A Salty Piece of Land

  As we watched the crew lower the dinghy and man the sweeps, I was having second thoughts about my decision. But the boat was in the water now, and the day was making its way west. I could feel the ship wanting to move.

  “I am glad the winds blew us together. You will always have a place on the Lucretia.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “No, thank you for an interesting day. But just remember, life does throw us some curveballs. So if anything changes in the next couple of weeks, we’ll be out at Half Moon Cay. After that, you can leave a message at Highbourne Shipping in Miami.” She handed me a card with the number.

  Solomon announced the dinghy ready, and I went over the side and scrambled down the ladder. I took my place next to him at the tiller, and the men began to row.

  “Don’t be a stranger!” Cleopatra yelled out. “But most importantly, don’t change. There are not many of you left.”

  When I reached the dock, I said good-bye to Solomon and the crew and watched their beautiful cadence as the dinghy swiftly returned to the mother ship. I walked up the dock and finally saw Gonzales, the gardener, busy in the tomato patch. He either didn’t see my arrival or didn’t think it was any big deal. What was the big deal was the news he relayed to me that Bucky, Sammy Raye, and all the guides had gone to Key West. The wind had come up, Gonzales said, and the fishing had dropped off. The fat man in the pink shorts took everyone in his plane to Florida for the weekend.

  Willie was gone. I just knew it. My heart sank. He would be off on his world tour, and I would never reach him. The promise I had made to Cleopatra now seemed impossible.

  I decided to climb the old banyan to sort things out. From the deck, I watched the Lucretia turn toward the wind and raise her sails. They snapped taut with a crack I could hear in the tree, and she heeled to starboard almost immediately. Several tacks later, she was around the point and shrinking in size, leaving me far behind, on the land. I headed for the hammock. It had been an eventful few days for this cowboy, and fatigue rolled across me like an approaching fog.

  I woke up thirty minutes later from a restless dream in which Johnny Red Dust was asking me questions in a courtroom. The jury box was filled with raccoons in suits, and Thelma Barston was the judge. I could sense that something was definitely wrong, but I didn’t know what it was. Suddenly the answer appeared like one of those messages in an old magic eight ball: “Hey, dumbass, you left your lucky shell on the boat.”

  I didn’t have a chance to think about it because a voice boomed out from below. “Anybody home?”

  My first thought was to jerk a large coconut from the overhanging branch of a nearby tree and start bombing the intruder. But that might result in death or injury to a stranger, which I really didn’t want to add to my growing list of concerns. I thought about playing dead and hoping the stranger would go away, but something told me to make my presence known.

  “Up here,” I said and started back down the tree.

  I hit the ground next to what I knew to be one of those late-model Jeeps that you could now rent up on the Mayan Riviera. The fellow standing next to it held out his hand, and with a big smile, he introduced himself as Bonefish Bob, the owner of a fly shop in the States. He told me he had been down to Ascension Bay, fishing—and he had caught a near-world-record permit on his first-ever cast at the elusive, prized fish of the flats.

  I immediately thought he was lying. Most fishermen do. Then he produced a photograph from his vest pocket of himself and a permit that would cover the hood of his yellow rent-a-Jeep. I couldn’t help being jealous, but I forced the words out: “Nice fish.”

  Bonefish Bob then told me he had met Bucky at a fly-fishing exposition in Fort Lauderdale. Bucky had told him if he was in the area to come have a look around.

  I wasn’t exactly in the mood for giving a tour, but it was part of my job. I took Bonefish Bob on a quick circuit around the lodge. He told me he had a couple of hours to kill before catching his plane in Cancún to Miami.

  “You’re from Miami?” I asked him.

  “No, Marathon.”

  “Jesus in a pair of Bermudas!” I blurted out.

  Just then, I spotted a couple of tailing bonefish on the flats by the channel and pointed them out to Bonefish Bob—who predictably went nuts.

  “Want to go for a quick run and catch a few fish?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  We rushed to the lodge, where I found him a rod and some wading boots for his size-eleven feet. Then I pointed the way to the channel.

  With Bonefish Bob on his way, I ran back to the office, where I found the address of the hotel in Key West where Bucky and Willie were staying and left a message. Then I dashed off a note to Willie.

  I met Bob back at his rent-a-Jeep and snapped his photo in front of the big tree.

  “Bob,” I said, “I need to get a message to a friend of mine in Key West. Is there any chance that you could —”

  He interrupted me with a laugh. “Hell, after catching those two fish in thirty minutes, son, I’ll swim your message anywhere you want it to go. But I’m meeting a friend in Key West for dinner, and I’d be happy to drop it off.”

  Bonefish Bob said good-bye and promised us lots of business.

  “Watch out for potholes!” I shouted as he drove away.

  Bucky would be happy with the news about future bookings, but more important, I had kept my promise to Cleopatra.

  20

  Hello from the Netherworld

  To: Willie Singer

  From: Tully Mars

  Lost Boys Fishing Lodge

  Dear Willie,

  Well, as you can imagine things haven’t changed much since you flew away from Lost Boys. I am sorry I missed you when you came back to get Sammy Raye. I had some unfinished business in Tulum. I got delivered back here on the schooner of my dreams by Captain Cleopatra Highbourne. I must say that it was one of the greatest days of my life and couldn’t have come at a better time. A plane flies away taking one woman out of my life and the same day a ship drops anchor off of an ancient city and another woman drops into my world. I’m no writer, but there might be a song title in there somewhere that you could use.

  I’m sure you’ve heard all the good news. There are loads of permit on the flats and word is spreading. There is a guy from Sports Illustrated coming down here next week to fish and Bucky is all excited about the publicity. Looks like the lodge is a success. I am going to wrap up the season here as I had promised Bucky and then hopefully get my ducks in a row because I was offered a job on the schooner Lucretia by the captain herself. You don’t get a chance like that very often and as you know from your own experiences, you got to go get it. Speaking of great vessels, how’s The Flying Pearl doing?

  I know you must be up to your elbows in working your way to China, so I will keep this short. I have an odd question, but I figured I would ask it anyway. I know you already saved my life at dinner but you seem to know something about lighthouses and I have kind of gotten interested in them myself after hearing Captain Highbourne’s story. She is searching desperately for a bull’s-eye lens, which is the original light source for a lighthouse in the Bahamas that she owns, on Cayo Loco. It is also called a Fresnel lens. They are very rare, and she is having a hard time finding one to buy.

  I know it is an odd request, but you never know. If I hadn’t boarded that shrimp boat in Alabama with my horse in tow and crossed the Gulf, we would have probably never met and I wouldn’t be writing you this letter. I just thought that since you will be flying over the entire Pacific on your way to Hong Kong, if you see or hear about anything like that, could you just drop me a line at Lost Boys? I would gladly trade you a few hours of fly-fishing in the lagoon if you ever get back this way. In the meantime, we will be right here. These fish aren’t going anywhere for a while and neither am I. Fly safe.

  Your friend,

  Tully Mars

  21

  Quiet Time

  Well, as one might guess
, a few days in Key West often turns into a much longer stay than expected. That is what happened to the Five Fishermen of the Apocalypse—the name Sammy Raye gave to his entourage upon their sudden departure for America.

  Bucky and Ix-Nay relayed this and other vignettes about the trip when they limped back to Lost Boys a week later. I heard the accounts of Sammy Raye dressing up like Liberace, singing with a salsa band; the incredible story of catching six sailfish on fly in the middle of the Gulf Stream one afternoon; and the sketchy remembrances of an evening in a strip joint with a bevy of Czechoslovakian dancers. None of these reports was more gratifying than the news that Bonefish Bob had found Bucky and had delivered my letter to Willie just before he departed for the West Coast. Willie said he would be more than happy to help Cleopatra with her search if the opportunity presented itself. Bucky also told me that Sammy Raye had taken a very keen interest in the whole idea. God only knows what that might entail.

  The day after their return, due to the sad fact that we could never again get a pulse going on Bucky’s drowned Jeep, Ix-Nay and I hitchhiked up to Tulum to take care of my obligation to Hector. I felt terrible about the Jeep, but Bucky told me to forget it, that it was on its last legs anyway.

  Ix-Nay and I found Hector crouched in the ruins near the beach with a pair of binoculars trained on a group of Canadian girls in string bikinis, and I gave him his itinerary for his trip to Las Vegas. I also took advantage of the situation and dropped off my film from the day on the Lucretia at the one-hour photo shop at the Tulum gift shop and waited around for my prints. The Five Fishermen of the Apocalypse were not the only guides in town with stories to tell, but, like Bonefish Bob and his big fish, I knew I would need some proof of what I was going to tell my compadres that evening at dinner back at Lost Boys.

  I was sitting on a bench in the shade near the souvenir shop when Ix-Nay reappeared with a big grin on his face.

  “I have found an answer to your problem,” he said.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “You feel guilty about drowning Bucky’s Jeep,” he said.

  “Yes, but I think I feel worse about my shell,” I answered. I had not been without that shell since I’d dug it out of the snow in Wyoming.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” Ix-Nay said. “You did not abuse your charm. You just used it up. Anyway, how do you think those lamps with genies in them wind up on the beach? They get lost, and somebody else finds them. You simply had your time. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

  Of course his observation made perfect sense. He handed me a newspaper. It was in English, and I scanned the front page.

  “Nothing worthwhile there,” he said and took the paper from me. He folded it open, then in half, then in half again. He handed it back to me and pointed to a want ad in the auto section of the classifieds. “It’s from Belize,” he added.

  I read the ad aloud: “Land Rover 110 4x4. Four-wheel drive with a vacuum-operated interaxle differential lock; built for military use; chassis modifications to 4x4 allow helicopter slinging, shipping tie-down, and vehicle recovery; 3.9-liter Isuzu 4-cylinder diesel with direct fuel injection, turbo charger, a heavy-duty four-speed gearbox with two-speed integral transfer case, and machine-gun mounts. Price: $11,000.”

  “Machine-gun mounts?” I asked. “Are we going to war?”

  “You never know, but we have nearly a week before the next group is booked into the lodge, so we can go to Belize and check it out.”

  It all sounded good, but then I was still a little apprehensive about crossing borders with an outstanding warrant for my arrest. But Ix-Nay did know how to travel these parts without being noticed. Reading my mind, he said, “I know a little shortcut, off the beaten path. We’ll be safe.”

  “I’ll think about it and talk to Bucky tonight.”

  “Well, it looks like we just might have some urgent business in the South,” Ix-Nay added.

  My mouth dropped open. “What did you say?”

  “I said it looks like we just might have some urgent business in the South.”

  “So you finally started to watch movies?”

  “No. What is the big mystery?” Ix-Nay asked.

  “Oh, there’s no mystery. You just recited one of my favorite lines from one of my favorite movies—The Man Who Would Be King.”

  “What’s it about?” Ix-Nay wanted to know.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said.

  “No. You know I don’t watch movies. There are enough going on in my head.”

  “It’s a classic,” I told him.

  “So is this civilization with which you find yourself surrounded today. What’s it about?” Ix-Nay asked again.

  “It’s the story of two former British soldiers who decide that India isn’t big enough for them.”

  “India is a very big country,” Ix-Nay interjected.

  “Not big enough for Peachy Carnahan and Daniel Dravot,” I said with a laugh. “In the movie, they have actually been thrown out of the country. So they sign a contract between themselves, witnessed by Rudyard Kipling, the famous writer. Then they set out to find the lost treasure of Alexander the Great and become kings of Kafiristan in the process. They take a mule train full of guns and a few supplies, head off toward the Khyber Pass, traverse Afghanistan, and miraculously arrive at their destination. Their initial intentions are not noble. They simply want to loot the country and then flee to London and retire as rich men.”

  “A sadly familiar plot on the world stage,” Ix-Nay said.

  “That’s true, but I think you might like it.”

  “Who’s in it?”

  “Michael Caine and Sean Connery.”

  “James Bond,” Ix-Nay said.

  “I thought you said you didn’t watch movies.”

  “Ian Fleming created James Bond as a character in a book first. God, the twentieth century can be upsetting at times.” Ix-Nay took the paper from my hand and put his nose close to the newspaper. He was silent for a moment, and then that netherworld look, as I called it, came across his face. “You say they went to Kafiristan to be kings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, take a look at this.” Ix-Nay handed me the newspaper and pointed to the bottom of the ad for the Land Rover. He read the address aloud: “Contact Sergeant Archibald Mercer (Retired).” Ix-Nay paused and slowly uttered the next phrase. “Kafiri Safaris, Cinnamon Bend.”

  We were lucky enough to catch a ride from Tulum all the way to the Punta Margarita ferry dock with a lobster fisherman from Punta Allen. All Ix-Nay talked about was the truck in Belize.

  “They may have sold it,” I told him.

  “That is not the vibe I am getting,” he answered.

  As we crossed the channel on the ferry, we sat on the bow and watched the familiar land and seascape drift by.

  “Remember that spot?” Ix-Nay said, looking to the south.

  “Of course,” I said. “Quiet Time.”

  Every good fishing spot had a nickname, and Quiet Time was properly named. Just off the beach, I spotted the tails of a small school of bonefish swimming lazily in a circle near a crescent-shaped sandbar. Not far from them, a medium-size barracuda lay motionless, his black eye on the fish. Normally this would spell trouble for the bonefish, but not at Quiet Time at this phase of the tide.

  Ix-Nay had revealed the secret of the spot the day after he had saved me from the crocodile attack when we met. We had climbed into the branches of a tree to eat lunch. As we were propped up in the shade enjoying our ham-and-cheese sandwiches, I spotted two huge snook sitting motionless in the water. Right next to them, a six-foot shark inched his way along the edge. I thought for sure the shark would lunge instinctively at the fish and join us for lunch, but he just cruised by the snook and disappeared over the turtle grass.

  “That’s odd,” I said, referring to the lack of predatory behavior in the ocean.

  “Not really,” Ix-Nay told me. “It always happens at the slack tide. Most of the time fish
are swimming around either eating or avoiding being eaten.”

  “I know a lot of humans that do the same thing.”

  “But fish know they need a break from the cycle of the food chain, and that happens at slack tide.”

  “So it’s kind of a universal time-out?”

  “I call it Quiet Time,” Ix-Nay said. “People would be better off if they did the same.”

  “How so?”

  “You have to think more like a fish than a man and look for the slack tides and the pools and eddies in life so you can catch your breath and reflect on the good moments.”

  When we got back to Lost Boys, the boys minus Bucky were piled around the domino table, and the marine forecast was blaring in Spanish from the radio. A hint of daylight clung to the western sky while the stars in the east began to show themselves. I watched the game for a while and then took my horse for a little exercise up the beach. When I got back, I announced to all gathered that I had a little something to show them, but Bucky still was hunkered down in his office. I didn’t want him to miss the dog and pony show of my ride home on the Lucretia and headed up to the office. I also needed to talk to him about the truck. As I climbed the steps to the porch, I heard the phone slam down, followed by a very loud “Fuck!”

  I crept over to the office and poked my head in. “I guess a little business would be out of the question at this time, but I do need to ask you about something.”

  “Well, the septic-tank problems are the least of my concerns now,” he said as he handed me a piece of paper he had crumpled into a ball. I uncrumpled the page and began to read. Across the letterhead were the names of at least twenty lawyers and twenty office locations from New York to Nairobi.

  “My lease is up in six months, and they have a buyer for the property if I’m not able to exercise my option of first refusal.”