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2072 words precisely
Copyright 1983, 1996 TrixiePixGraphics
Fog index factor 8.83
O C T O P U S
Codfish John's little sailboat was not the most efficiently rigged commercial fishing vessel ever devised. It was obviously meant for pleasure, and not for any real work to be accomplished on her decks. John's tiny craft rolled and frolicked like a cork in a waterspout, and large, stout railings surrounded her afterdeck so that in winching up the longline gear, John was frequently required to lean far and dangerously over the stern to gaff out a more valuable codfish when he saw one coming up the line of hooks. To risk life and limb for the safe retrieval of a half dollar fish seemed logical, when it was considered that one fifty center was worth a whole bushel of sharks.
And so John could often be seen leaning far over the heavy stern rail, left ankle tied securely to the high stanchion, sharp gaff hook in hand, swinging wildly at some bewildered and frenzied fifty center, his long red beard alternately submerging in a sea, then blowing sideways in the gale, leaving a trail of sea water and spray on the wind. John would shake his head like a madman between the foaming crests, take a deep breath, and plunge back under as the next wave overtook his little craft and he did underwater battle with a half dollar cod.
I'd laugh from the wheelhouse of my own vessel, and then drive off ten miles to make my own set. In the evening I'd return to race John side by side for the run back to port.
We fished all day for a hundred fifty-centers, and we starved. But once in a while, once every other Blue Moon, a regal octopus would come up the line, and he'd pay our wages for a week.
One day, in true form, the Pacific Coast off Neah Bay dawned bleak and cold. A full sou'east gale was certain to follow, and we knew the sharp, tall gray-beards would be our only friends at sea that day. But we'd long since chosen our profession, and ever so reluctantly, so inevitably, we steered our little boats past the jetty and head up into the making frenzy of spray and sea. We'd get a big one today, we told ourselves, and eight miles out we split our courses and ran down the seas to our separate grounds, preparing as we went to lay the gear.
The day, bleak and terrible, came and went. The run home was rough and wet in a snotty breeze. I gave little thought to not seeing John's boat somewhere through the spray, reasoning that he may have found some fish and decided to stay a little later. On the few occasions John's battery was strong enough to power the radio he refused to turn it on anyway. "Damned modern contraptions!" he'd bellow. And there would be no more discussion about it.
And he occasionally holed-up or hove-to for a blow along some stretch of partially protected shoreline, or sometimes he fished all night, or ran farther out to sea on a hunch and might not be seen for several days or even a week.
And so I was not even alarmed that John's funny little ship wasn't tied to the dock when I arrived that night, nor did it come lumbering in, in the middle of the night, only to be ruthlessly crashed into the dock in a drunken stupor. After a fashion, John had taken care of himself for a good while at sea, and I certainly wasn't the one to assume responsibility for his charades.
I gave the matter appropriately little thought as I passed his usual fishing grounds the next day and saw only blue, sparkling sea. And I was duly unconcerned when John failed to materialize that night, or indeed, the following day or the night after that. But on the morning of the fourth day, admitting some slight apprehension, I vowed to keep an extra sharp eye for the low silhouette of that dirty white hull, for after all, the poor bedraggled drunk could have gotten into a small scrape somewhere, and needed a tow to port.
I fished most of the fourth day with a growing sense of doom for poor old codfish John. I felt he was surely out of wine by now, and that was indication enough that something must be preventing him from making Cape Flattery under his own steam.
I left my grounds thirty miles out a bit early that day, with a steadfast determination that I would find John by nightfall, or call in the Coast Guard.
I searched along the old sunken reef that lay on the sixty fathom line, twenty miles south of the cape. I scanned his once favorite spot near the sand flats, ten miles north; again over by the anchorage just inside the western-most tip of the continental United States; then nearly as far south as Destruction Island, a forbidding and foreboding plateau of cold rock, halfway to the Grays Harbor bar.
Finally, in a making sea from a freshening westerly I saw the bobbing, slinking outline of codfish John's ship. He was a mile offshore, and drifting for the jagged surf-pounded rocks near the Cape itself.
As I raced the darkness to my friend and I slowed my wheezing engine to make a pass close aboard, I was suddenly aware of a grisly scene.
With a sickening nausea, I beheld in the gray twilight the form of poor, lifeless John, hanging upside down by one foot from the stern rail of his boat. His free leg hung limply at awkward angle, and his arms trailed loosely in the water, the curled fingers making tiny wakes as the swells rolled by. As his little vessel rolled and wallowed, the lifeless form swung like a hanged man in the breeze, and occasionally he thudded gently against the hull. The waves came and went, each time just dipping his tangled red hair in the sea and lapping at his face. I knew he was dead.
From the end of John's arm extended a three foot gaff hook; it was hooked to something out of sight, on the underside of the hull. John was somewhat stretched in this manner, like a man upon a rack. I couldn't begin to imagine what had happened.
I maneuvered my boat to the downwind bow of John's, tied her off with a short length of light hawser and clamored aboard.
As I worked my way forward I was somewhat perplexed as to just what might be done with poor old John's body. After all, if he'd been hanging there some time-- days, perhaps-- he'd be slimy and slick, and not too pleasant to look at --let alone to actually pick up and handle.... Too, I wasn't sure I could pull his awkward dead weight over the high rail on the afterdeck of that jerking little boat. Dead bodies are danged hard to handle. But something must be done, and soon. Both vessels were slipping rapidly toward the rocks in the freshening westerly. At least, I thought, I could get the body aboard, and save his boat. Maybe John had family somewhere...
Presently I saw movement out of the corner of my eye as a long octopus tentacle lapped lazily over the gun'ale and onto the deck near John's head. It was then I began to suspect the struggle that had played out.
I stood unsteadily on the stern deck looking at John, and considering the ever closer line of surf. I was listening to the roar of the breakers and the gentle scream of the wind through the rigging, and thinking I'd better get it over with before the light drained away and I lost my nerve altogether. I was dreamily considering what a sad thing it was to witness, and how one never knows what form his ultimate demise would take....and I was suddenly so frightened that I felt pain, and I could not move.
As the adrenaline shock subsided, my mind automatically reasoned that the only possible explanation was that John had been fishing with someone aboard, and that person was now speaking to me. But as I shot a glance into the dark cabin I saw no movement, and all was again quiet and surreal.
Then, as clear and as quotable as a voice from above --or that other place, something growled sarcastically, harsh and rasping:
"Well you bloody well took your bloody time, didn't you!"
I jerked around to face the sound, and my body convulsively twitched to see the limp, lifeless form that was hanging upside down from the rail, begin to struggle and to move.
I instinctively started to run, as would one who'd just been touched gently on the shoulder, only to turn around and meet face to face with the devil himself-- But I stopped short, as to flee was only to run into the sea. Then, as I sucked for air and steadied myself against the rail, my senses began to return....
John was alive-- quite so! And he was grunting obscenities at me for not helping him get loose of his remarkable predicament- -
Sixty seconds later I had him sitting stiffly, right side up, on the deck. We boxed the octopus-- it came aboard with barely a struggle then, for John had out-waited it. We transferred the lines of my boat to the stern of John's, and began a slow, leisurely crawl back to sea. It was then the obvious question must be asked:
"What in the hell happened to you?" I said.
John thrust a great wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth, all the while guzzling a half empty bottle of wine that rolled with a clink, back and forth across the fish deck. He began in a raw, hoarse voice, "Well, I guess it were couple of days ago", he said, stiff-jawed and tentatively. "I seen you take off over that way to make yer set, and I figured I'd just plop one in here ta see if there was anything ta be had... Well sir, I put down my set'n let `er cook a couple o' hours, 'n then I started ta pull 'er up. I got a few o' them sharks, there, you can see", John motioned to a dozen scraggly male sharks in his fish basket, "an' then there was this great big shape'n shadow jus lumberin' along up th' line as I winched 'er in". He paused and his eyes grew vacant, remembering the scene. "I figgered it was a damn ol' stump," he continued, looking at me, "'n that it were gonna break my line!"
John paused to be sure I understood the gravity of the situation, then continued in great animation. "...So I stopped the winch 'n took off ma coat, `n got ready ta go over th' side ta cut 'er loose. It were then I figgered out it was the biggess octopussy you ever seen, 'n I knew I had ta get 'im no matter what."
John repositioned his wad of Red Man before gathering steam to go on. "Well sir, I tied this here rope 'roun' my foot 'ere," (it was still there) "'n I lowered m'self over that demn rail. Now I had a big ol' gaff hook, but it was m' last one, 'n so I tied the handle of it ta my wrist here, like this," (the wrist was bloody and raw), "'n over th' side I went! Well sir, I hooked up that big ol' hook inta tha middle o' that big ol' bugger, and that's when he really come ta life. He jumped offen that line so fast I thought he was comin' right aboard 'n have it out with me. But instead he dove down there under the boat here, 'n latched onta the keel fer dear life.
Well there I was, hangin' upside down by one leg, tied ta th' rail, 'n I couldn't get the damned knot untied from th' handle o' th' hook here, 'n I couldn't reach my knife ner do nothin' with my other hand, 'n that damn, damn ol' octopus couldn't let go o' th' bottom o' th' boat cause'n he knew I'd get 'im if'n he did. --'N so we just sort 'o stayed like that 'n til you comed along here. Shur took yer damned sweet time too!"
I bundled John up, for he was as cold as a rock, and we set off to port.. He fetched up from the bilge another oily, half drunk bottle of wine, and long and loud we sang and drank ourselves to harbor
As we steamed in off the shelf we glanced astern at the cold and the mist and the green, briney spume that raged against the craggy shore. With a keen eye to the rocks that had almost been his grave, John spit over the rail and cursed under his breath. The sea had nearly claimed him again.
The poor old octopus was sacrificed in the end. The proceeds paid some bills and bought John a whole new case of Rasberry wine, though it lasted not nearly long enough.
But to the spirit of that tough old creature of the deep, well, we drunk another round, toasting profusely and imparting to the sea-birds grand words of wit and profanity---
And John never went fishin' again...
