We see you later, Buddy!
Let go de line, boy!
Rudders are rigged, and the starboard boat drifts astern. Byrum and Speedy step the mast as the boat tosses; the sail canvas snaps and ripples. The port boat, already free, beats cross wind on a northerly tack. In the glittering green troughs, its gaff-rigged sail rises and falls.
Now the starboard boat heels away downwind. Warm spray flies over the bow, and the crew leans outboard; she comes about and heads up toward the reef, close to the wind. Raib is shouting.
Dass de way you know a fine sailin boat, boys—de way she beat to windward when you slack off on de sheet!
A mile away, well short of the reef, the port boat has dropped her sail.
What de hell Will doin, Copm Raib?
Raib jumps up in the flying boat.
What? Goddom! Goddom it! I never think he be as poor as dat!
settin at shadders, way out dere!
sailin to dese reefs all de days of his life, and den he go and set his net out dere—dat mon can’t learn nothin from de sea. Dat mon
what Copm Andrew used to say: Old Bush people can’t learn nothin from de sea
put de old mon in dat boat as pilot.
JESUS! If he deaf and dumb, he still do a better job den Will, he still do it!
The brown sail flutters aloft again; the port catboat has seen Raib’s signals. She gathers speed, bending away toward the reefs.
He ain’t pickin up dem net! Dem five, six nets is wasted!
I make a bad mistake when I call dat mon a pilot. I done a bad job dere.
No turtle out dat way, huh?
Well, he might have de luck to snag one comin and goin, cause green turtle out dere in de day. Dey out dere grazin on de sponges and de sea grass. But in de twilight dey go up under de reef. Ain’t no turtle in de world gone to spend de night out dere amongst de grasses.
The blue boat drifts in the green sea, in twenty feet of water. In the lee of the reef, the water clears. Dark coral heads gather; they loom and sink away.
Green turtle, mon! See dem two dere? Dem two big bastard dere lookin to coot! Dey gettin set to go down to de Bogue!
Ain’t no chicken turtle on dis reef, dass what Copm Allie say!
Strike dat sail, Byrum, take de bow oar! Stay dere amid-ships, Speedy!
The catboat is rowed against the wind, from set to set—lone coral heads, narrow reef channels, round wells of white sand ringed by coral, called “white holes.” Between sets, Raib rigs the next net to its buoy and clears the kelleck and the buoy line, so that it is ready to heave. With hands, toes and teeth, he spreads the whole length of the net to be sure it is hung properly and will not tangle, then heaves the kelleck on its line and throws the net out after it, using an overarm motion that casts the mesh wide in the air. One end of each net is secured to the log buoy of light wood, and this end is anchored by the kelleck. The net floats down the current like an underwater flag, shifting position with the change in tides: it is borne up by small floats along the surface line, and since the bottom is not weighted it hangs in the current at an angle. With its wide mesh, the light net encourages tangling, yet permits the turtle to haul it to the surface when it has to breathe.
De onliest thing, Speedy, when a small turtle hang up too close to de kelleck and got to drag dat to de top every time he breathe, why den you go out dere in de mornin time and find dat turtle drownded.
The boat works north along the reef, setting the channels and the edges of the jagged pan shoals that hide just below the surface; the coral walls of the shoals and channels descend steeply to white coral sand.
Easy on de bow oar, Byrum! Pull best, Speedy!
Speedy chatters to himself.
Hear dat, Speedy? You too, Speedy! Pull best, Speedy-Boy, you doin fine!
In the western light, the coral glows, afire. A shark glides outward from the dark wall, then accelerates with a stroke of its huge caudal. Farther on, bonita crisscross, chasing bait fish; where the bonita chop the surface, the minnows spray into the air in silver showers, all across the sunlit coral.
Byrum, grunting, rests a moment on his oars.
Dis de onliest place I ever see bonita on de inside of de reef. And dey jack dere—jack crevalle!
Keep her head up, Byrum. Pull best, darlin. You take a rest in dis wind, mon, she walk away from you right back down to de vessel.
The sprays of bait fish, catching the sun, have drawn the hunting terns, which beat along against the wind, just overhead. Fish and birds chase back and forth across the catboat’s bow, the tern shriek lost in the cavernous booming on the reef.
Where dem birds come from, way out here? How dey know dat bait was dere?
Dat what dey call mystery, Byrum. Dat is mystery. Many’s de time I seen dem noddies on de Cayman Banks, not ten mile west of de island, and egg birds with’m, and boobies. And not one of dem thousands of birds ever comes in sight of Grand Cayman.
The ship swings on her anchor. The catboats are drifted aft on lines of different lengths so that they will not collide or bang the hull.
Vemon! Get your ass out of dat deckhouse! Don’t you see dese other mens workin—day ain’t none of dem dat is drier den you! When de work is finish and de deck secure, den you tend to your own self!
Hear dat? Now come out dere, Vemon!
Huh! Call yourself mate, and den you—
I say, Come out dere, Vemon!
I comin, goddom it, Will!
When de Coptin change he clothes, den we know dat our day’s work be done, and we change too! Dat be de rule of de sea!
Both gangs are wet, and at twilight the wind is cool; they change their pants while Wodie and Buddy cook their supper.
I said, Move his chair in under de roof dere, case it rains!
Twilight.
The wind relents a little, but thick waves rumble on the reef, and the sea gnaws the hull.
See dat silver light? Make me sad, someway.
Gloomy, mon. What de old people calls de Mouth of de Night. Cause de night hungry, mon.
boom
The sea expires.
boom
Feel like dat reef waitin, someway. Watchin and waitin.
Athens, mon, you gettin worse den Wodie here.
How about yourself? Always talkin about dat big old shark out dere—how you know he de same one, Byrum? How you know dat?
Cause I seen’m! Got a big notch in de fin!
Dey some things a mon don’t have to see, but he know it all de same, cause he feelin sign.
Hush up, Wodie.
Darkness.
Copm? We seen dat same dead mess again! Risin and fallin on de far side of de reef!
Raib glares at Will in warning.
Dat old dead whale?
Copm Raib? Copm Raib? Dat thing must be alive! Eitherwise by now it would have fetched up on de coast. Wouldn’t be foller’n us around out here.
Dem sharks still with it?
HE TOLD YOU, COPM RAIB, ON DE WINDWARD SIDE! HOW IN DE HELL COULD WE SEE FINS IN DAT MESS OUT DERE!
Vemon, why you answer me in dat big voice? I ask a mon if he see sharks, and he—
NO, brother! All we seen was dat same awful-lookin thing, risin and fallin in de seas!
Must be alive. Or else de currents—
Maybe dey two of dem—
Silence.
Maybe it got business with us.
Now nemmine dat, Wodie! Nemmine dat duppy talk! We ain’t gone to speak no more about dis motter!
A heavy slosh along the hull. Spars creaking. The men retreat into the cabin.
twenty-five, dis goddom wind
east wind
east wind
de wind of June
in April
worse on dis same reef. By Jesus Christ it had blowed not less den sixty-knot wind blowed de hairs of out ye pick up dat anchor and chain, dat small anchor and thirty-five, forty fathoms of chain picked dat up and she got broadside go to de westward fouled or something h
ooked back into de bottom, brought her head back to de wind a press of wind like dat. God A’mighty not ridin half as hard as she were ridin den. If she had dem tall masts now, she be pitchin her jib boom out of sight masts cut down Honduras don’t hold de wind so much
chop dem masts out, sometimes
with sails, ye can’t do much in de night domn thing you can do is stop and take a floggin. Dangerous just to tack under sail in de night. In de night especially. De day be just as bad, but dere is light, and dere is hope someway.
Hope, mon. Learn dat from school days.
Where you think dat white mess got to now?
Oh, it out dere someplace, waitin on us.
Good thing it ain’t black or green, ain’t dat right, Wodie? Bring us bad luck.
One time with Copm Andrew dere at Verrellas, in de same time of de year, and de wind blowed in pretty domn fresh, same as it is now. So we left dere in de Clarinda and brought dat weather up around Coxcones, nineteen mile further east, but de further we went to de northeast, de better it were. And we just sailed along and sailed along, and it increased to be better all de time. And by de time we got out I would say seventy, eighty mile, just off de edge of de bank, oh mon, it were de prettiest weather in de world. And we corried dat pretty weather right straight home.
Weather can change. Any time, mon.
Best change pretty quick, we gone get turtle.
Dey pretty good holdin ground where I am here. De onliest way we would get in de rocks is if de vessel drag quite a distance and get down to de edge of de deep. Course I was not lookin for dis weather. To tell ye de God’s truth, I was not lookin for it, not in dis time of de year. It must be dat atomic trash and shit de Yankees puttin in de sky; mon can’t even count on de way of de wind no more.
Domn wind, y’know. Plays with de nerves.
I mean, dis is de worst April I remember, and I been fishenin on de cays for forty year!
Now de best thing for de nerves, dat is conch salad.
Raib points at the crosstrees and the rolling stars.
Blowin my life away, dass what it doin! Dis goddom wind is blowin my life away!
Oh, yes. Conch salad, mon. And cocos.
Edinburgh Reef.
In the gray light, the leaky boats are half submerged in wave water and rain. Wind blowing hard, and wind banks to the eastward.
The turtles grow restless with the coming of the light and struggle to reach the open sea: because sometimes they escape, or tear the nets as they drag them across the coral, the catboats are off before the dawn.
Gray sea, gray sunrise: a cold silver light.
… not dis mornin!
Will sot dis reef with me and another time with Copm Teddy! A mon dat has worked turtle all de days of his life, and still he sot way out here stead of goin up into de reef! And de goddom fool tellin me he fishin spots!
He settin at shadders, like I said …
Dis is an hombre, dis is! Sign him on as mate, and den he go …
Near the reef, the catboat heads up into the wind, sail snapping. Byrum lashes the sail around the mast, then lowers the mast into the boat.
See dat one flouncin on de weather side? And dere and dere—dey two in dat other net!
Green turtle, Speedy-Boy! Green turtle!
Speedy, dass a goddom log’red you pointin at, but dat one a turtle over dere.
Log’red ain’t turtle?
Log’red ain’t no kind of turtle at all! I guess you might say it in de turtle family, dass about all—dommit, take dat oar into de boat once you got hold of de net! Can’t hondle turtle with no oar stickin out like dat!
No use gettin excited, Copm Raib! Dis boy doin okay for a new fella.
I not excited! I just likes to hustle!
Sometimes a mon hustle too much, lose more time dat way.
Now dass enough, Byrum! I never come out on dese reefs dis mornin to take lessons about turtlin from you!
The nets trail downwind from the reef, the float lines bunched up here and there in a rude tangle; the turtles thrash and sigh. As the catboat comes up on the net, the creatures sound, dragging the floats beneath the sea, but they are tired and soon surface.
Raib hooks the net with a small grapnel and hauls it in. Each crewman seizes a fore flipper of the turtle. They hoist it upright, facing away from the boat, then haul it on its back over the gunwales. It rests on the thwart until freed of the net, then is lowered, still upside down, into the bilges.
Look like Will got turtle after all! Green turtle! See de pale belly comin up over de side?
Nemmine Will’s turtle, mind your job! Can’t corry no turtle in dis boat, you don’t stow dem better den dat! Don’t take two men to do what you doin dere, just take one dat knows his job!
Raib jams the turtle under the thwart.
You sayin I don’t know my job?
If you was on de A.M. Adams, you had ought to knowed dat de Coptin never come up into de bow dis way if de two men know dere job!
You right dere. But—
All right, I de Coptin dis mornin! Dey ain’t nothin in de world you can teach me about turtles! (more quietly) If de men know dere duty, dey see de motter through dereselves.
You sayin I don’t know my duty?
Now dass enough, I said!
There are five green turtle in the nets, each one two hundred pounds or more, and the broad calipees of bamboo yellow cover the bottom of the catboat. When first taken aboard, the turtles slap their flippers on their bellies; soon they lie still.
Where dat easternmost net? I sot it right off de edge of dat pan shoal!
Goddom log’red bearin it away, dass what it is! Look where he got it!
The catboat drifts down on the last net, which floats on the surface in a snarl. The huge loggerhead is wound inside it, wound so tightly that it cannot sound as the catboat nears; its small eye glowers through the netting. It is dragged into the catboat to be disentangled, and soon the massive head is freed, but the taut net and the beast’s great weight make the job difficult in the small boat. The men move gingerly around the head, with its pink warty neck.
Goddom it, we best take dis sonofabitch back to de vessel, h’ist’m up, work on him dere! We be all mornin out here, and dere Will back down to de ship already!
Byrum slings the boat painter to Buddy and draws the catboat alongside; it heaves and bangs. Raib swings onto the deck.
Buddy? Did Copm Andrew eat?
Buddy shakes his head.
One by one, the turtles are hoisted from the catboats by means of a bridle secured to the bases of the fore flippers. Suspended from the tackle at the tip of the foremast boom, they are swung inboard over the rails. Athens grabs the heavy tail of a hanging male, to steady it, then pierces its flippers with a red poker brought from the fire in the galley stove: a hissing sound and a quick sweet stink of flesh. The turtle blinks. Then it is lowered to the deck, where palm thongs are run through the flipper holes, and the flippers are lashed tight across the belly.
… big fella here hatched from de egg and come up out of de sand dere at Turtle Bogue and feel dat water and run for de sea fore something get’m; after dat, he disappear. And in all de years since, ain’t nobody knows where dat old turtle been until de time we seen him flouncin out dere off dat pan shoal.
Green turtle very mysterious, mon.
Green turtle, mon.
Wodie slides the turtles aft, into the shade of the starboard companionway. Since they will be transferred to a crawl at Miskito Cay, they are left abovedecks. To keep them from sliding in rough seas, Wodie kicks wedges under the shells and a wood pillow is placed beneath each head, which would otherwise hang back unsupported.
The starboard boat has landed five green turtle, the port boat four greens and a hawksbill. Will’s shy smile is warped by his tobacco plug.
You done as good as we done, mate, settin at shadders!
I fishin spots, Byrum, like I said.
Byrum, dere was another green we lost to sharks! Still
layin on de bottom with no head on’m and fins off. And dere were dat many sharks goin around dere, and big ones!—I tellin you, it made my blood run cold!
Byrum looks angry, glaring toward the reef.
You funnin with me, Athens?
No, mon! Jesus Christ, Byrum, dere was some black sharks dere, some tigers, dat I knowed never went less den fourteen feet! Dey was as big around as here to dat binnacle, and every one of dem goin right round and round dat turtle, and not a one touchin him. Turtle layin down dere, calipee up, look like a face!
Look like a face?
GODDOM IT, GET DEM BOATS ABOARD OF HERE! WE GOIN TO CAPE BANK!
Cape Bank? Dat north of here! De turtles is headed south!
I tellin you, Cape Bank! Goddom Jamaicans tearin up de sea round here, dass why we done so poor. But dey ain’t no shelter for dem up dere at Cape Bank, we have dat high-sea fishery to ourselves.
We have it, but who want it.
Yah, mon—no shelter for dis vessel, neither.
Mon, we runnin all over de goddom ocean—
STOP DAT MUTTERIN AND H’IST DEM BOATS ABOARD!
The wind is unrelenting, and the sea is rough. Since the angle of swing is much increased by the shortened masts, it is difficult and dangerous to bring the heavy boats across the rails. Will takes a turn of the stern rope around the shrouds as he eases the catboat down, to keep her from crashing inboard as the ship rolls.
Call yourself a mate? After all dese years at sea, you still so green you don’t know better den dat? S’pose dat stern line part? S’pose dat turnbuckle rust out, or de cable frayed?