fish.
“Jacks,” said Burguis.
“Really?” Lazlo said. “How can you tell?”
“He can’t,” said Ellen Burguis. “Everything’s jacks, unless he’s swimming and they bite him, and then they’re sharks.”
“That’s not so, Ellen,” Burguis said. “It’s true that I have . . . well, respect . . . for the anthropophagi. Call it a morbid fear if you like. But there is a characteristic way that jacks flail their caudal fins when they feed, not unlike our own blue-fish.” He smiled. “You see, even we pedants sometimes know what we’re talking about.”
Lazlo finished his meal and washed his plate off the stern. “I hope you folks have a wonderful icthyological symposium,” he said, “but I think it’s time we hit the sack. Tomorrow’s a long stretch of open water. Who wants the first watch?”
Burguis said, “I’ll take it. I’m not tired. Ellen can take the second, Bella the third. That’ll give you a good five or six hours before your turn.”
“You think we have to stand watch here?” Bella Lazlo complained. “There’s no weather, and none forecast, and there’s not exactly a lot of traffic.”
“We agreed on the rules,” said her husband, “and we should follow them.”
“But what could happen?”
“A change in the wind, a freak squall, anything.”
“Even poachers,” said Burguis. “The book says there are lobster poachers from Haiti and Cuba around here all the time. Believe it or not, they can come aboard and strip you clean while you sleep.”
“We don’t have anything they’d want.”
“We don’t know what they want. For all we know, they’re 6-12 addicts who’ll kill for a squirt.”
“It’s basic good-seamanship,” Lazlo said. “We stand watches every night, even in port, and we wake up hale and hearty. There’s no reason to break the routine.” He reeled in the Zodiac, hopped aboard, and held it beside Pinafore until Bella got in.
As they pulled themselves back to Penzance, they heard Burguis call, “It’s eight-thirty now. Ellen will take over at ten-thirty, and she’ll wake you, Bella, at half-past twelve.” Bella waved.
Burguis upended the hibachi, spilling the charcoal briquets overboard. He watched as the school of jacks surrounded the tumbling crumbs, circled them, and, when they concluded that the ashes were inedible, sped away into the twilight. He went below and returned with the Remington pump shotgun, which he loaded with three shells.
“You really think that’s necessary?” his wife said, wiping the dishes dry.
“If you’re going to stand a watch, stand a watch. There’s no point in not having it.”
With no clouds in the sky to reflect light, once the sun dropped below the horizon the sky grew quickly dark.
Ellen Burguis looked at her watch. “Well . . .”
“You might as well try. Any sleep is better than none.”
“All right.” She went below and pulled the curtain across the doorway.
Burguis had brought with him a brief case full of books. At home, he found time to read little more than daily papers and trade journals, and during the year he set aside piles of books to read on his vacation. They were all paperbacks, light, not bulky, and dispensable. Burguis liked to feel free to stop reading an unsatisfying book after twenty or thirty pages and pitch it into the sea. “Prose pollution,” he would mutter happily as he watched the soggy book wallow in Pinafore’ s wake.
He sat in the stern, the shotgun by his side, using a small flashlight to illuminate the pages of Dragons of Eden.
The night was full of nature’s noises: ashore, the random hooting and cawing of birds; in the water, the swirls and splashes of fish; and on the boat, below, the rattling of Ellen’s breathing through congested antrums.
Burguis heard a splash close behind the boat—not loud, but more substantial than a rolling fish would make. Curious, he pointed his flashlight overboard and saw a circle of ripples spreading, as if something
“Jacks,” said Burguis.
“Really?” Lazlo said. “How can you tell?”
“He can’t,” said Ellen Burguis. “Everything’s jacks, unless he’s swimming and they bite him, and then they’re sharks.”
“That’s not so, Ellen,” Burguis said. “It’s true that I have . . . well, respect . . . for the anthropophagi. Call it a morbid fear if you like. But there is a characteristic way that jacks flail their caudal fins when they feed, not unlike our own blue-fish.” He smiled. “You see, even we pedants sometimes know what we’re talking about.”
Lazlo finished his meal and washed his plate off the stern. “I hope you folks have a wonderful icthyological symposium,” he said, “but I think it’s time we hit the sack. Tomorrow’s a long stretch of open water. Who wants the first watch?”
Burguis said, “I’ll take it. I’m not tired. Ellen can take the second, Bella the third. That’ll give you a good five or six hours before your turn.”
“You think we have to stand watch here?” Bella Lazlo complained. “There’s no weather, and none forecast, and there’s not exactly a lot of traffic.”
“We agreed on the rules,” said her husband, “and we should follow them.”
“But what could happen?”
“A change in the wind, a freak squall, anything.”
“Even poachers,” said Burguis. “The book says there are lobster poachers from Haiti and Cuba around here all the time. Believe it or not, they can come aboard and strip you clean while you sleep.”
“We don’t have anything they’d want.”
“We don’t know what they want. For all we know, they’re 6-12 addicts who’ll kill for a squirt.”
“It’s basic good-seamanship,” Lazlo said. “We stand watches every night, even in port, and we wake up hale and hearty. There’s no reason to break the routine.” He reeled in the Zodiac, hopped aboard, and held it beside Pinafore until Bella got in.
As they pulled themselves back to Penzance, they heard Burguis call, “It’s eight-thirty now. Ellen will take over at ten-thirty, and she’ll wake you, Bella, at half-past twelve.” Bella waved.
Burguis upended the hibachi, spilling the charcoal briquets overboard. He watched as the school of jacks surrounded the tumbling crumbs, circled them, and, when they concluded that the ashes were inedible, sped away into the twilight. He went below and returned with the Remington pump shotgun, which he loaded with three shells.
“You really think that’s necessary?” his wife said, wiping the dishes dry.
“If you’re going to stand a watch, stand a watch. There’s no point in not having it.”
With no clouds in the sky to reflect light, once the sun dropped below the horizon the sky grew quickly dark.
Ellen Burguis looked at her watch. “Well . . .”
“You might as well try. Any sleep is better than none.”
“All right.” She went below and pulled the curtain across the doorway.
Burguis had brought with him a brief case full of books. At home, he found time to read little more than daily papers and trade journals, and during the year he set aside piles of books to read on his vacation. They were all paperbacks, light, not bulky, and dispensable. Burguis liked to feel free to stop reading an unsatisfying book after twenty or thirty pages and pitch it into the sea. “Prose pollution,” he would mutter happily as he watched the soggy book wallow in Pinafore’ s wake.
He sat in the stern, the shotgun by his side, using a small flashlight to illuminate the pages of Dragons of Eden.
The night was full of nature’s noises: ashore, the random hooting and cawing of birds; in the water, the swirls and splashes of fish; and on the boat, below, the rattling of Ellen’s breathing through congested antrums.
Burguis heard a splash close behind the boat—not loud, but more substantial than a rolling fish would make. Curious, he pointed his flashlight overboard and saw a circle of ripples spreading, as if something
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