Excerpt



Prologue



Muscles in Monty's arms jut out as he pulls the crab ring up to rest on the edge of the small boat. This repetitive act has chipped away the paint, matching other areas of the boat. Behind Monty is the faded sweatshirt he wore earlier in the day when fog took longer than usual to lift. Mist rests on the ground and across the bay, smothering boats with a cool wetness.

Monty balances the heavy ring. Regardless of how full the net is, though, he sees there are only a few keepers in the bunch. As he pulls the crabs out little claws reach for his flesh. When one crab grabs a hold of the meaty part of his hand and hangs on, Monty flips it nonchalantly back into the water.

Damn, he says, continuing to sort through the full net. He pulls out four crabs he knows he can legally keep, and rolls the net over the side of the boat to return the remaining crabs back to the sea. Several small ones stuck to the inside of the net.

Hangers on Monty calls them. He ignores them, baits the ring, and throws it back into the bay. He lights a cigarette and tries to remember where he threw his other two rings. He stands while he looks, blowing smoke rings, as the steady back and forth motion of the water calms him.

Monty put one hand into his jeans pocket while the other held his cigarette. His skin is the color of hot chocolate and his body is round, solid like a wrestler's. As he studies the water, his bushy eyebrows furrowed over round, black eyes. Silver and black hair frame his leathery, angular face.

Jesus, Monty says softly to himself when a large salmon jumps in the distance. Should have kept my line out, he grumbles. He sits down beside his sweatshirt and the puddle that has formed from the crab ring, then plucks his jacket off the steering wheel.

The sun is beginning to set, casting a soft orange and red glow across the island separating the bay from the ocean. Monty zips up his jacket. Pull em in once more then head home, he thinks. He sits back and lights another cigarette, and pulls a beer from the cooler, a treat he allows himself on fishing trips.

Monty feels good today - better than hes felt for a while. Right now work is plentiful and sun has kissed the area all week long, making evenings like this one ideal for taking the boat out. From the way the building industry was looking, hell be busy for some time. City people moving in need houses, and as much as he wishes theyd stay where they came from and quit tearing up the land that hes lived for more than 25 years, he knows these people pay his bills. They are his family's survival.

Monty takes a long swig of beer and leans back to finish his cigarette. He could lay like this forever, letting the calm of the water lull him into a tranquilized state. When he retires, he knows that's what he'll be doing most of the time. His wife tells him time and time again, though, that he can't retire because they have no retirement fund. But he tells her, We'll live on a boat then. Just see if those money grubbing bill collectors can catch us then. They both laughed long and hard about that, although Monty knows he really could live on the water.

When he was young, he dreamed of building a boat that would be suitable for living on for a year at a stretch. He imagined broadcasting his dirty jokes to gulls and experimenting with a thousand different ways to cook salmon. When he recalls that long ago dream now, he realizes it is beginning to sound better to him all the time. He would be away from his wife and teenage boys who have taken over his home; hed be free of the nosey tourists and the need to work for a living.

Monty laughs when he thinks about his sleepy dreams of the past. It isn't that he doesn't love his family - he does, immensely. But sometimes they smother him, taking over and leaving no space for him. Sometimes he isn't even sure if they would miss him if he didn't come home. And occasionally he feels like simply walking away from home and the responsibilities that come with a family.

He has been having doubts about his life a lot lately. Doubts about why he was even put on earth and why at the age of fifty he hasn't done anything with his life. The past creeps into his thoughts too often lately - the ugly slice of his past that is - like a bad fungus, spreading and attaching itself. He thought he had buried the past a long time ago but recently, it haunts him.

He shakes his head as visions of all the things that he had planned to do taunt him now. He wanted to go to school and make something of his life. He wanted to play guitar in a rock band, explore the upper Amazon, and trek around Mt. Everest. He wanted to do a lot of things. Monty remembers the time he told his friend Chico all these things. That's when Chico reminded Monty that hed done plenty - fathered two kids, built houses almost single handedly, and did every drug known to man by the time he was thirty. Monty smiles when he thinks of Chicos response. I wish, he says aloud.

Monty realizes that his whole problem is that time is running out and he hasn't done a fraction of the things he planned. A mid -life crisis his wife, Bella, says.

He pushes the thoughts out of his head. Usually, he cant dismiss them so easily, but on days like this he can push these negative thoughts right out of his head. The peacefulness of the bay and warmth from the sun are all he needs.