Full Measure

Chapter eighteen

At sunrise Glorietta Bay was a silver mirror and Fatta the Lan’ glided confidently upon it. Patrick swung into the bay and looked out to the Coronado Bridge arching from mainland to peninsula, the night lights still on, traffic steady. The eastern sky was indigo over orange. He gunned the Mercury, felt the propeller bite and the bow lift.

Ted stood on the foredeck, legs braced on the railings, a fly rod at the ready. “This thing rides sweet!” he called back to his brother.

“We’ll see how it does offshore!”

“Are we going outside the harbor?”

“After we fish the bay. You’re good with that?”

Ted turned his big body and looked back at Patrick. “Guess I better get my sea feet.”

“We’ll take it easy.”

Frowning, Ted turned and squared himself against the railing. Patrick brought the boat west and anchored almost under the bridge. He logged his coordinates on the GPU then into a small notebook he planned to keep in a plastic bag near the radio. It felt good to be inventing a future. Cars thrummed high overhead.

Ted cast out a perch fly and Patrick watched the sinking line slide deeper and deeper out of sight near one of the bridge caissons. Sea bass were ambushers and tended to cruise structure, so the caissons were a good bet. There were halibut, perch, corvina, mackerel, barracuda, occasional bonefish and sharks, and the lesser skates, rays, dogfish, lizardfish. The bigger game fish were mostly offshore and not commercially accessible in Patrick’s seventeen-foot skiff. His business plan called for a new boat, double the size and range of this one, by his twenty-seventh birthday, five years from now. He planned to keep the Mako so that a partner, or even an employee of his, could continue with the bay clientele. The offshore sharks, dorado, and tuna promised tougher fishing and bigger money, but the client base was smaller. The bay was where he’d find clients, run up some numbers, build a base and a reputation.

“I just got bumped,” said Ted.

“Bring him back.”

Ted stripped in his fly, paused, then stripped in again and the line tightened straight. “Oh, yeah... come to Theodore!”

Ted set the hook, then let the fish take line. Down in the blue Patrick watched the animal flash and be gone. “Trophy, Pat?”

“Monstrous. A Web site fish!”

“Yeah, baby!” Ted looked over at Patrick, his face merry. The tip of his uplifted rod dipped with the strength of the little fish. He was up on the balls of his substandard feet, back straight, his left arm tucked formally behind him, his right arm raised like a conductor. Patrick smiled at the simple pleasure a fish can bring. Gift from a hidden world, he thought. A fish on the line keeps the demons gone, and that’s what he would offer his clients. It was a mystery to him why all people did not fish.

Ted let the bass take the line for a sound, then brought him up in long, firm strips. Patrick looked down at the animal still trying to break free, gills pumping, its freedom cut down to inches. Ted lifted the fish out and swung it into him, gently catching its lower jaw between his big forefinger and thumb. He set his rod against the railing and held the fish up to the new sunlight and removed the perch fly with a pair of hemostats. He turned to Patrick with a conspiratorial wink then lifted the fish to his lips and kissed it. He kneeled and set it back into the water. Patrick watched it hover for a second, there then not.

“Tastes kind of fishy, Pat.”

“What if we catch fifty?”

“Remember that lizardfish that got me?”

“I thought you’d learn after that.”

“You going to fish or what?”

“Immediately and right now.”

“Pat, when I’m out here with you I’m as good as I get. Maybe that sounds dumb.”

“Good is good, brother.”

“Out here nothing gets into me but the good stuff.”

“Don’t start all that.”

“Out here the bad things never even start, is what I’m saying.”

Ted turned and leaned into the rail and Patrick took his five-weight from the rod holder. He pried off his sneakers and stepped aft, flicked out his fly and patiently stripped line onto the deck while he watched Ted cast. For all of his big brother’s bulk and general gracelessness he had a nice delivery, side-armed and languorous, with hard stops on both the back cast and the fore. Patrick thought of last night’s revelations from Archie, and of Ted’s biker father, and as Patrick watched, the damaged beginnings of his brother made Patrick love him in a new and different way.

As the sun rose they caught and released bass near the bridge, and later perch near Marina Park and bonito off Shelter Island. Patrick used the electric trolling motor for stealth. He caught a legal halibut and let it go with a glancing thought about tonight’s dinner. Ted tied on a steel leader and landed a nice barracuda, cavalierly kissing its dangerous snout while Patrick watched, vowing to disallow such foolishness on his guided trips. That shouldn’t be hard.

Ted carefully unhooked the fish and dropped it back into the bay. “I’ve kissed women more dangerous than that!”

Patrick wondered. Not far from the Nimitz Marine Facility they each caught bonefish that sizzled off like rockets and made long runs. Bones were picky eaters, but fast, durable, and experts at throwing a hook. They were shaped like projectiles and had goofy faces and were probably the most coveted game fish in the bay. Patrick knew a good percentage of his clients would want to target them, though their numbers were small. He felt the strength and wild purpose of the fish as his line hissed through the flat water, opening a wake and throwing a plume of mist into the air. Pound and a quarter, he guessed: a nice one. He stood rocking gently with Fatta the Lan’ and felt the joy of fishing, which for him had always been the bringing in of a wondrous thing from an alien place. He’d been trying to explain his love for fishing in more detail for most of his life but had failed, even to himself. As he knelt and set the bonefish free Patrick heard the sea lions croaking in their pens over at the training center where the Navy taught marine mammals to detect mines and enemy swimmers. He wondered if the mammals were drafted or if they volunteered. The ghosts inside him stirred and he pushed them back into their places. Be gone, not now. Ted seemed to sense his brother’s struggle. He turned around and looked at Patrick with concern, then grinned and shrugged, as if asking Patrick to throw off his problems and get with the day. Patrick saw something in him that Archie had probably never owned and that Caroline had long ago imprisoned. Crazy joy? Abandon?

Outside the harbor the Pacific was gray and heavy with chop. The wind came from the west, cool and weighty. Fatta the Lan’ hit the open water and recoiled like a puppy sensing danger. The swells moved her easily, her weight vanished, and at speed she was skittish. Ted sat on the bench facing aft, hunkered in his windbreaker as the boat dipped and rose and the cold spray lashed his back. “I hate it out here in little boats like this,” he said.

Patrick cut their speed, which did little to improve things. It was a long charge north along Fort Rosecrans and Patrick knew the Navy could run him out at will but they usually didn’t. He steered toward the rocky cliffs of Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery and by the time he dropped anchor fifty yards offshore Ted was up with his rod, bracing himself on the railing as best he could while Fatta the Lan’ rose and fell in the swell. Ted swayed, dropped to one knee to hold the rail, then heaved himself up again and turned to Patrick. “If I fall over and drown, tell Mom I loved her and tell Dad I’m sorry. I’m not sure what for, but I sure am sorry! Naw, second thought, tell him life is hard so tough shit, old man.”

“If you fall over, just swim! Shore’s a hundred and fifty feet that a way.”

“Anything can happen at sea.”

“If you’re dead set on drowning then, do I get all your critters and the computer?”

“Yeah! And tell Dora at the stables I didn’t mean to scare her. And tell Mayor Anders I hope she loses the election and never builds those lighted crosswalks we don’t need!”

“Catch a damned fish, Ted.”

Ted turned and raised his rod and false cast to build line speed in the wind. He was rocking mightily but still managed to keep plenty of line in the air. Patrick heard him bellowing: “Fish can tell when you don’t have the mojo, Pat! Even from a hundred feet away. It’s something to do with the way your personal vibrations travel down the line and affect the fly. Which is directly related to the way ideas get into my brain. But I’m not sure how they’re related. Geronimo!” Ted double-hauled briskly and let the line go and Patrick watched the loop unfurl and eighty feet of line and leader turn over to place the fly over the rocks.

Patrick cast too, the wind carrying his fly toward shore. He let the weighted fly and fly line sink as he rocked with the boat. Ted had a harder time balancing in the slightly raised bow. He took a knee to ride out a strong swell. Patrick felt the hump of water moving under him, and he saw it lift the bow as it rolled toward shore, where a long moment later it exploded on the rocks.

When the boat had settled enough, Ted stood up and leaned into the railing, slipped, and fell overboard. Patrick heard his quick yelp and the snap of his rod against the boat and the splash of him hitting the ocean. Ted reached his free hand over the gunwale but the next swell pried him loose and carried him toward the rocks. Patrick pushed his rod into the holder and got the gaff and scrambled fore. Ted was side-stroking toward Fatta the Lan’ with the broken rod and reel still in one hand but the swells pushing against him. He was already half sunk in his heavy clothes and coat. Patrick leaned far out with the handle end but Ted was out of reach. “It’s cold in here, Pat!”

Patrick stashed the gaff and got the rope from the bow compartment and hurled it to his brother. It slapped over him and the next swell lifted, then dropped the boat into a watery bowl. The same swell lifted Ted and carried him fast toward the rocks. He was riding lower in the water now and breathing fast. He found the rope with his free hand and tried to haul himself forward but the rope was long. “Drop the rod, Ted! Drop it and use both hands!”

But Ted held fast to the rod, grabbing short lengths of rope with his left hand while the surge moved him faster out. Patrick swayed greatly on the casting deck, stripping rope with both hands. A swell dropped him so steeply that his feet left the deck and for a moment he was midair, then the deck jumped up under him and he crashed to his knees, jaw crunching, but still hauling. When the rope was tight he stood again and put his back into the tug-of-war. The swells pushed Ted toward the rocks, then Patrick pulled him closer. Ted still held the rod butt and reel. After a long minute Patrick had him halfway back. Then the fly line flew off the stump of the broken rod and the reel screamed. “I’m hooked up, Pat! I’m hooked up!”

“Hang on! I’ve got you! I’ve got you!”

Patrick felt the swells lose some of their power as he pulled Ted into deeper water. Then Ted dropped the rope and tightened up the drag on the reel to better fight the fish. Patrick yelled to pick up the damn rope. Ted began to sink and a strong swell dragged him back toward the rocks until he took up the rope again. He was gasping deep and fast while Patrick pulled. A long minute later Ted was close to Fatta the Lan’, holding out the rod to his brother. Patrick took it and felt the heavy pull of the faraway fish. “Jeez, Ted, nice fish.”

“I told you. I’m thinking snapper. Rocks. Deep.”

“Me, too. Can you hold on? I’m going to back us out of here so we can get you aboard without the surge.”

“Amen, Pat!”

“Feels like ten pounds of fish down there.”

“Oh, at least.”

“Hang on, I’m going to weigh anchor and get us out of here.”

“I hope it’s a snapper! Mom’s favorite.”

“Just hold on, Ted.”

“Dad shouldn’t of yelled at me for taking the bark off the trees. That was a mistake anybody could make.”

“It’s over.”

“It’s never over! I scared a woman out by the stables a couple a nights ago. Dora. I like her a lot. I feel everything she feels, like a connection. I didn’t mean to scare her.”

Patrick reversed them further offshore, steering with his hips, one hand on the rope and the other on the rod. The fish had taken half of the backing but it was losing strength. When he felt less turbulence he put the motor in neutral. He drew Ted close and cut the engine and pulled his brother around to the stern where the gunwales were lowest. Ted was able to get both hands up onto the boat railings but he was too tired and too heavy to hoist himself up and over.

Patrick let go the rope and pulled on Ted’s jacket and felt his brother’s legs pumping and his feet flailing against the hull. Ted panted with this exertion and Patrick put his shoulder down and latched his free arm around Ted’s big neck and pulled. He felt Ted’s heavy exhales on his skin and he crouched for lifting power. There was a moment he thought he might go over, rather than Ted come in, but then Patrick felt his brother’s legs stop moving and a sudden lightness to him. Patrick pulled with all his strength and Ted came up. Patrick slipped and hit his butt hard as Ted surged in and flattened him. They screamed and cursed, fighting for breath, Patrick with the broken butt of the rod still up and the line tight to the fish, Ted crushing the breath out of him. Patrick was weak with suffocation and laughter by the time they got unraveled.

It took Ted another twenty minutes to get the fish in, a bruising red snapper from the rocky depths, twelve and a half pounds according to the Boga Grip that Patrick deployed from his tackle box. Patrick took a dozen pictures of Ted and the fish. Both men were still breathing hard when Patrick pushed the camera back into his shirt pocket and buttoned it.

“We gotta take this home for dinner,” said Ted.

“I’d say so.”

“You’ll make a good guide, Pat. Maybe I could be your first mate.”

Patrick muscled the spent fish into the cooler in the hold and closed the lid. He had put in a block of ice just in case. Patrick loved being prepared for things, as he was in Sangin, twenty-four hours a day, even on the burn shitter, even in his sleep. “I’d like that.”

“You don’t need a mate on this little boat, though.”

“I’ll have bigger ones someday.”

“I’d probably screw up.”

“No, you wouldn’t, brother. Look at that fish.”

“Okay, Pat — you and me on a boat, fishing and making money and having fun. Now I got something to look forward to. I’m cold.”

“Get that jacket and shirt off.”

Patrick worked off his jacket and handed it to Ted then started up the Mercury. “Hold on, big brother.”

The sun hung orange in the west as they rode back to the ramp. Ted sat on the aft bench and every time Patrick looked back he was shivering in the too small jacket but still chattering away. Patrick was used to him not speaking for days or weeks, then unleashing a river of words, and now the river came.

“But you know, Pat, there’s this other woman who’s a mystery and I really like her, too. Lucinda. She called Friendly Village Taxi like over two weeks ago and I got her. And she’s called other times — either Tuesdays and Thursdays. We’ve gone to the market, the pharmacy, the dry cleaner, Joe’s Hardware, and either Las Brisas or Rosa’s for takeout. She doesn’t hardly talk. Doesn’t take her sunglasses off, so maybe she’s hiding something. I think she’s troubled. I feel it but I’m not sure what it is. She lives in a condo with flowers on the balcony. She’s very pretty and healthy-looking but really unhappy. She has great sadness. I’m driving tomorrow just in case she calls. I can’t take much more of Dad. And I know he can’t take much more of me. I wonder if Mom will do that snapper Veracruz style.”