“Maybe we should chip in for Merry Maids,” John joked. “Seriously. Fifty bucks and they’d have this place spotless.”
“Clay likes things just the way they are,” Cooper said in a warning tone. “No one says anything against him in my presence. Just sayin’.”
“Only kidding,” John said. “I know he’s the best. Clay’s from a different era. Like this here dock.” To Gordon he said, “Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s used to be sleepy islands. People knew each other. They were good neighbors and didn’t worry if their dock was gentrified.” He pointed to the white house across the street. “I’ll bet he’s up there now, watching us, wishing he were here. I wish he was too. Clay’s getting up there in age and lying low. The virus would almost certainly kill him.”
“I learned most of what I know about fishing from Clay,” Cooper said. “He was always right here, ready to give me pointers on how to catch red drum, or gig for flounder. They broke the mold when they created him.” He looked back at the house and a flicker of sadness crossed his features. “Let’s go fishing.”
It was clear that Cooper knew his way around a boat. John was chagrined to see that Gordon did as well. They moved quickly, in tandem, bringing in the gear, standing aside without being asked as they worked on the fuel line, checked the engine, and untied the hitch.
“All aboard,” Cooper called out.
The water slapped lightly at the hull of the boat, a gentle smacking noise that was hypnotic. The small, tattered American flag secured above the pilothouse flapped in the wind. The hull of the boat was weathered, like everything else, in need of a scraping and paint job. Clay was long past the days when he cared about barnacles and paint.
“Nice call with the choice of beer,” Gordon called out when he took a sip. “Were they out of battery acid?”
“Hey, I didn’t know what you liked,” John said over his shoulder. “I thought this was a safe middle-ground kind of thing. I guessed you were a mai tai or daiquiri kind of guy but figured there wouldn’t be a blender on this tub. Make do.”
“I’m more of an IPA guy,” Gordon replied soberly. “Though we Brits prefer ours warm. And for your edification, a mai tai is not a blended drink.”
“Good God!” Cooper shouted over his shoulder from the wheel. “Are we fishing or negotiating terms for World War Three? Gordon, untie the line. John, just—just sit down. Get out of my line of sight.”
John sat, noting Gordon’s twitching lips.
With the engine purring, Cooper expertly guided the seventeen-foot boat away from the dock.
“Nice boat,” Gordon said, taking it in. “It’s a smaller model of a classic design. If I’m not mistaken, it has hydraulic steering and no autopilot.”
“Right you are,” said Cooper.
John narrowed his eyes, wondering if all that was just to show him up.
“Clay may be a bit lacking in housekeeping,” Gordon said with appreciation, “but he knows his boats and follows the safety guidelines to the letter.”
“Speaking of which, put on those life vests,” Cooper instructed. “At least until we get out on the water. They’ve got cops all over the place and I don’t feel like getting a citation.”
The engine gurgled quietly as Cooper guided the boat along Hamlin Creek. No other boats were on the waterway, a sign of the times. But the ever-present seagulls called out their mocking song, dipping low close to the boat’s stern, looking for a handout.
“Do we want to fish the Intracoastal or go out with the big boys?” Cooper asked, turning away from the wheel.
“Big boys,” John and Gordon blurted simultaneously.
“Yeah, right,” Cooper replied with a sorry shake of his head. “No way we’re going out that far.” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s going to be one of those days,” he muttered more to himself.
John wiped his brow, feeling the humidity and trying to remember if he’d packed extra suntan lotion. It was going to be a scorcher—already near eighty degrees, and it wasn’t even nine in the morning.
“If we’re lucky,” Cooper called back over the roar of the engine, “we’ll catch some redfish, sheepshead, maybe trout, though it’s late in the season. And maybe shark.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Gordon said. “I get enough shark when I surf.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the biggest shark you’ve ever seen?” John asked. He knew he was starting it, the mine’s-bigger-than-yours stories.
Gordon didn’t skip a beat. “I’ve surfed all over the world, but my favorite spot is off the coast of Australia. I have a lot of mates there and it’s a good time. And the waves.” He half-smiled. “Not the little skimmers you have here.” He paused to take a drink.
Cooper barked out a laugh while John simmered.
“Anyway, I was out on my board, minding my own business, waiting for a wave. We were all a good distance apart. I remember looking out, thinking about the serenity of the moment. All was so quiet. Peaceful. And then, out of nowhere, I catch sight of this bloody huge gray shadow under the water. Sixteen, seventeen feet, at least. It all happened so fast. Suddenly there was this head. A great white. The pink gums were pulled back. The teeth.” He shook his head. “Monstrous. I drew back. It was instinctive. Then he comes crashing down on the board, literally flipping me high into the air. Except, I’m still tied to the board. I hit the water, and the next thing I know he’s diving and taking me with him. I was trying to pull myself free of the band when the shark must’ve let go because the board came rocketing up to the surface, dragging me up with it. I surfaced, choking, and ripped off the leash. My buddy came paddling toward me and I climbed on his back. Somehow we managed to catch a wave.” He laughed. “It was a miracle we both stayed on the board.” He paused, remembering. “I’m lucky—I know that.”
“Well, shit,” said Cooper.
Gordon looked out at the water, then turned to John. “I’ve stared into the eyes of a lot of animals—whales, dolphins, sea turtles, seals. There’s a connection there that’s beautiful. But looking into the eye of a shark…” He paused again, and shook his head. “It’s like looking into the eye of a dead man.”
There was a long silence.
“That’s… wow,” John said, backing down. He’d never been to the Australian coast. Hell, the farthest away he’d ever surfed was off the coast of California. There was no contest.
Cooper shook his head. “I didn’t know we were getting into Jaws stories.” He laughed. “Dude, we need a bigger boat.”
Laughing, Gordon raised his hand, and John tossed him a beer, which he snared with one hand.
“You?” John asked Cooper.
“No thanks. I’m driving.”
With the life vest covering most of his chest, Cooper reminded John of back when the kid used to beg his dad to let him take the wheel. They raised him right, he thought, tossing Cooper a cold water.
“He old enough?” Gordon asked teasingly.
“Old enough to know better, still young enough not to care,” John said smiling.