Looking down from the boat as we’re skimming the waves once more, I complain, ‘This is good fishing we’re missing.’
‘Well then, throw out a line,’ Marta says, and nods to under the boat seat. I find a couple of reels and take one to the stern. They’ve each got shiny silver metal fish on the end with big hooks sticking out their butts. They look jus’ like real fish. Marta makes the best lures. Then I’m next best. I been practising with chook feathers that got that same glinting way about them as a fish underwater. Marta has such neat traces too, knots lying flat, and little swivels and weights. I feel kind of important handling them, and her not once saying, ‘Be careful with that!’
Soon they’re jumping and skipping through the water behind us.
The sun is high and hot, as we sail on towards Jacob’s Reach, so I slide into some shade in the bottom of the boat. From under the wide brim of her flax hat, Marta hums some old tune, her watery eyes set on some remembered place out there across the inland sea.
A jerk on my arm wakes me and has me grabbing for the line so quick I get a stitch in my stomach. I grab the handle of the line and set to winding the line back in.
Whatever it is, it’s big, and it’s hard to turn the handle round and round to get the line in. I do this thing I do where I twist my body, dragging the line across my hip to try and find some slack so I can turn the handle without losing it. Again and again I twist my body dragging it in.
‘Reckon it’s a big ’un!’ Marta says from under her hat. And I’m glad she don’t try to help or take over. She knows I can wrestle this fish in, her prolly having wrestled in a few huge fish when she was a girl.
I’m still twisting and winding when the island comes into view and Marta waves to show she’s friendly.
From this far out, the top of their hill looks bald, but there’s no pole with a box up there. So I wonder if the siblings been here at all.
I’m still twisting and reeling when Marta yells, ‘Hello! Hello, old friends!’ She drops the sail, and uses the tiller to guide the boat to the jetty.
There’s lots of rocks on this shoreline so I gotta land this fish quick or maybe it’ll duck down into the rocks and I’ll lose it.
People drift down out of the village to the jetty we’re fast approaching, with me still in this wrestling match with a huge fish. I won’t be letting it go to shake hands and be polite. I don’t care if a queen comes wandering down from them shacks. This fish and me got a battle to finish!
These people isn’t as excited as the last place to see visitors, but they pull Marta up on the jetty and she’s handing out her gifts like it don’t matter, and they invite her to sit by their fire. Jacob’s Reach people is all dressed the same, which seems real odd. They all wear white shirts and the women have white cotton shawls over their straw hats and tucked into their belts, which looks like a great thing for keeping the sun off but not so useful for getting much done.
There’s a boy, the only kid that’s come down to the jetty, way bigger than Jaguar, his white shirt dirty grey on the sleeves, laughing at me, twisting and reeling. Ain’t no other kids coming down, and I wonder what sort of village it is with no littlies.
‘You want some help?’ he says, and I’m too shy to tell him, ‘Don’t you dare!’ like I would to Jag.
‘She doesn’t want help,’ Marta says for me. ‘Her and this fish got a stubborn match going on, and my money is on the kid.’
Everyone laughs. My face heats up, coz I don’t like being laughed at, so I twist hard and launch further into the boat and this big silver fish pops straight up like it jumped, and on its tail, stuck firm, is a baby croc half its size. I pull them both into the boat.
‘Neoma!’ Marta scolds like I did it on purpose. ‘If that baby croc lets go and sets to wailing for its mama, you’ll be in a pile of trouble.’
So then I don’t know what to do. I got this big fish flopping around at my feet, and any moment that little croc could let go and take one of my toes, so I’m up on a seat, boat rocking, with everyone watching me. I dunno if I should grab that little croc and try to throw him back without getting bit, or unhook the fish and chuck the whole lot back and let the fish sort out his croc problem hisself. And what if the people from the village get upset if I pull the croc off and it wails and draws Mama croc in?
The boy’s laughing his head off, like everyone else.
I pick up the line, haul the fish up off the floor. It’s almost too heavy for me, specially with that wiggly kicking croc on its tail.
‘Can I take the croc?’ the boy asks.
I nod and he steps down into the boat, wraps a hand around each little jaw and pries them open. Then he climbs back up to the jetty holding the wiggling croc by its snout and runs on up to the village. I dunno what he’s going to do with a baby croc. Ain’t meat enough for food, best throw it back and let it grow a little.
Everyone moves on up to the village campfire, and I get busy making sure my fish is proper dead and not gasping and hurting from the hook no more. This fish will feed a lot of people when we get home. Breakfast stew is gonna be super chunky. I’d like to see Jag drink tomorrow’s soup. I laugh, and look up. The boy is at a shack talking to a man and holding up the little croc. He points back to me and I wave. But the man don’t wave back, he don’t even get up from his seat across the door of a hut with windows covered with old boards. He jus’ grabs the boy by the arm so quick the boy drops the little croc. Then he sends him off towards another hut.
Weird.
