“Captain Monk?”
Jason clambered down from his flying bridge and went to greet him. He was evidently English, by his accent. Julius helped him aboard.
“You tried this before, Mr. Irvine?” Jason asked.
“Actually, no. My first time. Bit of a new boy.”
“Don’t worry about it, sir. We’ll take care of you. The sea’s pretty calm, but if you find it’s too much, just say.”
It never ceased to surprise him how many tourists went out to sea with the presumption that the ocean would be as calm as the water inside the reef. Tourist brochures never show a whitecap wave on the Caribbean, but it can produce some seriously bumpy seas.
He eased the Foxy Lady out of Turtle Cove and turned half-right toward Sellar’s Cut. Out beyond Northwest Point there would be wild water, probably too much for the old man, but he knew a spot off Pine Key in the other direction where the seas were easier and reports had it there were dorado running.
He ran at full cruise for forty minutes, then saw a large mat of floating weed, the sort of place where dorado, locally called dolphin, were wont to lie in the shade just below the surface.
Julius streamed four rigs and lines as the power eased off and they started to cruise around the bed of reed. It was on the third circuit that they got a strike.
One of the rods dipped violently, then the line began to scream out of the Penn Senator. The Englishman got up from beneath the awning and sedately took his place in the fighting chair. Julius handed him the rod, slotted the butt into the cup between the client’s thighs, and began to haul in the other three lines.
Monk turned the nose of the Foxy Lady away from the reed bed, set her power just above idle, and came down to the afterdeck. The fish had stopped taking line, but the rod was well bent.
“Just haul back,” said Monk gently. “Haul back until the rod is upright, then ease forward and wind in as you go.”
The Englishman tried it. After ten minutes he said:
“I think this is a bit too much for me, you know. Strong things, fish.”
“Okay, I’ll take it if you like.”
“I’d be most grateful if you would.”
Monk slipped into the fighting chair as the client climbed out and returned to the shade of the awning. It was half past ten and the heat was fierce. The sun was astern and the glare came off the water like a blade.
It took ten minutes of hard pumping to bring the fish close to the transom. Then it saw the hull and made another run for freedom, taking a further thirty yards of line.
“What is it?” asked the client.
“Big bull dolphin,” said Monk.
“Oh, dear, I rather like dolphins.”
“Not the bottle-nosed mammal. Same name but different. Also called dorado. It’s a game fish, and very good to eat.”
Julius had the gaff ready and as the dorado came alongside he swung expertly and brought the forty-pounder over the edge.
“Good fish, mister,” he said.
“Ah, but I think Mr. Monk’s fish, not mine.”
Monk climbed out of the chair, disengaged the hook from the dorado’s mouth, and unclipped the steel trace from the line. Julius, about to put the catch into the stern locker, looked surprised. With the dorado on board, the routine would be to stream the four lines again, not put them away.
“Go topside and take the helm,” Monk told him quietly. “Head for home, trolling speed.”
Julius nodded without understanding and his lean ebony form went up the ladder to the upper control panel. Monk bent to the chilled locker, extracted two cans of beer, and popped both, offering one to his client. Then he sat on the locker and looked at the elderly Englishman in the shade.
“You don’t really want to come fishing, do you, Mr. Irvine.” It was not a question but a statement.
“Not my passion, actually.”