R eaching deeper water, I turned southeast, searching for the microwave tower on Grassy Key. There was no need of a chart plotter or depth finder; we’d just crossed the shallowest water we were going to encounter.

I finally spotted the tower and turned toward it, pointing. “See that tower sticking up way out in front of us?”

Alberto craned his neck and looked over the console. “That one?” he asked, pointing toward it.

“That’s close to Tank and Chyrel’s place,” I said, then opened the throttle a little more. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The two of us sat slightly hunched to absorb what little bounce there was and enjoyed the ride.

Finally, I slowed as we neared shore, angling toward the dock behind Tank’s place. He and Chyrel were waiting.

“Wasting daylight, Gunny,” Tank said, as I came alongside the dock. “I thought fishermen got up early.”

“I wanted to see the sunrise,” Alberto said in my defense.

Tank sat on the edge of the dock, holding the boat in place with his feet. “Was it worth the wait?” he asked, tousling Alberto’s hair.

“It sure was,” he replied. “And we had sausage biscuits.”

Chyrel handed me a small cooler. “There’s a few sandwiches and water in there, plus his meds.”

“Thanks,” I said, placing it with Savannah’s cooler.

How we were going to eat three sandwiches each, I wasn’t sure.

She leaned over and kissed Tank on the cheek. “You be careful and don’t forget when to take them.”

“We’ll be back in a few hours,” Tank said, scooting down to the gunwale and shoving off.

Tank took the little seat in front of the console and a minute later, we were up on plane, heading north. After several minutes, we passed Marker 9 and I angled toward the northeast. Channel Bank wasn’t all that far—within sight of Grassy Key and the bridge—but you still had a sense that you were in another world there.

I slowed as we approached the bank. “Dink was out here yesterday,” I called forward to Tank. “He said he was getting cobia at the north end of the bank.”

“Cobia?” Alberto asked. “Like we had yesterday?”

“That’s right,” I replied. “If we can catch one or two, we won’t have to worry about food for the rest of the weekend.”

“I like cobia,” he said.

I took the boat out of gear and shut off the engine. We drifted along the shoal in the current as I got the rods out. I hooked a pinfish through the meat just ahead of its tail and passed the rod forward to Tank, who moved up to the forward casting deck. Baiting another, I handed it to Alberto.

“Let’s see what you can do,” I said, as I prepped the third rod. “Try to get it close to the bank, but not too close.”

He gripped the upper part of the handle, getting the line between his thumb and forefinger, then flipped the bail arm over on the spinning reel. His cast wasn’t far, and the bait hit the water pretty hard, rather than arcing high. But he obviously knew at least the basics of what he was doing.

“You have done this before,” I said. “Not too bad. Give him some slack, and when he wakes up from that wallop you gave him, he’ll swim toward the shoal.”

I cast mine close to what looked like a ledge that ran along the bank for thirty or forty feet, then reeled in the slack so the pinfish couldn’t get to it.

“Fish on!” Tank yelled. “Looks like a red snapper.”

He quickly wrestled the fish close to the boat, then knelt down and grabbed the short leader, looping it around his hand and lifting the snapper aboard.

“Definitely a keeper,” I said. “You don’t even have to measure that one, even if we were over on the Atlantic side.”

Tank quickly unhooked the fish and put it in the fish box.

Alberto’s rod bent and he nearly lost it, but he quickly leaned back, raising the tip. “I got one!”

He moved closer to the gunwale, bracing his little body against the side for leverage. He worked the fish with some difficulty, as it dove and moved left and right.

“Keep your line tight, son!” I coached. “That’s right. Move your rod in the opposite direction the fish goes.”

Alberto looked over at me and grinned.

I suddenly realized I’d called him son. It’s a normal thing for a man to call a boy, like kiddo or young man. But I suddenly felt something different deep in the pit of my stomach. If Savannah and I were successful in our application to adopt Alberto, he would be my son.

“It’s a cobia!” Tank shouted from the bow, where he had a better view down into the water.

Alberto continued to fight the fish, reeling as he lowered the rod, and the fish taking some of it back from the drag as he raised it. But Alberto was slowly winning the fight.

He was also beginning to tire. It’d only been five days ago that he was pulled from a drifting boat, nearly dead from dehydration.

I stood beside him, ready to catch him if he wore himself out too much or catch the rod if it slipped from his grasp. I could see the fish—a big cobia—well over the thirty-three-inch limit.

“Do you want me to boat him for you?” I asked, concerned.

He looked up at me, determination etched in his little face. “I can do it. I can catch him by myself.”

Tank moved back with the net ready. I pulled a long gaff from under the port gunwale.

“No need for the net,” I told Tank. “That’s definitely legal-sized.”

I thought Alberto was on the verge of collapsing when he finally got the fish close to the boat. With a quick, fluid movement, I gaffed it and lifted it over the side.

The sudden lessening of the tension on his line caused Alberto to stumble back. He landed on the deck, sitting up with the rod still in his hands.

I dropped the cobia to the deck, where it flopped feebly, and then I knelt beside the boy. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, breathing hard. “Yeah, but he got away.”

“He didn’t get away,” I said, moving so Alberto could see his catch.

“Holy cow!” he exclaimed. “That’s the biggest fish I ever caught.”

I took the rod from him and helped him onto the little seat in front of the console. “Take it easy,” I told him. “You caught him all right. No man could have done a better job; that is one big cobia.”

Tank went aft and held the fish alongside the ruler stuck to the inside of the hull. “It’s forty-four inches,” he said.

“Can we keep it?” Alberto asked, looking back.

“Anything over thirty-three at the fork is good,” Tank said. “This fish is well past that.”

I got a small scale from the console, hooked it in the fish’s gill, and lifted it. “Just over forty pounds!”

I carried it forward. “Stand up, young waterman. Check out your catch.”

With the tail almost touching the deck, the fish and Alberto were practically eye to eye.

“That’s a big fish,” he breathed, looking it up and down. “We didn’t let Savannah down.”

“You sure didn’t,” I agreed, smiling broadly. “They don’t get much bigger than this on the Gulf side.”

“Can we have it for dinner?”

“Absolutely, little man.”

Tank sat down on the gunwale and I noticed his face was flushed and he was breathing heavy.

“You okay, Master Guns?” I asked, dropping the fish in the box.

“Just a little winded,” he replied. “There’s an inhaler in the cooler.”

I quickly retrieved it and handed it to him. He pushed the button and took a deep breath from the mouthpiece.

“What’s wrong?” Alberto asked, moving over beside Tank, and putting a hand on the man’s knee.

Tank squinted up at me and I nodded.

He smiled at Alberto and ruffled his hair. “I’m sick, kid.”

“Huh?”

“I have a disease,” Tank said. “It’s called cancer and I don’t have much longer to live.”

“Then you’ll be dead? Like my mom and dad?”

“Yeah, son,” he said, pulling Alberto to his side. “Everyone dies sooner or later. It’s the only thing in life that’s guaranteed. But if a man’s lucky, he can choose how he spends his last days. I chose to spend mine down here, where the air is warm, and the fish are biting.”

Tank smiled down at him. Alberto seemed to accept and understand Tank’s wisdom, and smiled back.

We drifted along the bank, fishing. Alberto caught another cobia that was too small, but he made up for that with his next cast, boating a near thirty-pound black grouper.

By the time the current carried us to the north end of the shoal, the fish box was half full. I started the engine and moved around to the opposite side. At the south end of Channel Bank, I shut off the engine and we drifted north again.

“You called him Master Guns,” Alberto said, leaning against the gunwale, rod in hand. “And he called you Gunny. What’s that mean?”

“Tank and I used to be in the military—the Marine Corps. Do you know what that is?”

He shook his head. “Like a soldier?”

“Soldiers are Army,” Tank told him. “Marines are soldiers of the sea. The smallest, fastest, and most deadly branch of America’s military.”

“When I retired, my rank was gunnery sergeant,” I explained. “And Tank was a master gunnery sergeant. Gunny and Master Guns are sort of short for those.”

My cell phone chirped, resting on its charging pad. It was Savannah.

“Alberto didn’t let you down,” I said, grinning at him. “He’s caught the biggest so far—a forty-pound cobia.”

“Really?” she asked. “That’s amazing. How is he?”

“The fight wore him out a little,” I said. “But he was fine after a few minutes rest, and he’s caught a grouper and a couple of snapper.”

“Are you sure he’s okay?” she asked, the concern clearly evident in her voice.

“He’s fine, babe. Want to talk to him?”

“That’s okay,” she replied. “Just make sure he doesn’t overexert himself. And be sure to put sunscreen on him.”

“I will,” I assured her. “Was there a reason you called or just checking up on us?”

“Jimmy called me,” she said. “He knew you were fishing. The boat wouldn’t start, and he asked if I’d go pick him and Naomi up at the Rusty Anchor. We’re leaving in just a minute.”

“We?” I asked.

“The dogs haven’t been off the island in days,” she said. “I thought I’d take them and let them run while I had lunch with Sidney and Rusty to catch up on things.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, glancing at my watch, and seeing it was almost noon. “We’ll be home in a few hours.”

We ended the call and I put the phone back on the charger.

“You told her about my cobia?” Alberto asked.

“I did, and she was amazed.”

He grinned, just as his rod tip bent again. “I got another one!”

Alberto worked the fish away from the ledge. He was still a little clumsy but getting used to the tackle. I could tell by the bend in the rod it was something large.

“Shark!” Tank shouted. “A three-foot lemon.”

“A shark?” Alberto asked, lowering his rod, and reeling as fast as he could.

“Work him alongside the boat,” I instructed. “Get him in close.”

“So you can get him with that big hook?”

“Lemon sharks aren’t the most edible fish in the world,” I replied. “I want to get the hook out if I can and let him go. Tank, grab your phone and we’ll get a picture.”

When Alberto got the little lemon shark alongside, I put a glove on my right hand and grabbed it by the tail, hoisting it aboard. Sharks have denticles on their skin, which can tear the skin right off your palm.

“Stay back,” I warned Alberto, as the fish tried to twist its mouth up to my hand. “He can still bite.”

With the shark on the deck, I pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers from my pocket and quickly removed the hook. There was a second hook, which I removed also. Then I lifted it by the tail again and stood on the forward casting deck, making sure my shadow wouldn’t be in the shot.

“Step over here, Alberto,” I said, as Tank got his phone ready. “Pretend like you’re holding it up, but don’t grab too tight. The skin’s real rough.”

He stepped over to the other side of the shark and looked it up and down. “I never saw a shark in real life.”

“And the first one you saw, you caught!” Tank said, as he knelt to take the picture.

I stepped down and lowered the shark into the water, moving him back and forth to get water across his gills.

“What are you doing?” Alberto asked.

“You’ve seen how fish open and close their mouths to breath, right?”

He nodded.

“That moves water across their gills, which gives them oxygen, like when we breathe air.”

“Even when they sleep?”

“Some sharks never sleep,” I replied. “At least not like we do. They don’t have eyelids and they’re visually aware of everything around them, even those that can breathe at rest like other fish. Some sharks, like the great white, have to swim to move water across their gills. They start swimming when they’re born and don’t stop until they die. I’m just helping this guy breathe.”

I felt movement in the tail and let the shark go. It swam to the bottom and headed back toward the shoal.

“Take a look at this,” Tank said, holding his phone out.

I knelt beside Alberto. Tank got the shot perfectly, with my hand above Alberto’s and completely out of frame.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to show that to Savannah.”