John D. MacDonald

A Day in the Sun

On Sunday morning Vince got up and went down to do some more work on the Croaker. Simmons had let him tie her up at his dock until Vince could get a place of his own. Everybody had been decent about it. He guessed it was a sort of game with everybody to see if he could actually get her running. Over at Garnell’s Basin they had hauled her out for him. He’d scraped the bottom, done a good paint job on it. Micky Garnell was the one who’d got the old marine engine running, charging him only for parts. You take a twenty-foot tub about twenty years old, and it needs a lot of work if nobody ever took good care of it.

It was hot in the April sun. He stripped off his shirt. He was seventeen, sun-baked, lean, stringy and towheaded, with pale eyes and square brown hands that looked too big for him.

Simmons’ place was just inside the inlet, other side of the highway bridge. Cars roared by, rattling the bridge boards. Tough place to sleep at night, he thought, but he guessed old Simmons was used to it. Probably didn’t even hear it any more.

He became aware that a car had stopped, and he guessed it was bridge fishermen. He kept on sanding. Put on some paint, and later in the day, if it dried fast enough there on the cabin roof, he decided he’d take her out into the Gulf and see if he could hit some of the macks. The Gulf was flat calm. No wind. Far out, clusters of gulls circled. Boats were already out there.

A shadow fell across him and he looked up. Two men stood there, two big beefy men with half-balding heads, bright shirts, slacks.

“This your boat, boy?” one of them asked in a Northern voice.

“Yes.”

“Croaker, eh? That’s a kind of a fish, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Named it that way on account of the noise the engine makes.”

“Run good?”

“Yes, sir. It runs real good now I’ve fixed it up.”

“What’s biting out there in the Gulf, boy?”

“They’re getting macks and blues and ladies.”

The heavier one was asking all the questions. He stood spread-legged, his hands jammed in his hip pockets. “How about taking us out there, boy?”

Vince stared at him. “I couldn’t do that. I got no license to run a charter boat.”

“You ever take your friends out, boy?”

“Sure, but—”

“This is Dave. Shake hands with Dave, boy. What’s your name?”

“Vince.”

“Okay, Vince. I’m Jerry. We know him now, don’t we, Dave?”

“Sure. We’re all friends,” Dave said, speaking for the first time. He had a thin high voice.

“So you take your friends out, Vince. Show ’em how your boat runs. When we get back, why, maybe we give you a little gift. Friends give presents to each other. Give you this, maybe.”

He took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet, held it in the sunlight for a moment then put it back.

Vince knew it was less than half a charter-boat fee. But it would be a nice thing to have. Get a new anchor rope right off. Rig up running-lights.

“I don’t know,” Vince said. “You’d have to have tackle. Stuff like that.”

“Hell, we got boat rods and reels and line. What kind of lures you use out there?”

“Spoons. Number two and number three. And wire and swivels.”

“Okay, we’ll be back in about forty minutes, boy. We’ll bring some stuff. Have a day of it. Sure you got gas enough?”

Vince nodded. “More than half full. That’s enough.”

They walked back to their big car. As it turned on the highway he got a look at the plates: Michigan plates.

They were back in a half hour. They had rods, tackle, beer, a small suitcase. They’d had a drink. “Hi, old pal,” Dave said in his high voice. As they came aboard the Croaker it rocked under their weight. They stepped heavily and clumsily.

“Now go find those fish, Vince, old boy,” Jerry said. Vince turned her over. The exhaust made a sputtering, mumbling sound. He went to the bow and cast off the line. He went to the stern and cast off the line. The Croaker began to Swing in the tide. He hurried to the wheel, pushed the throttle ahead and the Croaker waddled out into the channel, chugged under the bridge and headed for the open Gulf. Vince felt he had performed the maneuver quite smartly.

He heard the men talking in low tones by the stern. Dave laughed shrilly. He looked back. Dave up-tilted a bottle, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, handed the bottle to Jerry. Jerry wiped the neck of the bottle on the palm of his hand, took a long slug, slapped the cork back in. His bright shirt was stuck to his broad back.

Once Vince was satisfied with the heading, he slipped the noose over a wheel spoke and went aft.

The gulls were working about a mile out. As the men paid out the line he made a course correction, then turned, standing in the shade of the cabin roof to watch them. Fellow could make a nice thing out of charter boating. Be your own boss. The tip of Jerry’s heavy rod dipped. The man reeled in rapidly, easily. A tiny blue runner about twice the size of the spoon had impaled itself. Jerry pulled it up out of the water and jerked the rod, snapping the tiny fish off. It glittered in the sun and fell fifty feet away.

Dave got the next two — macks, about three pounds apiece — and then things quieted. The gulls had dispersed. The men passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty and then heaved it over the stern. Their speech had thickened. Their heads were turning red in the harsh sun.

“What’s the matter, Cap’n Vince? Where’s all the fish?”

Vince made a long turn southward toward a distant clot of gulls. “They’re out here,” he said. “Just got to catch up with them.”

Dave was holding his rod loosely. He got a hard strike. It was a small-sized crevalle jack.

“Boy, we want something big,” Jerry said firmly.

“Not much big stuff out here. Cobia once in a while. Not often. That line you got is pretty heavy for this stuff.”

“You didn’t say anything about that before we left, boy.”

“I didn’t see the line until you came aboard.”

“You made yourself a mistake, Cap’n Vince. Wouldn’t you say he made a mistake, Jerry?”

“That’s just what he did. Open up a couple cans of that beer, Vince. Take one yourself if you’re thirsty.”

“I got a water bottle, thanks.”

Vince made a slow turn, following the gulls. The turn let the spoons sink a bit. An unexpectedly adventurous black grouper banged into Dave’s spoon, put up his brief objection and came wallowing in with his mouth open. Dave horsed him over the stern and slapped him on the deck.

Suddenly a vast patch of water began to boil fifty yards off the port bow. Vince yelled, “Here we go!” He circled the school. Dave and Jerry both tied into respectable mackerel at the same time. They whooped and got them aboard and let out line and again hit a pair almost simultaneously. Between them they got about fifteen aboard before the school ducked and disappeared. They celebrated with more beer.

The men took off their shirts. Their beefy shoulders were as white as the underside of the mackerel.

Vince said, “You can get sick from sunburn on a day like this.”

“Open me a beer, son,” Dave said. “How the hell we going to get a tan down here if we don’t get any sun?”

Vince shrugged. He handed them the beer. The white skin was turning pink before his eyes. They were both more than a little drunk. When Vince handed Jerry his beer, he could see the tiny water blisters that had appeared on the man’s bald forehead.

The next strike was so hard and fast and vicious that Dave’s rod nearly went over the stern. He recovered and set the hook. Vince raced to the wheel, turned hard toward the fish, yelled to Jerry to reel in.

The fish took line hard and fast and Dave fumbled with the star drag. “Leave that drag alone, you,” Vince yelled. Vince watched the rod and knew that Dave had hit into a stray king. The king mackerel had gone north. This was a stray, and like most strays from the king schools, a respectable fish. Dave played it poorly. Vince left the motor at dead slow, took the gaff and went to the stern. He saw it at the surface sixty feet back. It was a good one.

He said, “Work him slow. Let him get tired. Then bring him back here where I can gaff him.”

Dave grunted and sweated and pumped the rod. The king made a circling run and came in, fighting for each inch. Vince got a better look and figured it at close to forty pounds. A fine king. Hell, the record was fifty something.

Dave, like a fool, was pointing the rod tip down when he got the king close astern. “Hold your rod up!” Vince yelled. Dave snapped it up just as Vince made his lunge with the gaff. He saw the big head shake, saw the spoon twinkle away as the king got enough slack to throw it. The gaff hook caught. Vince tried to snatch the king aboard. The hook wasn’t set right. The king came up out of the water and then the gaff pulled free. The king rested, near enough to touch, for a long half second, then flicked away in the depths, hurt a bit, but not badly.

Vince straightened up. “Bad luck. You shoulda—”

The back of the beefy hand caught him flush on the cheek. He pinwheeled back, falling heavily, the gaff turning end for end, falling into the sea. Vince’s head hit the rail and he lay stunned for a moment, and then picked himself up slowly, ashamed of the tears of pain and anger that stung his eyes.

Dave bellied toward him, indignantly. “I shoulda! I shoulda! Don’t you know how the hell to bring a fish aboard? I ought to smack you another one.”

“Let out your line,” Jerry said, “Maybe there’s some more around here.”

Dave went back toward the stern. Vince moved his tongue around inside his cheek. His teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. He spat over the side. His face throbbed.

The men fished intently for a few minutes and then relaxed. Dave said, in his high voice, “That’s the second mistake, wouldn’t you say, Jerry?”

“Yes, that was a real mistake. Too bad.”

“Certainly is. Cap’n Vince, you know what that first mistake cost you? It cost you exactly ten bucks.” Vince didn’t answer.

Jerry said, “And you just cost yourself another ten bucks. It looks like you don’t make much profit out of this trip.”

Vince said thinly, “You promised.”

“Who the hell promised what? You heard me, boy. I said we might give you a little present. We changed our minds. Let’s find us another school of those macks. How about another beer, boy, before it gets too warm to drink?”

Helpless, Vince groaned silently; he wished he still had the gaff. He wanted to bang them on the head with it. He opened two cans of beer and took them back. Jerry gave him a quick hard look.

“No hard feelings, eh, boy?”

Vince didn’t answer. Jerry said, “You better say it, or maybe Dave will slap you around a little. Dave, he don’t like soreheads.”

“No hard feelings,” Vince said, his voice barely audible, feeling humiliated and ashamed of himself.

He found some more mackerel for them. The day seemed to be lasting a hundred years. He wished he could get them both standing up close to the stern rail. Jam the throttle forward and they’d both go over. He looked at their broad shoulders. Pink was turning inevitably to red. Apparently they were too tight to feel the pain. The sun was sucking the natural oils out of their skin, burning deep into the under layers. There was one satisfaction: They both stood a good chance of spending a pretty uncomfortable night.

It took his idea quite a while to develop. He considered it from all sides, and found it good. He cheered up at once, and began calling them “Sir,” and brought another beer, the last two cans, without being asked.

He went astern with a rag, and opened the bait well and dipped it in the salt water and carefully rubbed it on his arms and forehead, saying, “Sun sure is hot.”

Jerry stared at him. “What you doing that for, boy?”

“Well, it’s kind of a trick. It’s how come we tan good down here and don’t burn much. Not many people know it.”

“Salt water?”

“Sure. It takes all the burn out. You tan quick. I never use anything else. Before I found out about it, I used to be red as a cherry all summer.”

“You sure got a nice tan now, kid.”

No use urging them. He turned away. Jerry said, “Hey, toss me that rag, boy. I’m getting sore as hell.”

“It’ll fix you up,” Vince said. “You got to do it about every ten minutes or so when the sun’s hot like this. It dries off so fast.”

Jerry doused himself liberally. He gave the rag to Dave. Dave did the same, and then they helped each other, doing each other’s thick shoulders and back.

“It does feel good,” Jerry said. “Glad to know about it, kid. We’ll go back with a tan that’ll knock ’em down, hey, Dave?”

At three o’clock Vince was half-starved. The men had drunk too much beer to feel hungry. Vince had eaten a half a box of soggy crackers, and he was still hungry. But every time he looked out at the two men, he forgot his hunger. They had used the rag a half dozen times. In Vince’s mixed emotions, the strongest feeling was awe. The astringency of the salt had removed the rest of the protective oils and they both were a purplish-red. The bait well was nearly full of fish.

Jerry hunched his big shoulders and turned to Vince. “Kid, it’s getting chilly out here. Let’s knock it off and get on in. You ready, Dave?”

“I’ve been ready.”

“Okay,” Vince said. “Reel in.”

The men reeled in. They put on their bright shirts gingerly. It was furnace-hot out on the airless Gulf. Dave’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. He said, “Goddamn it, I don’t feel so good.”

“Neither do I. Kid, pour on the coal. This all this tub’ll do?”

“She’s wide open, mister.”

They got progressively worse as Vince headed in at three-quarter throttle. It took a half hour to get to the inlet. Jerry was sick over the stern. Both men were shivering violently. Vince tied up the Croaker and they climbed hastily out. He handed up their rods and equipment.

Vince said softly, “You know, you could have got too much sun.”

“Come on. Hurry up with that stuff.”

“How about these fish, mister?”

“Put them in the back end of the car, kid.”

Vince stood and scratched his chin with his thumb. “I got to figure this out. Haven’t got any stringer. Might be able to go borrow one down the road and repay it later. Take about fifteen minutes.”

Dave bent over violently and was sick again. He said, gagging, “Hell with the fish, Jerry! Come on. Got to get to a doctor. Hurry!”

They went for their car, quickly. The motor roared and the back wheels spun as they turned up onto the highway and rumbled across the bridge. Vince went into the cabin and got his fish knife. He heaved the fish up onto the dock, knelt beside them and fileted them quickly and deftly. He gave old Simmons a dozen nice mackerel filets and took the rest home with him in a bucket.

Tuesday, after the high-school bus dropped him off, Vince took the paint and brushes and went down to the inlet. He was working when he saw the official car pull off the road and park. Ricky Harliss, from the sheriff’s office, sauntered over to the dock and sat on his heels and lit a cigarette. “Getting her shaped up, Vince?”

“She’s coming along, Ricky.”

“What do you figure on doing with her?”

“I guess I’ll fish commercial this summer. Buddy Keever wants in with me. He’s got a good net.”

“Thought maybe you were figuring on charter boating, Vince.”

Vince applied a long even brush stroke and then glanced up, meeting the shrewd eyes. “No, I wouldn’t figure on that.”

“Thought maybe you practiced a little charter boating, day afore yesterday. Sunday, that is.”

Vince laid down another brush stroke. “Sunday? No, Sunday I took out a couple of friends of mine, from Michigan. Name of Jerry and Dave.”

“Any luck?”

“A lot of macks and some trash and lost a big stray king off the gaff.”

“How much those fellows pay you, Vince?”

Vince laid the brush on top of the can and straightened up. He looked steadily and gravely at Ricky. “Ricky, they didn’t give me a dime. I told you they was friends.”

Ricky straightened and snapped his cigarette into the water. He sighed. “Okay. I know you and I knew your daddy a long time. Never know of either of you lying. It’s a good thing you didn’t take any money, Vince.”

“Why?” Vince inquired blandly. “Something wrong?”

“You better take flowers to those friends of yours, Vince. They’re down in the hospital, all gauzed up like mummies, getting shot full of plasma, out of their heads off and on.”

“They’ll be all right?”

“The doc says so. Says it was close, but they’ll be okay.”

“That’s good,” Vince said. He spat at the soaked cigarette receding on the tide. “If I get around to it, I might send a couple of mackerel over one of these days.”

Vince watched Ricky drive off. Then he squatted again, dipped the brush, and began to stroke the paint on — slowly, evenly, lovingly.

Content

John D. MacDonald
A Day in the Sun