calculate.
The trip itself had been all but a wash, as far as fishing goes. The target fish of that journey was, as usual, sturgeon. Failing to produce anything in the mud flats, Earl had decided to stop off at the Brothers on the way back, with hopes of catching a striper or two. The Brothers are two islands—more like grand rocks—that sit a couple of miles north of the Richmond Bridge at the south end of San Pablo Bay. The more easterly of the two hosts a small lighthouse that was converted to a bed and breakfast in the early ’80s. The other is barren, apart from the layer of seagull shit that projects not only a dull white color but also quite a pungent stench for anyone who ventures close enough downwind. After a handful of drifts between the two, Earl picked up the one and only fish of that day’s journey. As modest as it may have been, it was still a game fish, and one modest striper beats a skunk-fishing trip any day.
Earl stepped up to the sink and poured the contents from the bag. The striper plopped into the sink, staring with its dead gray eye out of the slimy pink film that continued to drip from the bag. Earl grabbed his special filet knife from the rack on the wall. Most of the knives in the house were kept in the drawer, but the few that Earl deemed his special fish-cleaning knives resided on a magnetic strip tacked onto the side of a cabinet above the sink. His personal favorite wasn’t one of the more expensive but an old Russell carbon-bladed filet knife that had belonged to his father. It wasn’t so much the sentimental value that drew him to it time and again but purely a matter of function. It was a good knife. One thing about the carbon blade: The steel needed to be kept oiled or it became overly oxidized. Denise, Earl’s wife, often commented on how confounding it was to watch him work a nice piece of fish flesh with “that rusty old piece-of-shit knife.”
“Best knife in the house, hon.”
“Elch, disgusting,” she’d say, shaking her hands and scurrying away.
“Best knife in the house,” he’d mutter as he carved, working like a sculptor with a fine piece of marble. Earl truly was an artist with a filet knife. He prided himself on his filets, his favorite being salmon. He likened the night before salmon season each year to the experience of Christmas Eve as a kid. He could barely sleep in anticipation, hoping to get out there and catch a “splitter,” a large Chinook yielding a grand pair of filets. Earl would amaze his friends by taking a fish, sometimes over thirty pounds, and, gripping it by the head, run his old Russell just behind the gill plate downward, then sharply turn the knife ninety degrees to run the blade along the spine, down the length, to the tail. Without fail, this would produce the finest salmon filet to be found anywhere around, and with the least amount of meat left on the bone.
This particular fish was not a salmon, but to Earl the striper was still a quality catch. He regretted not cleaning it sooner after catching it, but recent circumstances placed this modest bass low on his priority list. Denise was gone again, off to stay with her mother until Earl “got his shit together.”
It was now or never for the little striper, he thought. Soon the fish would turn, if it hadn’t already, and that would be just plain wasteful. Grabbing it by the tail, he flopped it up onto the cutting board with a greasy wet slap.
SNIFF. SNIFF.
He began to filet the bass with an incision just behind the gill.
SNIFF.
Earl wiped his nose with the back of his right hand, which held the knife, and continued to work on the fish. A slight trickle of blood appeared from his right nostril. Small droplets of red began to fall on the shiny gray stripes of the bass.
“Ah, fuck,” he groaned, wiping his nose again, streaking blood and mucus across his face and onto the back of his hand. With slimy fingers, he reached for a paper towel, held it to his nose, and tilted his head back, staring toward the ceiling. After a few moments, satisfied that the blood had stopped, he threw the towel aside and continued on the fish. Irritated, his movements became increasingly erratic, causing him to foul up the cut. He examined the filet.
“Shit!”
Earl dropped the piece of fish into a bowl. Visibly frustrated, he tried to salvage his work. Carving in around the backbone for the meat that was left behind, he slipped with his knife and sliced his left thumb.
“Fuck!”
Earl stuck his thumb into his mouth, and his nose immediately began to bleed again. He returned to fileting the fish, not noticing the blood from his nose. He flipped the fish over to work the other side, his movements becoming more awkward and irregular. Blood began to drip onto the fish flesh from his nose. His thumb was also starting to bleed more rapidly.
“FUCK!!”
Earl began to slash frantically at the fish, removing small chunks and depositing them into the bowl. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, again smearing blood. The crimson continued to flow and drip onto the bass, creating a horrid slurry.
“FUUUCCKK!!!”
Earl hacked at the fish with one hand, holding the back of the other against his nostril. He roared as he hacked, finally grabbing the mutilated bass by the head and stuffing it tail first into the garbage disposal. Reaching to switch on the disposal, he smeared blood and slime onto the switch plate. The disposal kicked in with a growl, spinning the bass in the drain. Earl watched the fish. Blood drained from his nose, dripping onto his white FLOWMASTER MUFFLERS T-shirt. His breathing was heavy and rapid, like a spent boxer. A few moments elapsed before he was able to calm himself down. Finally, he took a deep breath and switched off the disposal.
Earl watched the head of the fish as it stopped spinning in the drain. He focused intently on the vacant gray eye.
Murky water darkness. Daylight would soon arrive, and the water would still be just as murky and nearly as dark. Here was the bottom of San Pablo Bay, about six feet below the surface. For anyone tempted to dive in this particular stretch of water, the scenery would be less than lackluster. San Pablo Bay is a massive mud flat, with the exception of the few channels that link San Francisco Bay with the Carquinez Straits and eventually the Sacramento River Delta. On the surface, the water at this hour was calm and glassy. Lights from the channel markers could be seen in the distance. Far beyond was the flicker of the sleeping city of San Francisco. In the miles of vast emptiness, only one thing could be distinguished, a dilapidated shack sitting on a cluster of old pilings. Local fishermen knew the shack as the Pumphouse.
All was quiet. The only sound, the deep hoot of a far-off buoy pulsating its warning call every few seconds. Abruptly, a huge, pale serpentine creature with reptilian skin broke the smooth, flat surface. The prehistoric head moved nearer to the piling cluster and passed to the left, followed by the rest of its long massive body. The creature then arched and rolled its hulking mass gracefully back down toward the bottom with a slight slap of its pectoral fin, rustling the water, creating a fizz of small, rising air bubbles. The tail whisked the surface, then disappeared, leaving the dark silhouette of the Pumphouse against the distant skyline.
The
