Deceived

2

There are spring mornings so calm off Sanibel Island that in bays where islands block the breeze, saltwater bonds like blue gel, and, if you’re in a good boat, the surface feels as solid as ice and as slick. I was in a good boat, a twenty-one-foot open boat, no top or canvas to get in the way, and powered by a fast Mercury outboard-a “flats skiff,” as the design is known in Southwest Florida, where my family has lived for generations.

It had been one of those rare April mornings.

I’d picked up my clients at sunrise, and by eight a.m. we were nearing a shoal named Captiva Rocks when I saw water boil from the corner of my eye. An instant later, a huge fish jumped, floated high above us, then seemed to hurtle itself toward the boat. Because my clients were standing, we weren’t going fast, but the fish came at us like a rocket. Dreamlike, that’s the only way I can describe my surprise. What happened next took only seconds, but my eyes and brain processed the details in stop-action, as if viewing photos of a car wreck.

A tarpon, I realized. Six feet long, glittering like chrome, saltwater sparking from its tail. The fish froze for an instant, a silver pendant suspended from a cloudless sky, then the string broke and the huge fish fell. Instinct told me either to speed up or to yank the throttle into neutral and try to stop.

I did neither.

True, I was stunned, but a sudden change in boat speed is always risky. My clients, both men, had left their seats and gone forward. The youngest of them was wearing a photographer’s vest but, fortunately, had left his cameras behind. The other, a big man in his sixties, had a belly pack strapped around his waist and had brought an old-fashioned wooden fishing rod, which he’d babied because of its age but was using like a walking stick for balance. Standing while under way is something I normally don’t allow and I should have spoken up, but my livelihood depends on winning repeat charters, when I’m not tending to my late uncle’s business-a private investigation agency that doesn’t stay busy. The older man had made it clear that fishing was secondary, shooting photos is what he wanted, and he had hinted his project might require several trips. Besides, how could anything bad happen on a morning so calm and clear?

Seconds before the tarpon jumped, the older man-Delmont Chatham, as he’d told me on the phone-pointed and called over the sound of the engine, “Can you get us closer?” He was referring to a cluster of shacks built on pilings in shallow water, old fish houses, some almost a hundred years old. One was painted red, the others were gray weathered pine. It was a scene as pretty as any watercolor: tin roofs golden in the morning sunlight, pelicans and gulls hovering like kites. Seldom had I passed those stilt shacks that clients didn’t want to stop for pictures, so I began a slow turn the moment Mr. Chatham pointed.

My eyes remained focused on the water, though. Most people believe May to be the start of tarpon season, but tarpon don’t watch the calendar, and I’d been seeing pods of those big silver fish since March, so I scanned the surface for activity. Not just looking for tarpon either. April is a fertile time; a month that is as sweet and spirited as October. Bays come alive with oceangoing fish that move to the shallows to feed or spawn, often both. Turtles, too, hawksbills and loggerheads, appear, some the size of umbrellas. Manatees gather in families, the tip of a nose often the only warning a thousand-pound animal swims beneath. Cobia forage the flats, their periscope tails knifing the surface; schools of feeding redfish create oil slicks and can cause an acre of quaking water. The shacks would make for good photos, but a fishing guide’s eyes are always on the hunt so my attention didn’t swerve from the surface. Which is why I was the first to see the whirlpool swirl of a big fish flushing ahead of my skiff. Then another… and another.

My right hand, already on the throttle, tightened.

We were in an area of potholes and bars where depth changed abruptly from a foot or less to twenty feet in the channel. The water was shoaling fast, so what else but a bunch of tarpon could create such a disturbance? Bull sharks, great hammerheads, too, sometimes ride the flood into the shallows but seldom in schools.

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?”

“Just Hannah,” I corrected him, aware there was something else I’d misjudged: Mr. Chatham was working for Ransler or was his subordinate in some way, not vice versa.

Joel was the younger man’s name. I asked when he was close enough to shake hands a second time. Then the two of us, by using our weight to lower the gunnel, slid the tarpon gently into the water.

MR. CHATHAM actually did apologize, muttering, “Guess I overreacted.” By then, he was sitting with his feet dangling off the side of the boat, both men watching me revive the fish. Joel was in the water, standing waist-deep to my right, while I walked the fish back and forth, hoping its gills would soon show some color.

“Don’t blame you a bit, Mr. Chatham,” I replied, which prompted the younger man to give me a nod of approval. Thank god I looked up when he did it because that’s when I saw the dorsal fin-a metal-gray fin, tall as a scythe’s blade, thick as a steel bar. The fin cleaved the water in a lazy serpentine pattern, then disappeared behind Joel only twenty paces away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked when he saw my expression change.

“Get in the boat,” I said.

“What?”

“In the boat-now.” I had stopped what I was doing but didn’t raise my voice; didn’t want the man to stumble and fall if he panicked.

He was carrying a bucket he’d been using to slosh slime off the deck and gestured with it. “The boat’s still a mess.”

“Hurry up,” I told him, which is when he realized I was staring at something behind him, so he turned and looked. The shark wasn’t coming fast, but it was pushing a big wake, and the fin had reappeared.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered-profanity that seemed appropriate in this situation. Then began walking backward, slowly at first, then faster, which got the shark’s attention. When the fin turned on a line to follow him, the man swore again. “Holy shit!”

Mr. Chatham was fretting over his antique fishing rod, which had been damaged by the collision, so he was oblivious, his legs dangling in the water, when he demanded, “What’s the problem now?”

The problem was that the shark would have to cruise past both men before it got to me and might attack one or both of them instead of the tarpon I was reviving-an injured fish, I felt certain, that the shark had scented and was its actual target. There’s no telling what a feeding shark will do in murky water, so I called to Joel, “Don’t watch the thing, just get in the boat!” I was already moving toward the shark, pulling the tarpon along beside me, its streamlined body buoyant in my right hand.

Once again, the shark submerged, this time in the hole where Mr. Chatham had nearly drowned, water so deep its wake disappeared and I lost track of the thing.

“Where’d it go?” Joel sounded anxious when he shouted, and no wonder. He had reached the boat but was too much of a gentleman, apparently, to leave a woman behind.

“He wants this tarpon, not me,” I called, raising my voice for the first time. “Do you know how to handle a boat?”

“Why?”

“Get in and start the damn engine!” I yelled, and began pulling the fish toward the boat, taking leaping strides in the slow-motion way that water requires. My language must have surprised the man because he vaulted immediately aboard and was already lowering the motor while he asked again, “Where the hell did he go?”

Rather than answering, I continued my slogging stride because I didn’t know. The whole time I was debating whether to leave the tarpon behind or try to save it. The fish’s tail was moving, its gills were working, but it was in no condition to sprint for its life. I’m not sentimental when it comes to fish, but the sight of a rolling tarpon never fails to produce a glow in me. They’re such lean, powerful creatures. They’re never uncertain in their movements, and their scales reflect the sky like mirrors, so a six-foot tarpon is as close to liquid sunlight as anything alive. I’ve got nothing against sharks-well… except their goatish eyes and brutal ways. Even so, it seemed wrong to allow such a pretty fish-and one that had injured itself on my boat-to become an easy meal.

As I grabbed for the transom, I yelled, “Pull the anchor!” then felt silly because Joel had already done it-all but the last few feet of line, which had just broken free. The man had the line coiled in one hand and was leaning with an outstretched arm to pull me aboard. I refused to let him do it, though, until I’d yelled to Mr. Chatham, who was standing at the controls, “Put the boat in gear-slow idle. You know how to do that?”

“Look at the size of that thing!” I heard Chatham whisper, looking down at the water, which made me jump, so I was safely over the transom but still hanging on to the tarpon when the shark appeared behind us, the boat idling forward now.

A great hammerhead shark, twelve feet long, a couple of hundred pounds, its space-alien eyes were separated on a stalk of gray as wide as a broomstick. The shark had its bearings. Knew exactly where the wounded fish was and accelerated toward us with the slow stroke of its tail.

“A little faster,” I told Chatham, then said to the younger man, “Help me slide him onto the deck.” Meaning the tarpon. “Put a few hundred yards behind us, we can finish reviving him. No guarantees, but at least he’ll have a chance.”

“Smart,” Joel replied, and got on his belly. Then, when we had the fish braced between us, he looked at the slime on his clothes and said, “It’s going to take you days to clean this boat.”

No, it took only an hour because my clients insisted on helping. The three of us had survived an adventure and rescued a fish, which changed the mood from businesslike to friendly. It was Mr. Chatham who suggested they help, saying, “How about we take a break, then finish the trip when we’re done? Where can we find some towels and a hose with freshwater?”

My childhood home, where my mother, Loretta, still lives, that’s where-and only two miles from Captiva Rocks. It’s an old house of yellow clapboard on a paw of land where three thousand years ago people built shell pyramids as temples. Tourists new to Florida are always surprised to hear this, but it’s true. From the water, the remains of those shell mounds looked like rolling, wooded hills as we approached. There was also a row of tin-roofed cottages-cabins, really-built along the bay, and docks where mullet and stone-crab boats floated, which raised Mr. Chatham’s spirits even more.

“That could be a scene from the nineteen hundreds,” he said, reaching for a camera. “What’s the name of the place?”

“Sulfur Wells,” I told him. “It’s an old fishing village, and not easy to get to by car. Because the lots are so small, folks call the cabins Munchkinville. Most only have one bedroom.”

Mr. Chatham was nodding as if he were way ahead of me. “Sure, Sulfur Wells. My family used to own property here, but it’s been years since I’ve come by water. That’s why I didn’t recognize it. Good call, Hannah!” The man smiled at Joel Ransler, and added, “I told you I chose the right fishing guide.”

It seemed like a pleasant compliment until I learned that Delmont Chatham was from a well-known family in neighboring Sematee County-Chatham Chevrolet, Chatham Citrus & Cattle-and they owned a lot of property. His deference to Ransler suggested that he had inherited the name but not the money, which wasn’t unusual. Mr. Chatham collected antique fishing equipment, it turned out, which is why he’d been so upset when the tarpon shattered his vintage rod. His hobby, and his family’s history, gave us something to talk about, because my great-grandfather-who’d built the yellow house-had also been one of the area’s first fishing guides.

It got better after I tied up at the dock because my mother was on her way out. She and her friends were taking a courtesy van to play bingo, as they always do on Fridays, so there was no time to explain why a strange man-Joel-was escorting me up to the house. I was relieved. Loretta has never been an easy woman to deal with, and the stroke she had three years ago has not made her any less of a trial to me, her only child.

I FELT LUCKY the rest of the day. And my good luck held into late afternoon, when, at the hospital, a woman physician interrupted my story about the hammerhead shark and dispelled Tomlinson’s warnings about giant fish and messages from God. “Your biologist friend has to take it easy,” she said. “No strenuous exercise. But he’s done with hospitals for now. I’ll see him in a few weeks.”

Tomlinson had been so relieved, he’d hugged the physician, and told her, “Float on, honey!” which was the sort of thing Tomlinson says even to heart surgeons.

The previous few weeks had been difficult for all of us, particularly Marion Ford. In late February, the surgeon had spent two hours removing the tip of a stingray barb from Ford’s chest, then repairing what she had described in the waiting room as “a tiny laceration of the right ventricle.” To comfort the dozens who had gathered there that night, she had added, “All he needed was a simple stitch or two-we’ll know more in a few hours.”

What the doctor knew, what we all knew, was that Marion Ford had nearly died. The week that had followed had been a roller coaster of good news, then complications that included one awful night that Ford had spent on a ventilator in ICU. Looking through a window at a person you love being inflated and deflated like a child’s toy is painful and proves the line between life and death is as thin as a newborn’s skin.

Now, six weeks later, I felt lucky indeed-as did Ford’s many friends at Dinkin’s Bay, on Sanibel Island, where we returned at sunset to share the good news.

That night, though, the biologist chose not to stay late at his own party. Instead, he invited me, alone, to his house for a “quieter celebration.” We shared a bottle of wine and attempted to make small talk until the tension I felt made it impossible to speak a coherent sentence. After that, there was no talking-no conversation, anyway-despite the doctor’s orders about strenuous exercise.

I didn’t slip into my own bed until first light.