Can’t be sharks, I thought, and knew it was true when something moved to my left: a big silver tail stirred the surface, a tarpon swimming in the sickly way of a fish that has been played too long, then gaffed. The man wearing the photographer’s vest-his name was Ransler-was kneeling on the front casting deck and saw it, too.
“What’s that?” he yelled.
Which is when, before I could slow the boat or answer, the water exploded to our right and a hundred-pound tarpon arched high into the air in front of us. Both men threw their hands up to shield themselves while I tried to steer away, but there was no avoiding a collision. Like a silver wave, the fish slapped Ransler overboard, then slammed bone-hard onto the forward deck where Delmont Chatham stood frozen, his weight braced on the vintage fishing rod. Automatically, I reached and grabbed the man by the collar while I reduced throttle slowly, slowly, hoping the tarpon wouldn’t slide off the casting platform into the boat, but it did. Even so, I thought I had things under control until the fish’s wild flopping caused me to lose my grip, then knocked Chatham’s legs from under him and he tumbled overboard, too.
Hannah Smith, you fool! You’ve just killed your clients!
That’s what I was thinking. A nightmare so unexpected, it caused my brain to go numb. But I grew up on the water, fishing and running boats, so my hands and eyes knew better than to panic. With a glance over my shoulder, I located both men, shoved the throttle forward and circled back, the chines of my skiff skidding in a tight turn. Ransler, in his sodden photographer’s vest, was already standing, water up only to his waist. Chatham, though, had dropped into a deep pothole and was struggling to keep his nose above water. The heavy belly pack, I realized, was pulling him down.
He’s drowning, I thought. I can’t let that happen!
The men were separated by a distance, so I pointed my skiff at Chatham, full speed, one hand trimming the engine while the other searched behind me for the anchor I keep in the transom well. The whole time, the tarpon was hammering the deck of my boat, slinging slime and saltwater in a frenzy, the engine noise was deafening, which was why I couldn’t hear what Ransler was hollering at me-Slow down! most likely-but I didn’t touch the throttle. Didn’t do anything but keep a finger on the trim switch until I was two boat lengths away. By then, the propeller had cleared the surface, the angle seemed right, so I killed the engine while I dumped the anchor and then let the boat glide.
“You’re gonna hit him!”
I could hear Ransler clearly enough now despite the thrashing tarpon, but I paid no attention. My skiff had lost so much speed, there was no need to wait for the anchor to pull taut and I didn’t. I grabbed the bowline and jumped over the side, only a few yards from where Mr. Chatham was still struggling to keep his head up. I was wearing khaki shorts, a long-sleeved shirt, and leather boat shoes. The water was cool when it flooded my clothing and too murky to see much when I went under. I found the bottom with my feet and pushed off in what I guessed was the right direction. When I surfaced behind Chatham, it surprised us both, but him more than me because he yelped, “Jesus Christ!” as if he’d been bitten by a shark.
His reaction almost caused me to laugh, but I didn’t, thank god. There was no way of knowing there was a shark in the area, but there was-a big one, too. The wounded tarpon I’d seen moments earlier should have put me on my guard, but all I could think about was getting my clients out of the water and returning them safely to the dock.
“Stay calm!” I said into the older man’s ear. “Take a big breath!” Then I got an arm wrapped around his huge chest and used the bow rope to pull us to the boat, which was settling itself in a shallower area. Chatham was scared and twitchy, I could feel it, coughing water, too, so he came along meekly enough until he found his footing and I tried to help boost him up onto the deck. He’d gotten enough air to reinflate his confidence, or his pride, though, and he pushed me away, saying, “I hope you’ve got a good attorney!” Then he floundered up onto the transom like a seal trying to exit a slippery pool but fell back. The man had to weigh close to three hundred pounds.
I was too stunned to reply, at first. Then felt such a flush of anger I decided it was best to ignore the comment, so I turned my attention to the younger man, who was wading toward us. “Are you hurt?”
Ransler was smiling, thank god, and sounded good-natured when he replied, “Ruined a camera lens probably, but I’ve got a great story to tell the grandkids-if I ever have any! You okay, Del?”
Delmont Chatham was still trying to pull himself out of the water but paused long enough to wheeze, “Hurry up, I want to get back to the car!” Which caused the younger man’s smile to only broaden while he gave me a private look and made a calming motion with his hands that promised He’ll cool down, don’t worry.
I didn’t believe it was true but appreciated the reassurance. It was in that instant the younger man became an actual person in my mind, not just a client, which is an example of how quickly and unfairly I sometimes judge people. That morning at the dock, Chatham had introduced the two of us, saying, “This is Rance-try not to act like he’s so damn good-looking,” then added the man’s full name, which I heard as Joe or Joel Ransler but wasn’t certain. We had shaken hands, but I’d made only brief eye contact because Chatham was right: the man was as tall and handsome as a pro athlete or a news anchor and I’ve never been comfortable around unusually handsome men, no idea why. So I had dismissed him as a “type”-one of those beautiful people who moved easily through life full of confidence and absent of worries. After a day on the boat, or even after several charters, we would still have nothing in common, I would never see him again-not that I was interested personally because I wasn’t. Even so, it was a way of shielding myself, I suppose, but also the type of lazy thinking I dislike in others and try to avoid.
The man’s small gesture of kindness, though, caused me to see his face clearly for the first time-a nice face with a boyish grin, brown hair done by a stylist, but not too prissy neat, especially now that it was wet, blue jeans, no belt, and a black T-shirt under the photographer’s vest. I didn’t know him well enough to use his nickname, Rance-that would have been unprofessional-but at least he wasn’t threatening to sue me in court.
“Anybody hit their head?” I called while I moved to the side of the boat. “We need an ambulance if you’re hurt.” It was a question I should have asked Mr. Chatham since he’d booked the trip, but fishing guide etiquette had gone out the window as far as I was concerned. Fact was, Chatham’s threat didn’t have my full focus. The tarpon was knocking my gear to pieces, fishing rods and cushions flying, so I tried to get a hand on the fish’s lower jaw while also steadying the boat-which was not easily done in water up to my chest. Mr. Chatham wasn’t helping, either, with his attempts to belly flop aboard, which was frustrating for us both. Finally, after another failed effort, he yelled, “I can’t do this with that goddamn fish banging around!”
I seldom use profanity, don’t find it attractive, but rude talk was the least of my worries so I paid him no mind. But the younger man didn’t like it. He snapped, “Watch your language, Delmont!” Which surprised me because of the sharp tone, plus he’d hardly opened his mouth all morning. Even more surprising was Mr. Chatham’s reaction-silence. Just stood there, looking embarrassed, until Ransler got to the boat, leaned his weight on the gunnel, then said coolly, “After we get that fish in the water, you’re going to apologize to Captain Smith. Okay, Del?”