Fellow Warriors

This story takes place in the mid 1960's, a time when "catch-and-release" was unheard of.                         

 

FELLOW WARRIORS

    Nick Harper looked at the ugly raw, red gash on palm of his left hand and noticed how it followed exactly along his life line. He wondered if this meant his life would be changed from now on.
         
    For Nick, it began that morning with his Uncle Bill Harper and four other sports fishermen on board Captain Jim's deep-sea charter boat, the Sea Hag. This was the trip to Ohahu, Hawaii his uncle had promised if he graduated in the top ten of his senior high school class. The day was predicted to be perfect for the big marlin.  At the drawing for first strike, Nick drew the ace of spades.

    "Hey kid," one of the fisherman said, his huge belly stretching a loud, colorful Hawaiian shirt to the bursting point. Pointing a fat cigar at Nick, he sneered, "That's beginner's luck kid. You'd better be ready for a good fight."  Another fisherman, apparantly big belly's skinny partner, wearing mirrored sunglasses and a straw hat chimed in, "Yeah, these fish are pretty big.  Sure you can handle it son?"

    Geez, Nick thought, are these guys for real? 

      Trolling the deep blue waters off Honolulu, the Sea Hag sported six fishing poles with large plug lures, adorned with red, yellow, or white plastic hula skirts and baited with strips of sword fish. Imitating a small school, they skipped wildly over and under the silvery surface.
 
      In the chilly gray dawn, Sam watched the deeply sun-tanned mate, blond hair tied into a short pony tail, dressed only in dirty deck shoes and a pair of frayed denim shorts.  A hunting knife rode at his side.  He was checking the lures, making sure they didn't get tangled. 

    "Looks like we got one's gonna take the bait," shouted Captain Jim from his vantage point on the flying bridge.

    "Pow!"  A loop rigged in one of the lines released with the sharp crack of a gunshot.

    "Fish on!" Yelled the mate.  The mate grabbed the fishing pole and at exactly the right moment, hauled back on the rod to set the hook good and deep. Small, tight and wiry, Nick jumped into the fighting chair and grabbed the fishing pole away from the mate.

    "Where's your harness?" asked the mate.

    "I don't know," said Nick. He settled his thin body into the fighting chair. He hadn't had time to think about the fighting harness he was supposed to put on right after drawing first strike.

    The mate ran to fetch the harness from the gear locker below deck.

    Fascinated, Nick watched the line feeding out so fast that the big reel screamed in protest. Friction caused smoke to pour out of the reel. With his left hand, he grabbed the thick shaft of the fishing rod and squeezed hard on the running line. 

    "Yeow!" He jerked his hand away from the white-hot pain. The thick line had sliced cleanly into the meat of his left palm leaving an ugly red gash. The rod slipped out of his blood-slick hand. He tried to get a better grip with his right hand, but the sleeve on his windbreaker became snagged in the large reel.  Naturally, when the big fish jerked Nick clear off the chair, he couldn't let go of the rod. With both knees planted firmly against the transom, he tried with all his strength to keep from being pulled over the rail.  Before the marlin could succeed, the mate and his uncle grabbed ahold and hauled him back into the fighting chair. The mate cut Nick's sleeve free and strapped him into the leather fighting harness. He quickly hooked the holding straps to the reel and anchored the handle of the rod into its socket in the chair.

    From a bucket filled with water and leather gloves, the mate helped Nick put one on his gashed left hand. With a playful grin, the mate whispered, "I'm glad you didn't lose that expensive rod and reel. Cap'n Jim woulda skint me alive." 

    Very funny. I've already had all I want of big-game fishing. I could have been dragged down under and never been seen again. What am I thinking of? How did I ever think this would be fun?

    The reel slowed and then stopped as the marlin ended its long run. The mate reached in and set the drag on the large reel. He clapped Nick on the shoulder and said, "OK, let's bring this big guy in."
         
    Out of breath, and utterly exhausted, Nick's arms were jelly. They refused to respond. His back muscles were cramped in agonizing pain. He felt weak from the loss of blood. His dream had turned into a nightmare. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his dry mouth.

    Nick looked to his Uncle Bill.

    "Here, you take this pole. I don't want it anymore." 
                     
    His uncle waved him off, shaking his head. The other fishermen, having no patience with a quitter, urged him to cut the line.

    "Hey kid," big belly bellowed. "If you don't want to fish, give me a chance at one of those big ones."

    "C'mon, kid," said mirrored sunglasses. "I told you these fish are big. He almost gotcha didn't he? You want to quit now?  C'mon, fish or cut bait."

    Standing beside him, the mate, again adjusted the drag on the reel and said, "Don't pay them any mind Nick. Here's the deal. You can't hand your fish off to someone else.  On Cap'n Jim's boat, you have to either bring the fish in or cut the line. I'll show you how to bring this fish in. Wanna give it a go?"

    Nick thought about those two blow-hards who wanted him to quit, and how his uncle and him had come all the way out to Hawaii from Colorado to go deep-sea fishing.  No way am I going to let my uncle down and no way am I going to let those jerks think I'm a quitter. 

    He nodded to the mate. "Let's do it."

    Patiently, the mate coached him until he got the routine of grasping the line to the pole with his gloved left hand, and pulling back while resting his right arm on the up-stroke and reeling in on the down-stroke. Intent on getting it right, Nick fell into his own rhythm. The muscles in his back and arms began to loosen and relax.  Instead of tensing and defying his will, the muscles began to obey and within minutes he was working the rod and reel like a pro. The wet leather glove on his left hand served to keep the thick line from cutting into his hand. It also helped to staunch the bleeding.

    He didn't notice his Uncle Bill having a talk with the two wise-guys, but he didn't hear any more wise cracks from them either.
          
    A hundred yards out, the marlin performed a spectacular tail stand, hanging in mid-air for an impossibly long time. "That fish is a good nine-hundred pounds," Captain Jim declared, spitting a long brown stream of tobacco juice over the side.  "Maybe more--could be a record."

    The other fishermen cheered and whistled their appreciation of a good show.

    Two hours passed as the sun slowly worked its way overhead. For every three yards of line Nick gained, the big fish would take back six. Looking determined, he was deep into his own thoughts.  Warriors, he thought, we're like two warriors just trying to survive.  He tried to kill me,  now I'm trying to kill him.

    At last--it seemed an eternity--he saw the big fish up close. It had suddenly appeared about ten yards behind the stern rail. Flashing colors on its side between silver and a shimmering electric blue, it slipped silently along just under the surface, its long sword almost touching the boat.

    "Look at the size of that beak," said Captain Jim from the flying bridge high overhead. Then, half-joking, "don't know if we can fit 'er on board." 

    As the fish came alongside, the shining eye of the marlin appeared to Nick to be as big as a dinner plate. It glared directly at him, the black pupil penetrated his soul.  Nick sensed the big marlin was evaluating him--calmly measuring his strength and resolve. Suddenly, everything went silent. The world stood still--the big hypnotic eye filled his soul. He  felt his skin crawl and his scalp tingle. His thoughts were racing. Dang, that thing is huge, and it's looking right at me. This is crazy. I can't kill this animal, it's like we know each other.

      The mate leaned out and made a swipe with the long handled gaff hook. Seeing the movement, the marlin  flipped on its side, expertly avoiding the gaff, and then dove under the boat. Again, the reel was smoking and squealing in loud protest. Captain Jim bumped the accelerator to move the boat away from the fish. Nick had made up his mind even though he knew his uncle would be disappointed, and big belly and his would ride him unmercifully. At this point he simply didn't care what they thought. He knew that everyone was rooting for him, but he knew what he had to do and it was now or never.

    Nick called to the mate. "I'm done with this. I don't want to kill this marlin. Let it go, cut the line."  Captain Jim nodded to the mate who without hesitation, drew his hunting knife and cut the line with one upward slash. A loud twang, like a giant over-wound guitar string and the marlin was free.

    While the mate prepared six more lines for the next strike, Nick found a quiet place at the bow's guard rail and looked out over the blue-green waves. The gash on his left hand still stung and he knew it would probably be scarred forever---a permanent reminder of his fight for life with a marlin who, for a time, was a fellow warrior.