On The Water 2010 Fiction Contest Winner

By Alfonso K. Ajello
om thought she was being smart moving us to the Jersey Shore, getting me away from Sals and the bad element that was Armstrong Avenue. She had no idea that our new address was also Armstrong Avenue, but with a Strawberry Bobs Marina instead of a Sals Restaurant as the locus for the criminals and deviants. The only difference was that there were no Italian Men of Honor to keep order in the neighborhoods, just dirtbags.

The Shore had its positives though. Mainly, the beach, and as I would soon discover, every kid who was in town for a one-week summer internment with his parents ended up there in the evenings. The beach was the place to be for a guy my age beer, and pot, and girls, laughing and singing. The problem was that all of this distracted me from my mission of moving back home. I needed to stay focused. Six months prior, my father was murdered in our own house. There was no doubt in my mind who was responsible, I just needed the names. My mission became to nd the names and erase them as they erased my father. But before I could, Mom sold the house. I walked away from the group of kids butchering Pink Floyd on an out-of-tune guitar and plotted my revenge in the darkness. I sat on a rock at the base of a jetty with my head in my hands doing my best to recall the moment I knew he was gone, but all I could think of was that blue-eyed redhead with the sunburnt belly and the Zuni jewelry who kept smiling and accidentally rubbing up against me. My father, I thought, would have wanted me to hold hands with the blue-eyed redhead, not sit in darkness planning revenge against the neighborhood mobsters that killed him. Breakers crashed, thudding hard; suds enveloped my feet and buried them in sand. I looked over my right shoulder, and there, in the center of the horizon stood a human form. I came to my feet and squinted into the darkness trying to discern the gure from the blackness. Some crazy dude was planted way out on the tip of the jetty. He was shing, casting then retrieving, over and over again. And, he wasnt the only one, I was able to see more phantoms standing in the wash casting and retrieving. That is so cool, I thought. Thats what I gotta do, I said aloud. I decided that I had to get a job in order to save up money to get a surf rod and Strawberry Bobs was where Id start. I trotted back to the beach party and that blue-eyed redhead. The dudes at the bait and tackle store were jerks, same for the marina ofce, and most of the party boats. I canvassed the piers and berths, attempting to get a feel for who controlled the rackets it reminded me of home, and how I needed money to move back. I ended up standing before a piling that was triple the thickness of your ordinary telephone pole and stood over eight feet tall. It was wider on the top than it was at its middle, and stained with tar. A jig-sawed crest of plywood was nailed to it, about two feet wide, painted white, cracked and peeling from years in the wind, sun and salt. Routed into it was Nunziatta Six Man Charters then below that, Captain Vincent L. Mancini. Tuna tails of all sizes hung from the piling in descending order, from the largest at the top down to the smallest at the base, dozens of them. There were photographs too, curling snapshots tacked to every swath of wood, uttering in the breeze. One old dude was in each picture, smiling, red in the face, standing with his customers with his arm around a man and a white marlin, with a husband and his wife beside a giant bluen, with a father and his sons and a boatload of footballs all sunburnt and beaming. Every snapshot was labeled detailing the poundage and the date of the catch, but the ink had faded to piss yellow. Hey, Pal, a voice called out. I turned to see a re hydrant with legs carrying a cup of Ducky Mart coffee and smoking a Hav-A-Tampa. A big smile, sky blue eyes, and a bald head adorned with dozens of brown spots seemed to eclipse everything. Hey, I said. So, whats your story? he asked. My storyI dont really got one. Wanna do some shing? he asked, pointing to the photographs. Well yeahno! Yes and no actually. The man started cackling louder than the gulls that were circling the commercial vessels moored nearby. Im looking for a job to save up some cash to get a decent surf rod. You looking for work? Yea Be here tomorrow, dinner time. Ill put you to work, he said, smiling as he adjusted his crotch. Vince, he said, extending his hand to shake. Carlo, I said, and I shook his hand. OK, Pal! Crowds gathered to watch as I helped pull bluen giants off the Nunziatas decks. I met Scuba, the rst mate, who had me hosing sh guts, breaking down tackle, stowing bait, and basically cleaning up the entire boat while Vince haggled with Japanese merchants over the cost of fresh tuna. When things settled down and Scuba took off for the bars, Vince sat down and wiped the sweat from his head. I stood around waiting. Long day, Pal. long day, he said. Oh! Dont go anywhere, he said as he ran into the cabin. When he came

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out he had a mustard-yellow shing rod in his hand. He walked over and handed it to me. Here you go Pal! Good luck! Whats this? I asked. He cackled like the gulls, adjusting his crotch. Its a surf rod! A nice outt for a kid! Nine footer, you can throw plugs with it, pencils, tins, bucktailsyou can soak bait with it! I didnt hear a word he said, all I could do was look at the rod, the guides, and the cork grips. I put the two halves of the rod together. I held it, the butt in my left hand, my right just north of the reel seat. I could feel the energy generated by just wiggling it slightly. I examined the reel as the evening sun glinted off it. Some paint had been chipped off, but it was dandy, in the way that a 57 Chevy Belair is dandy. I turned the crank, then ipped the bail and watched it trip for the rst time. I did it over and over again, listening to the slightly audible ring as the bail tripped. Penn Greenie, he said. Thats a good reel! Will last you forever! Vince, I dont know what to say. Ill take care of it. Ill give it back in great shape! Nah! Its yours! But, whatll you use? Hell! I have a house full of tackle! Besides, Im to old to be hopping around on jettiesyou know, Pal! I dont know what to saythanks Vin. Get out there and sh. he said. Be back here tomorrow at dinner time! One of Vinces most important lessons was that the sea is cruel. Every time he took the Nunziata out, the ocean took a little bit back out of her. She hadnt been serviced all summer, and we set aside one particular mid-August day to heal her catalog of saltwater wounds. I laughed as Vince crouched, screaming obscenities at his macerator. He stood up and spiked the rag he was using and faced me. What kinda man is your father? My father is dead, I answered. Howd he diePal? Its a long story, I said. OK PalI lost my dad when I was young too, he said. Yea, how?

He died when I was in the service. My father was in the service too, I think. Yea, doing whatPal? I dont know. Aw, youre too much for me! Pal! What do you mean? Youre too much for me, He cackled. He never talked about it, Vin. He always just referred to it as when he was overseas. Hed say, when we were overseas the natives spoke pidgin and ate rice bugsyou knowstuff like that. He was a jungle ghter, Vince said as if he was an authority, adjusting his crotch. You think so? I bet you he was Marines. Were you a Marine? No, I was Navy. That sounds nice, I think if I was gonna join the service Id join the Navybe out on the water. No, Pal, it is hard work! And we got sunk three timesthree times! Torpedoes, Vince shook his head. He took a puff of his Hav-A-Tampa and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. The ocean doesnt look so big when youre on a boat, but when youre sunkhell, even the sky aint that big. But, you got rescued, right. Yea, sometimes, but not always! Sometimes youre out there for days, weeks, oating around. Lotta guys died! But theyre rough guys, Palthe Marines. Theyre rough guys! Yea, I said waiting for Vince to make his point, knowing full well there might not be one. Notheyre rough guys! Vince puffed his Hav-A-Tampa and picked up the rag he had spiked earlier. Conversations with Vince ended as fast as they started, dissipating with the diesel exhaust and the calls of the gulls. He went back to his bickering with the macerator. By July 4th of my second summer down the seashore, Vinny offered me a full-time work on the Nu. Scuba was annoyed at rst, but having me around made things easier on him because I did all the hump work. We took the eight-hour trips to the Hudson Canyon, leaving at two oclock in the morning, to the Gulf Stream in search of tuna, marlin, swordsh, sometimes shark, wahoo and dolphin. First Mate Scuba and our six-man charters would curl up in the cabin to sleep, but I stayed with Vince. I loved being up there on the bridge, so quiet and high, far enough away from the roaring Detriots that they soothed and relaxed me. The moon that night was a spotlight shining on the surface of an innite mystery; it made me remember that I never once wanted to miss the sun when it came up. Months before, Vince turned the Nu over to me. I felt at home behind the wheel, but I still felt uncomfortable because after all, I didnt have a license, and it was his boat named after his wife. You want to take over, Vin, I asked. No, Palyou keep it youre a natural. I can see it right away! Thanks, Vin. Vince puffed on his Hav-a- Tampa, savoring the smoke from the wood-tipped cigar and gazing east. The sun was edging its way up, as though someone lit a candle and set it on the horizon. YeaPal, he said, keeping up his gaze as if looking at his grandchildren. That was one of the things I loved about Vince. You didnt have to say anything, no pressure to force small talk freedom to shut up. The sun was higher now, no longer a candle but a spill of orange across a burning sea. I put on my sunglasses as I pushed the Nu forward. Throttle back brother, throttle back, Vince said. Time to do some shing? You know, hah Palyou know, he said. He glanced at the shnder and checked the water temperature. He pulled his pants way up in the front so he wouldnt trip over the cuffs as he ran down the steps. Im gonna go wake up the sleeping jerk-off, he said, referring to Scuba. Slow ahead brotherslow ahead. He ran down the steps. I edged the Nu east toward the sunrise and took a deep breath. I wished my father could see me behind the wheel of the Nu, riding every ripple and swell. He would love this, I thought. Hed like Vince too. Dad liked real people, and Vin was denitely a real guy. Besides, I thought, anyone who was my friend would have been his friend too. I couldnt breathe anymore, my chest tightened, and I choked on bile a spike

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ran through my innards. heads of the boys of our charter glinted in the sun, wisps of black hair blowing in The sun was up nearly three quarters, an undulating rebomb that splashed acid the wind. Blood owing, diluted with saltwater and sun, splashing and spattering in my eyes. I didnt want to throttle back; I didnt want to go slow ahead. I wanted all over the teak and the yellow rain boots that Scuba wore to keep his feet dry. to push the Nu to her limits, feel her twin Detroits open up all the way and roar, By the time the sun was dead center in the sky, the three men of the charter rip a gash in the sea behind her, crash her right into the heart of that were sun fried and staggering from exhaustion. The three of them reball. It was close went inside to take a break, and within moments they were snoozing away the afternoon. Scuba was a rabid coke fiend who dealt on the side, a chain smoker to twice the This is shing, the Canyon is electric, Vince hollered, pitching the with a face so raped by hours in the sun that it looked crispy. He had a size of the butt of his Hav-A-Tampa overboard. Lets have some fun, this might mop of platinum blond that no matter how the wind smacked it always transom. not happen for another ve years! fell back into place. You would think he was a skinny 13-year-old if you So, I trolled, slow ahead. walked up behind him, but when he turned, and you saw that bleached Iridescent Vince and Scuba took turns reeling them in one after another until Fu Manchu over blowtorched skin, youd recoil in horror. blue and Scuba was near collapse. He was slumped along the gunnels sucking Vince pointed below with a nod. It was our charter leaning on the down spring water from a one-gallon jug and dumping the backwash transom yawning and shivering three lawyers who paid the price of six blinding over his platinum mop. to get out on the sea and do something manly. Its your turn, Pal, Vince hollered up to me. yellow, Ladies auxiliary, I said. Nah, you keep shing, Ill keep trolling. a mirrored Oh no, Pal, he yelled holding up a gimble. Get down here. I ran Vince broke out laughing. Youre too much for me, Pal! He went below and began chatting with them. I could hear as they face tapered down and strapped on the gimble. Scuba stood next to me, hacking joked and bantered away the morning. He prepared the rods, reels, and spitting into the wake if he eyelash stuck to a gleaming Vince trolled, slow ahead. asstood had anwith the st ofin his throat. lines, lures and outriggers and nally got Scuba awake. He hollered I there anticipation up to me to begin trolling over and around a school of tuna that we pool cue bill, in my gut. had been hunting all morning. I felt empty when I wasnt at the helm. I couldnt get my footing, raised from By nine oclock the sun burned off the fog and turned the canyon my sea legs were gone it was a different axis in the universe. I the water. looked up at Vince as he stood at the bridge lighting a match against waters to crystal. Scuba ponticated about how the seas were hollow and empty from long-liners and drift-netters, but Vince stayed quiet, the wind and putting it to the tip of a new Hav-A-Tampa. gazing out to sea, chewing on his burnt-out Hav-A-Tampa. He signaled me with a He motioned to the port side, at a few acres of chocolate-brown-freckled pormotion of his hand, slow ahead. poises that bounced out of the water. I had eye contact with one that was so close Fish on! Tuna, bluen, decent sized; 80 pounds each, at least, were bending I thought it might end up in my lap, but they dove just short of port, and there was the rods. a snap the line from the outrigger. The pole spazmed downward as if it might y For three or four hours straight we were whacking them, double- and triple- out into the boiling water. Fish on! Scuba shouted and began taking in all the headers. The chugging of the Nus diesels cancelled out most sound as I trolled, lines. Vince cut the motors and raced down, picked up the rod with both hands, encircling yellow and bluen schools, but I could hear Vinces cackling, and the set the hook, and positioned it into the gimbal. slamming of the footballs on the teak, and tails apping. I struggled to keep from being pulled over the side. Each crank on the reel took Id sit the Nu still as the tuna fought for their lives, arcing the rods. The bald every ounce of my strength, and the steel of the golden Penn subtracted knuckle

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with every turn. And, then there was slack. I began to take in line fast and we noticed a ash, something shiny darting through the water. Its a friggin head, Scuba said. Sharks, Vince said with a question mark in his voice. Our charter had awoken from their naps and was feeling their second wind. I continued to reel in quick. The tuna head was about ten yards away when I noticed a greenish cloud, rising from beneath, as though a Buick with the headlights on was driving up from the depths. It was close to twice the size of the transom. Iridescent blue and blinding yellow, a mirrored face tapered to a gleaming pool cue bill, raised from the water. The beast was all business as it engulfed the tuna head and disappeared. Vince struggled to get the words out. His Hav-A-Tampa bounced on the teak. FREE SPOOL SCUBA, FREE SPOOL! His voice was cracking, Thats gotta be at least a thousand poundsMOTHER OF GODwhat a beautiful sh! BLUE MARLIN! And I had him hooked. The marlin ran, taking ten-thousand yards of line. Scuba sat me in the ghting chair that was bolted to the center the stern. The butt of the rod was jammed into a swiveling funnel between my legs. The rod was clipped to the chair. But the feeling I was in a throne dissipated when the beast stopped running and stood its ground. We took the reel off free, and I reeled in the slack. Keep pressure on him, keep the rod tip up, dont give him any slack. If he runs let him run, but when he stops take as much back as you can, and if he runs at us or dives under the boat Ill maneuver us outgot it, Pal? Vince ran back up to the bridge without letting me answer, yelling, Dont give him any slack! It felt as though I was ghting the entire ocean oor no jerking and tugging only constant, ambiguous strength of a deliberate opponent shrouded in darkness with innite power. The sun cooked me from every angle. The guys dumped jugs of spring water over my baking shoulders. My head throbbed. I was dizzy, but I kept throwing all my strength into the handle of the reel that was drilling itself through the heel of my hand. Vince shouted Knute Rockne inspiration as he wheeled the Nu, swinging her in impossible angles to help me. I cant remember when it happened, but it was closer to the beginning than the end. The marlin broke the surface, in a twisting display of rage and fury landing with a cannonade, a wipeout across the water spraying mist and cutting a ssure into the seascape. All of us crowed as if we were watching a natural disaster. At about two and a half hours we had the marlin right under the boat, just out of reach of Scuba and the ying gaff. I tried to horse the sh up, even though my bicep cramped and my ngers felt as if they were being torn out. Vince throttled back hard, causing a wall of ocean water to shower us. And the marlin ran. Ah! You spooked it! Scuba cursed and threw down the gaff with a clank. After three hours and thirty-seven minutes, my skin was broiled red, slime coated my entire body, my knuckles at three or four points were split and bleeding where blisters had come and gone, I couldnt straighten my ngers and my arms were cramped at the bicep. Stand back, Vince ordered as Scuba readied the ying gaff. Get Carlo out of the chair, Scuba! Everyone backed away and let me through. Vince put his arm around my shoulders; he had tears in his eyes. We all looked down at the blue marlin lying helpless on its side. Vince pointed out the yards of line wound around its bill, We came that close to losing him, you see? They spiral the line around their bill until they break it. You did good, Vince said. The sh just ignored us, its eye reecting nothing, no terror, no pain, no hatred, no anger, no cursing no crying for pity. Vince shook his head, smiled, and reached for his wire snips as the Nu rocked with the swelling ocean. Then, Scuba burst through, readying the gaff. Lets nish the job Hawk, before he gets his strength back! But Vince, with ick of the wrist, cut the line and my marlin sank out of reach. Scuba thrust deep as he could, but with a spasm of its tail the marlin glided into the blue gone forever. Scuba nearly jumped in after it, but instead he turned the gaff on Vince. He cursed him, called him every name in the book, spitting all over, and again slammed the gaff clanging on the deck. The guys in the charter complained too. Even I was pissed, after all my hard work. You idiot, how could you let that trophy go! Scuba ranted. But, as quickly as he cut that leader, Vince adjusted his crotch and said, Youre red PAL. What? You cant do that! Sure I can, Pal! Take it back Vin! You aint ring me! Oh yes I am! Vince said.
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Youre full of it Vin! Thats the last time you get your spittle on my deck. Go down to the post ofce and get yourself a real job, Vince said, shaking his head in disgust. Scuba pouted the rest of the day. I drove the boat back in with Vince standing next to me. We didnt say much to each other for a while. It would have been something to see back at the marina, I said. You know, Pal. Good for business too! Picture in the New Jersey Fisherman? All of them! Even the big city papers might give you a tumble. You could kinda see why he got mad, I said. Yea, Pal, but why kill it? What, for money? So all his junkie friends can sit there and smoke their roaches, and snuff out the butts on its head! Some day there aint gonna be no trophies left Pal. Vince paused and looked over the horizon. Thats whats wrong with this business nowadays! These guys with their million-dollar boats, they think they rule the ocean, but its the other way aroundyou know, Pal. Were oating around on the hand of Godwhat happens if he decides to make a st? I understand Vin. That sh deserves to live more than he does! I always root for the monsters anyway, I said. What? Vince asked, his voice going shrill. Yea, like, why did King Kong have to die? Why couldnt they realize how stupid it was bringing a giant ape to New York? Just leave him on Gorilla Island where he belongs! Oh God! he hollered. Youre too much for me, Pal No, I always root for the monsters. Most of the time they are just hanging outand the way I gure it, they got to be monsters cause they are the toughest and the smartest. Vince was laughing so hard that he began to cough and hack. I cant take you anymore! Vince cackled louder than the gulls and gannets. I think you need to get some sleep. Nah, screw that, Pal, I said. Kongyoure too much for me Pal! I cant take you anymore! He pulled a rag out of his pocket and wiped the laughter out of his eyes. Listen, Vince said. I want you and me to run this boat together. What do you say? We get you your masters licenseyou learn the businessso you can take it over some day. Hell, I cant do this forever. We spend the summer up here, so I can see my granddaughters. In the winters well take her down south. What do you say Pal? Bahamas? Yeah, or the Keys or the Carolinas. Wherever the sh are biting? Sure, Pal. What do you say? Im in, I said. Im all in! Vince started cackling about Gorilla Island again and patting me on the back. Always remember, there are three kinds of captains, Pal. Yea? Three Captains ones that love their boat, ones that love the sea, and ones that love to sh. Im out here for the shing, he said. Thats why I think well make a good team, you and me. You need to nd out which one of the three captains you are. And, once you know that, you got it made. He made a st with his right hand and put it over his heart. I wont let you down Vin. But, you gotta make me a promise. You nish school rst. I dont want you quitting school like some punklike that idiot down belowlike me. O.K. Vin, well play it your way. I said. Vince gazed out to sea, adjusted his crotch and savored his Hav-A-Tampa. My brain drifted across the seascape and up into the blue sky to a place wed go to eat early and often, and for cheap Martinis Restaurant. A place where seconds were automatic and thirds were customary, and where Pepe ladled clumps of mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn, or creamed spinach, or peas and carrots next to steaming meatloaf with the hard-boiled egg built in to the center of each brick. Where we scaled mountains of grated cheese so we could see each other across the table on spaghetti and human-head-sized-meatball night, and Dad ordered scotch after scotch and one lone sambuca that sat between us until he gave the go-ahead, and Id guzzle it. Hed cheer me on, shake my hand and wed laugh and talk about the cherry red El Camino we wanted to buy and restore in our garage. And, hed order another.