The Rattled Bones(62)

“I’ll remember that next time.”

“You’d better. Ya fathah would want ya fishing these waters for a lotta years to come, Rilla.”

“I plan on it.” Despite Reed believing otherwise.

Sam hands me the slip, his face trying to contain the biggest smile. “Five hundred and eighteen pounds,” he whispers. “Boo. Yah!” He doesn’t whisper the last part.

“Damn.” I take the slip, double-check the number.

“Our best haul yet, huh?”

It’s another superstition that keeps me from calling any haul the best haul. “It’s impressive.”

He wipes his hands on the bib of his rubber overalls. “I think I might change my major to fishing.”

“Ha! We’ll make a salty dog of you yet.”

“I think maybe you already have. This fishing stuff gets in your blood.”

It does. “Sure does.”

I push at the throttle and the engine hums. The salt breeze swirls around us as I head through the sea of buoys bobbing their colorful necks out of the glistening Atlantic.

We’re about a half mile from home when Sam joins me in the wheelhouse. “Hey, Rilla?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we could anchor out here for a little while?”

“Too deep to anchor here. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Sam gazes out at the expanse of blue where the horizon and sea bend to meet each other. “I just wanted to float for a while. I’ve never done that.”

I check my gauges, my depth finder. The only boat traffic is far off the port bow, so I cut the engine. “We can float.” It was one of the things I liked to do most with my dad. Sit in the waves and watch for marine animals. As if they know, a pod of dolphins swim by, their sleek backs lifting in and out of the water in precise rhythm. Two juveniles play at the rear, teasing us with their backward swimming and head nods.

Sam watches, awe lighting his features. “That is by far one of the coolest things I have ever seen.”

I smile. “It’s pretty cool.”

“In Tucson the sky is so big and blue that sometimes it’s hard to believe it’s real. But here, it’s like there’s a blue sky and then another one just below it, one that’s alive and breathing.”

“I think you should change your major to poetry.”

Sam laughs. “A fishing poet?”

“It’s honest work.”

“I’ll consider it.”

When the last of the dolphin pod disappears, I take a seat next to where Sam’s got his feet up on the cooler. I lean forward and rest my elbows over my knees. I let the sea fall around me, the humidity curling the tiny hairs around my face. The spray from the waves coats my skin with wet and salt. I lick at my lips, draw the salt onto my tongue.

“I think I’d like to get to the desert someday.”

“See the ocean of sand.”

“With sage plants instead of waves.”

“And coyotes howling instead of wind.”

“That too.”

“Look me up when you do.”

I laugh. “Will do. Considering you’re the one person I’ll know there.”

We let the waves rock us for some time before Sam says, “I think I might really have the ocean in my blood. Being out here feels like coming home.”

“Same.”

“I’m also kind of afraid of it, if I’m being honest. It’s still so wild. But don’t tell your grandmother that the sea intimidates me or she’ll never trust me on the water with you again.”

“Your secret’s safe.” I tilt my head back, let the sun reach inside of me.

“You know that book I found in my parents’ shed? It had this section on men fishing off this coast, how they didn’t even need fishing gear to pull cod from the ocean. They could just lean overboard and grab a six-foot codfish out of the ocean with their bare hands.”

“Sure. That’s how Cape Cod got its name.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. And Gram says that her great-grandfather used to fish by throwing a simple net over the side of his boat. No hook, no bait.”

“For real?”

“For real. And that was after most of the cod stocks had been reduced.”

“Do you think it was that way for the Malaga fishermen?”

I remember the open dory at the shore when I first saw the girl. It was big enough for four men, men who would pull their catch up and over its edges. “I do. I think the fishing was different then. Less people. Fuller ocean.”

Sam leans forward, assumes my exact position. “I looked for your girl last night. I read and reread every article written about the island, even accessed the state archives and searched the records of the Maine School for the Feeble-Minded.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“University perk.”

“Anything?”

Sam shakes his head, unable to hide his disappointment.

But I know her story exists somewhere. “My gram always says that bees bring stories.”

He squints, looks at me. “How’s that?”

“She taught me that bees bring stories on their wings, deposit them into plants as they pollinate. Then humans eat the plant, share the stories.”