Read Online Lord of the Deep by Graham Salisbury - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Graham Salisbury
Tags: Fiction
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head.
Mikey didn’t get it. Were blondes supposed to be dumb, or something? Alison was a blonde, and she wasn’t dumb. These guys were weird.
They trolled parallel to the island, crossing south to north, then south again in long hopeful meanderings. The relentless rumbling engines numbed Mikey’s brain. This was the hardest part, the boredom, the waiting, the endless crawling over waters warmed by a sun that often gave up nothing but scorching burns, salt-cracked lips, and slivers of shade.
Mikey got up and went out onto the stern deck. He leaned against the transom, watching the rods nodding silently to the tug and pull of the lures working in the wake.
As far as Mikey was concerned, the ocean was asleep.
Something hit his back, a wadded-up piece of paper. He turned and picked it up, then glanced at the flying bridge.
Alison waved at him. “Open it,” she mouthed.
Mikey unwadded the paper.
How are you doing?
He looked up at her.
She shrugged and raised her eyebrows.
He gave her a thumbs-up. He was doing fine. Except for thinking about the marlin.
He looked into the cabin.
Cal and Ernie were staring absently out the window. The cards and beer sat untouched on the tabletop between them. Bill held the wheel in loose fingers.
They trolled on.
Mikey was hungry, but since no one else was scrambling for their lunches, he didn’t either.
A while later the sky slowly began to lose its blue to the inevitable afternoon clouding, a blanket of gray white overcast that crept out over the sea from the island. Some parts of the ocean were silver and glary.
Mikey fished a root beer out of the cooler and went back in and stood in the aisle near the wheel. He handed the ice-cold can to Bill.
Bill took it, nodded thanks. He sat with one foot up on the seat, his arm hanging over his knee.
Mikey slid onto the seat across the companionway. He scooted up against the window and sat with his arm on the sill, like you would in a car.
The mountaintops on the island were obscured by clouds now. By five o’clock the sky would be white all the way to the horizon. The sea would be silver gray, and the glare off the water looking west would be nearly unbearable.
CHAPTER 11
CAL AND ERNIE started playing poker again. They said nothing, which was fine with Mikey. There was only the slap of cards hitting the table behind where Mikey sat. The rush of a shuffle every now and then.
Mikey turned in his seat to watch them.
At one point Bill stood and stretched. He pulled the legs of his crumpled shorts down and went back and stood in the aisle near Cal and Ernie. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Nice boat ride, you mean?” Ernie said, shooting a sour glance at Mikey.
Mikey looked away.
“That, too,” Bill said.
How does Bill do it? Mikey wondered.
Mikey frowned and got up and went aft, squeezing past Bill. He climbed up to the flying bridge, where Alison was. Maybe from there he could find those birds again, or a log, or even a skid of flotsam—anything that might help locate fish.
Alison sat as before, cross-legged. She was facing aft, looking out over the wake. Her notebook lay open in her lap, the pen in the gully between the pages.
Mikey saw a blip of a boat far out on the horizon. No other boats in sight. Everyone must be fishing farther south today.
“Sit,” Alison said, tapping a spot next to her.
Mikey eased down. “Ever finish that drawing?” Alison’s hand covered the sketchbook.
“I did,” she said.
“Well . . . can I see it?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Hey, I can’t even draw a stick figure,” Mikey said. “Come on, let me see it.”
“I guess.”
She flipped back a couple of pages and handed the sketchbook to Mikey.
Jeez, Mikey thought.
It looked just like him, but different, too. The face was his, that was for sure. But everything else was sort of out of proportion, larger than real life. It looked perfect that way, though. Grabbed your eyes and wouldn’t let go.
“
You
did
Mikey didn’t get it. Were blondes supposed to be dumb, or something? Alison was a blonde, and she wasn’t dumb. These guys were weird.
They trolled parallel to the island, crossing south to north, then south again in long hopeful meanderings. The relentless rumbling engines numbed Mikey’s brain. This was the hardest part, the boredom, the waiting, the endless crawling over waters warmed by a sun that often gave up nothing but scorching burns, salt-cracked lips, and slivers of shade.
Mikey got up and went out onto the stern deck. He leaned against the transom, watching the rods nodding silently to the tug and pull of the lures working in the wake.
As far as Mikey was concerned, the ocean was asleep.
Something hit his back, a wadded-up piece of paper. He turned and picked it up, then glanced at the flying bridge.
Alison waved at him. “Open it,” she mouthed.
Mikey unwadded the paper.
How are you doing?
He looked up at her.
She shrugged and raised her eyebrows.
He gave her a thumbs-up. He was doing fine. Except for thinking about the marlin.
He looked into the cabin.
Cal and Ernie were staring absently out the window. The cards and beer sat untouched on the tabletop between them. Bill held the wheel in loose fingers.
They trolled on.
Mikey was hungry, but since no one else was scrambling for their lunches, he didn’t either.
A while later the sky slowly began to lose its blue to the inevitable afternoon clouding, a blanket of gray white overcast that crept out over the sea from the island. Some parts of the ocean were silver and glary.
Mikey fished a root beer out of the cooler and went back in and stood in the aisle near the wheel. He handed the ice-cold can to Bill.
Bill took it, nodded thanks. He sat with one foot up on the seat, his arm hanging over his knee.
Mikey slid onto the seat across the companionway. He scooted up against the window and sat with his arm on the sill, like you would in a car.
The mountaintops on the island were obscured by clouds now. By five o’clock the sky would be white all the way to the horizon. The sea would be silver gray, and the glare off the water looking west would be nearly unbearable.
CHAPTER 11
CAL AND ERNIE started playing poker again. They said nothing, which was fine with Mikey. There was only the slap of cards hitting the table behind where Mikey sat. The rush of a shuffle every now and then.
Mikey turned in his seat to watch them.
At one point Bill stood and stretched. He pulled the legs of his crumpled shorts down and went back and stood in the aisle near Cal and Ernie. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Nice boat ride, you mean?” Ernie said, shooting a sour glance at Mikey.
Mikey looked away.
“That, too,” Bill said.
How does Bill do it? Mikey wondered.
Mikey frowned and got up and went aft, squeezing past Bill. He climbed up to the flying bridge, where Alison was. Maybe from there he could find those birds again, or a log, or even a skid of flotsam—anything that might help locate fish.
Alison sat as before, cross-legged. She was facing aft, looking out over the wake. Her notebook lay open in her lap, the pen in the gully between the pages.
Mikey saw a blip of a boat far out on the horizon. No other boats in sight. Everyone must be fishing farther south today.
“Sit,” Alison said, tapping a spot next to her.
Mikey eased down. “Ever finish that drawing?” Alison’s hand covered the sketchbook.
“I did,” she said.
“Well . . . can I see it?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Hey, I can’t even draw a stick figure,” Mikey said. “Come on, let me see it.”
“I guess.”
She flipped back a couple of pages and handed the sketchbook to Mikey.
Jeez, Mikey thought.
It looked just like him, but different, too. The face was his, that was for sure. But everything else was sort of out of proportion, larger than real life. It looked perfect that way, though. Grabbed your eyes and wouldn’t let go.
“
You
did
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