The Old Fisherman was pooped.
It had been a steamy day out on Denny's boat; not a breath of wind, and the sea still and thick as day-old gumbo. He hadn't been expecting the work. Had been ready for a day on the lanai with a cold Coors or three and the occasional dip in the cool pool. Sadie might make him a ham and swiss on a bulky with lots of mayo. Get in the pool without their suits and pretend they could do more than they did. Sadie was a fine kisser and her nipples perked up nice.
But he didn't do that. Nope. Denny had woke him up in the wee hours with a sob story about Seminole Jim bailing on him, and couldn't he do him just this one favor as how he owed him for that half a tuna he brought over just before Christmas. So there it was. Five-fifteen he was on the smelly old deck of the Marigold Sue testing lines and leader and bait and hooks.
Denny kept a sloppy boat, but he had a good personality and folks seemed to like him. Which was good, because he had no special nose for when or where the fish were eating. So sometimes it was feast, and sometimes it was famine. But people remembered how fun it was with the non-stop suds and the buckets of red-hot chicken wings and tater skins and they told their friends. Word got around. Denny never hurt for customers.
So this time it was a bunch of college kids, men and women both, Spring break thing or some such. He had the big old-fashioned coffee urn cranked , and buckets of donuts. They came on board looking like bears fresh from hibernating, but they perked up with the diesel swill in the coffee urn. Denny always knocked a little cheap whiskey into it, so it was potent brew.
They got out of the harbor without much fuss, ignoring the slow motor signs, leaving as much wake as they wanted to. Denny let him take the boat out while he chatted up the guests. Denny was good at that. They took to him, and with his pirate squint and skunk-colored beard he play the old salt just fine.
Three miles out they started fishing, some small poles over the sides and a couple of big rigs at the chairs in back trolling behind. They zigged and they zagged but spent the whole morning getting nothing but drunk. Finally, a couple of the guys pulled in some nice skipjacks. They played the old boot trick on one of the gals, making her think she was fighting some huge sea monster. When she pulled in that boot she put it on her foot and kicked Denny in the ass with it. He was rubbing his butt for some time.
They were talking about heading back to shore and doing some serious drinking at the Rusty Scupper when something hit one of the big lines. This one gal, Cindy, one of those gals with the red-gold hair that stands out in all directions and a pug nose over a great smile, she was restless and jumping around the deck all morning. But when she saw that line go she threw herself into the chair and grabbed the rod. Denny got her harnessed up with the rod butt seated nice in the socket and she started to put some drag on that line.
Cindy was not a pussy. She had nice strong freckled arms and some serious thighs and calves and some real sweet feet, tanned on the top and pink on the bottom. She didn't need a lot of coaching to work that fish. He was still deep, but she hauled him toward the boat while Denny had the old fisherman run at a couple of knots to tire the fish out. Then Cindy let him run a bit only to draw him up short again..
This went on for quite a while and you could see the guys, especially one fella with a real blue chin and the kind of eyes that kill women in one look, they wanted to be working that fish. But Cindy would have none of it. She was sweating up a storm, her hair getting lank around her face, nostrils wide as she huffed for air in that heat, a slick on her chin and upper lip. She had that big rod socketed at her waist, pulling it in and letting it out, and every man on board and probably the women too was thinking something dirty.
Cindy did her work and finally the fish breached, a big, glistening sailfish, fighting for his life. Once she had him on the surface he danced on his tail before crashing into the oil-dark water again. Everybody kept asking Cindy if she wanted relief but she would have none of it. Denny was feeding her a power drink through a straw. He asked, what the hell, where she managed to get the gumption to do what she was doing. She asked right back if he had a slalom ski on board and how many knots that old tub would do. Denny said he had a ski and the Marigold Sue would cut maybe 32 all out.
"That'll about do. I'll show y'all later on the way home."
Strong as she was, she began to poop out. Anybody would. That old sailfish had no intention of joining the party. Three times they got him in close but before the Old Fisherman could gaff him he took off again like a torpedo. The last time he headed for Cuba, burning up the reel and taking it down almost to zip. Finally, Cindy brought him around but it would be a long haul bringing him in.
She looked around, sopping wet hair around her face, partly from sweat, partly from buckets of water she asked to have dumped on her. Nips on her high breasts were saluting even in the heat.
"I want someone to help ... not to take over ...just help."
She looked around at all of them, finally settling on the Old Fisherman.
"You."
"Him? Why him, I could ...?" It was the strong lad with the blue chin.
"'Cause he knows how."
She scooted forward so the O.F. could slide his wiry frame behind her, his legs on either side. He put his arms under hers and took hold of the rod. His chin was just over her shoulder, his cheek against her ear. It was hot, but it was necessary.
They became one creature. He followed her motion, pulling when she pulled, releasing when she released. They got lost in it. Mostly neither said a word. A few times he coached quietly in her ear:
