Read Online Bitter Sweet by Lavyrle Spencer - Free Book Online Page A

on their ramp, while another pickup and boat had just pulled into the parking lot.
    Switching off the mike, Eric called, ‘Ma? Mike? Customers coming from all directions. I’m heading for the boat.’
    At precisely 7:3o A.M. the Mar Deare’s engines chortled to life with Eric at the wheel. Jerry Joe released the mooring lines and leapt aboard as Eric pulled the cord for the air horn and it split the silence in a long, deafening blast. From the cockpit of The Dove, Mike answered with a matching blast, as he, too, revved his engines.
    Beneath Eric’s hands the wide wooden wheel shuddered as he threw the engine from reverse into forward and headed at a crawl out of
Hedgehog
Harbor
.
    This was the time of day Eric liked best, early morning, with the sun coming up behind him and fingers of steam rising from the water, parting and curling as the boat nudged through; and overhead, a battalion of herring gulls acting as escort, screaming loudly with their white heads cocked in the sun; and to the west Door Bluff rising sharp and green against a violet horizon.
    He pointed the bow northward, leaving behind the damp-wood-and-fish smells of the harbour for the bracing freshness of the open water. Switching on the depth sounder, he plucked the radio mike off the ceiling.
    ‘This is the Mar Deare on ten. Who’s out there this morning?’
    A moment later a voice came back, “This is the Mermaid off Table Bluff.’
    ‘Hi, Rug, any luck this morning?’
    ‘Nothing yet but we’re marking ‘em at fifty-five feet.” ‘Anyone else out?’
    ‘Marine, was heading towards Washington Island , but
    she’s under fog, so they pulled line and went east.’
    ‘Maybe I’ll head around Door Bluff then.’
    ‘Might as well. No action out here.’
    ‘What depth you running?’
    ‘My deep line is shallow - oh, forty-five or so.’
    ‘We’ll try a little deeper, then. Thanks, Rug.’
    ‘Good luck, Eric.’
    Among
Door
County
guides it was customary to shaft information liberally in an effort to help each fishing party fill out, for successful trips brought fishermen back.
    Eric made one more call. ‘Mar Deare to base.’
    Ma’s voice came on, scratchy and gruff. ‘Go ahead, Eric.”
    ‘Heading out around Door Bluff.’
    ‘l hear you.’
    ‘See you at eleven. Have that bread baked, okay?’
    She clicked on in the middle of a chuckle. ‘Aye-aye, brat. Base out.’
    Smiling over his shoulder as he hung up the mike, Eric heralded Jerry Joe. ‘Take over here while I set the lines.’
    For the next thirty minutes he was busy baiting rods and reels with shiny lures, attaching them to the downriggers the stem, counting the times each line crossed the red as payed out, setting the depth accordingly. He assigned lines, checked the multicoloured radar screen for sign of baitfish or salmon and kept a constant eye on the tips of the reels in the ir scabbards along the side and rear rails. All the while he bantered with his customers, getting to know the first timers, rehashing past catches with the repeaters, joshing and charming them all into coming back again.
    He was good at his job, good with people, good with the lines. When the first fish was hooked his enthusiasm added as much to the excitement as the bowed rod. He plucked it from its holder, bellowing out instructions, putting it in the hands of a thin, bald man from Wisconsin, then hurriedly buckling around the man’s waist a heavy leather belt to hold the butt of the rod, shouting the directives his father had issued years before: ‘Don’t jerk back! Stay close to the rail!’ and to Jerry Joe, ‘Throttle down, circle right!
    We got him!’ He scolded and encouraged with equal likeability, as excited as if this were the first catch he’d ever overseen, manning the handling net himself and hauling the catch over the rail.
    He’d been fishing these waters all his life so it was no surprise that they filled out: six salmon for six fishermen.
    Returning to port at eleven, he