Millennium Fever

David J. DelBianco

The GLORY BE headed southeast, entering warmer waters and approaching the undersea canyons far off the southern New Jersey coast. At the edge of the continental shelf and nearly a mile deep, the canyons provide dark, cool shelter and food for the gamefish. With her outriggers spread out to her sides, the boat etched a graceful white trail across the water. Twice they encountered boats chumming for shark, and Weaver chose to detour around mile-long slicks of mixed oil and blood that the fishermen were ladling into the sea.

"Good," said Rick to the others, "then it's agreed. Me, then Tucker, Sam, Dac and Phil." The men had decided to take turns fighting the first fish. None of them had fished for marlin before, and Matt recommended they each experience it. They drew from cut line clenched in Matt's fist to determine the order. Rick pulled the longest piece and won.

Phil patted Dac on the back. "Don't let him pull you in, Dac. I want a shot at this." "Okay, Matt," Weaver called down. Matt opened the bait well and plucked out two ballyhoo. Sam and Phil watched over his shoulder as he ran a large hook into each fish. Sam winced. Phil was fascinated.

"What's that fuzzy thing for? It looks like a fish hat." He pointed to a rubber attachment on the second hook. Matt handed it to Phil. He shook the line, and the rubber cap fell onto the ballyhoo, covering its head with short rubber fingers.

"Pretty close. It's called a head. It helps attract the marlin. I'll use one with a head and the rest naked." Matt took a rod and placed the handle into the right arm of the fighting chair. Still holding onto the line, he tossed the ballyhoo overboard. He carried the line over to the outriggers, which stretched twenty feet out on both sides of the boat. Lowered from their vertical position, they hung fifteen feet over the water's surface.

"This keeps the bait out of our wake and helps us cover more water. We'll troll at about seven knots for a while and see what happens." Matt pushed the line into a clasp at the base of the outrigger. When he released his hand, the force of the water on the bait pulled the clasp out to the far end of the outrigger. The line ran from the rod backwards to the far reach of the outrigger. "When a fish bites, that clasp will release the line. Then we start fighting."

All the men watched as Matt set up the other rods in similar fashion. The chair held two rods, and a rod was set in the two aft corners of the cockpit. Matt also placed two rods in holders at mid-deck.

Tucker asked, "Now what?" It was only ten o'clock, but he was eating his sandwich. "We wait," replied Matt. "Relax. When she bites, you'll know. You'll hear the reel." "Wake me up when it does," Phil said over his shoulder, heading into the cabin. The sun and alcohol had taken a toll on him. The morning wore on. Sam had reclaimed the chair, and his head bobbed back and forth as he repeatedly dozed and then woke again. The continuous drone of the engines combined with the glare of the hot sun to lull Dac into a daydreaming stupor with his eyes half-closed.

Tucker and Rick stood at opposite sides of the cabin door, talking quietly. "I only met him once," Rick answered Tucker's question about Ran Ramaprasad. "What about you?" "Many times. Talk about a man focused and dedicated. He makes me seem soft."

"I don't know. I just couldn't be like that. I've always worked hard, even after the sale, but I need more out of life."

"Is that why you sold to DateWare?"

Rick relit his cigar and thought a moment before he answered. "Maybe. Maybe I wanted to coast for a while and live without the pressure. I can't see myself working for DateWare until I retire."

Rick and Tucker watched the lines dragging in the water as the conversation continued. Rick was comfortable speaking with Tucker. The strong cigar, combined with the beers and the excitement of the dolphin catch, weakened the few inhibitions he had. To Rick, Tucker was unthreatening, almost a relief to converse with. He let down the guarded front he had to maintain with employees and DateWare.

"You know, Tucker, sometimes I wish I could just sail out on a boat like this and go exploring."

"So, why don't you?"

"Sure," Rick laughed. "Same reason you don't. Kids, school, obligations."

"That's not convincing enough. Rick, if I sell to DateWare, I might not stick around." "Really? What would you do?"

"Really. My wife Nikki and I are alone, and we love to travel. We'd travel, get a boat. Not like this one, though. Bigger."

"That would be nice, but wouldn't you get bored?"

Tucker turned from the sea to Rick and said slowly, almost regretfully, "I'm bored now."

Rick decided against commenting, almost afraid to dig any deeper into his own thoughts. The two of them slowly sipped from their bottles and puffed their cigars as the sea flowed past them. They heard Weaver call to his first mate, the individual words lost in the chorus of engine and water. "Listen to him," Tucker said. "We're more educated, make more money and will probably live longer than him."

"So who is happier?" Rick mulled.

"Exactly. Every day he comes out here, and he's king of his world. He even bossed us around."

"I thought I had won in the big rat race."

"He won."

"I know."

The boat turned slightly to starboard, and the full sun stole the shadow of the cabin from the two men. Rick leaned solidly into the corner, relaxing in the heat and closing his eyes. He pondered the captain's life, measuring it against his own. He tried to imagine trading the environment of his office for the sights and sounds of the sea. He listened to the rushing air, the churning wake and the rumbling engines. Everything contributed to the sense of movement. His legs adjusted for the pitching of the boat, flexing in rhythm with the rise and fall of the deck. Rick listened to the chatting of Matt and Weaver and the occasional crackle of the radio. The talking faded until it was replaced with a rapid clicking sound that also kept pace with the engine.