally see out here, he thought.
For another second he kept looking, and then—strangest thing—the boat turned.
Now, though far in the distance, it was definitely pointed his way. The man kept watching as the boat seemed to be heading straight toward him.
Thinking: What’s this about? They out to do some light fishing? Want some tips?
So what the hell was happening? With them speeding to the guy in the small boat, rod in hand, bobbing in what was fast becoming a much-too-choppy sea.
It felt strange.
He let his line and hook fall to the side of the boat and waited while what was now clearly a sleek and fast pleasure boat roared quickly toward him.
* * *
Feet away, the boat came to an abrupt stop; whoever was piloting it cut into the left, making its own wave now that the boat was parallel to his own.
He gave those on board a smile, a nod—not having a clue what this was about.
Until.
Until . . .
He saw there were four . . . no, five men on board. None of them looked dressed for a casual day bouncing around the bay and the nearby ocean. No. Something about them. The pants . . . not jeans. Dress pants. City clothes. And zippered jackets, pulled tight. All of them were looking down at him.
Something about the clothes, how they looked, standing there—somehow wrong.
And for the first time, the man felt an ever-so-slight hint of alarm.
So, he said something.
“You fellas lost or something?”
And four of them turned to one guy as he took a step, grabbed the railing—as if for a closer look.
The thought again: something very wrong here.
Nobody said anything. As if they enjoyed watching him . . .
What was the word? Sweat?
And at that moment, the man saw the other four men move, reaching into the pockets of their jackets.
A move he had seen before. Long time ago . . .
And the man knew then that whatever the hell was going on here . . . it was so very bad . . .