Award Winning Author
Still holding my gun, on unsteady legs, I walked to the back of the barn and emptied my gut, splashing my boots in the process. I heaved everything I had in me and then some. When I was done, I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my coat. On that fiery-hot day, in the middle of nowhere, in a godforsaken patch of desert, I learned that it is not easy to kill a man. It’s not easy at all, even if the man needed killing.
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It was in the first year of The Great Famine—a hot July day—the sun was splitting stones, it was. On that day, Andrew Fitzgibbons’ world ended and his hell began.
Like most, his potato crop had failed, but unlike most, his family was eating, thanks to his son’s vegetable garden, and his rent was paid up to date. He did not know how long that would last, but for now he was holding on.
His wife was kneeling over the peat fire, boiling a cabbage for their noon meal. Andrew’s oldest son, Daniel, fourteen years of age, was tending his garden with love and care. The boy had the gift of a bhfuil ordóg glas—a green thumb, as the English would say. The younger children were playing near the house, under Andrew’s watchful eye.
Yes, things were bad in Ireland and getting worse as far as Andrew could tell, but for the moment, all was well. Then the clock ticked one tick and the fateful moment arrived.
A gang of the landlord’s drivers came up the stone path that Andrew’s father had laid when Andrew was but leanbh beag—a small child. There were seven in number, led by Thomas Cohan. Andrew knew him well. Tommy was the town bully and a thoroughly unpleasant man. He was tall, almost six feet, and his arms were thick with muscles. The smirk he wore upon his face announced to the world that he was enjoying himself.
Cohan got right to the point. “You have ten minutes to gather your possessions and your rabble, Andrew Fitzgibbons. His Lordship is increasing his pasture lands and you and your hovel are in the way.”
That was the moment Andrew’s world ended. But he did not yet know it.
“What do you mean, Tommy Cohan? My rent is paid.”
“’Tis no concern of mine. I’ve been told to move you off the land and that is what I will be doing. The ten minutes starts now.”
Andrew was dumbfounded. He could not think straight. He could not move. This was too much to take in all at once. His mind was reeling off the possibilities. Could he fight the seven men before him and drive them from his house? No. Could he plead for time so that he might beseech the landlord to reconsider? The look in Cohan’s eyes said no. Would God send down a lightning bolt to strike Cohan where he stood? Probably not.
“You now have nine minutes.”
Andrew called to his son. “Daniel, gather the little ones and bring them inside. Hurry!” He went into the house and told his wife to stop what she was doing and gather up all that she could carry of their belongings and take them outside. “Then come back for more.”
She stood immobile at the fire with her stirring stick in hand and a questioning look upon her face.
“I will explain later, but right now you have to do as I say.” Just then the children came in. Andrew told them the same thing he had told his wife. Daniel had overheard the conversation, so there was no hesitation on his part. The younger children thought it a grand game and readily joined in. His wife, seeing the fear in her husband’s eyes, placed the spoon into the pot of cabbage, picked up a rag, and took the pot off the fire. She took it outside and placed it on the ground. She was put off at seeing Cohan and the other men, but said nothing and hurried back inside.
When everything that they owned—which was not much—was standing in heaps outside the house, Cohan gave the order to remove the thatch. The family had no alternative but to stand there and watch the destruction of their home.
Andrew’s wife stood with her three small children, ages nine, seven, and five. Daniel stood next to his father. With the roof reduced to a pile of hay, the men started in on toppling the walls. Missus Fitzgibbons started to cry.
When the destruction was complete, Cohan informed Andrew that the family was to be off the land by sundown. “Thems me orders,” barked Cohan. “And I’ll be wanting no trouble from you, Andrew Fitzgibbons.”
“Where are we to go? What are we to do?” demanded Andrew.
Sneered Cohan, “Again, ’tis no concern of mine.”
Daniel, knowing the family would be needing food, ran to his beloved garden and started picking anything that was anywhere near to being ripe.
Cohan yelled, “You there, stop! That be His Lordship’s property.”
Daniel ignored him and continued with what he was doing. An enraged Cohan ordered two of his men to restrain the boy and hold him. To another he said, “You go along into town and bring back a constable.”
Andrew pleaded with Cohan to release the boy and they would be on their way. But Cohan was deaf to Andrew’s entreaties.
The constable arrived shortly thereafter, and based on Cohan’s testimony—and the law that stated a landlord owned everything on his land—he promptly arrested Daniel for thievery and destruction of property. He would not listen to a word from Daniel’s parents or the crying of his siblings.
The next day, Daniel went before a judge and was sentenced to two months in jail.
Just one story from An Gorta Mhór—The Great Famine.
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Remember, this is all true.
Chapter Six
“Hello. Is this Ellis Hodgkins?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Dan Levin. I’m a writer for Sports Illustrated.”
“Sure you are.”
“Seriously. We would like to feature you in an upcoming issue.”
“Why in hell would you want to do that?”
“Word has come to us about your prowess when hunting the bluefin tuna. We’re planning an article about the demise of the fishing grounds and seeing as how you were the one who kind of got the whole thing started, my editor and I thought you’d be the person to talk to. It’s as simple as that.”
“How did you hear about me?”
“We have a mutual friend by the name of Myron Birch. He’s been telling me about the legend of Captain Ellis for a while now. I finally did a little research into you, and lo and behold, he wasn’t shitting me. So what do you say? You wanna be written up in a big-time magazine?”
“I’ll have to think on it. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you back.”
Ellis was pretty sure the phone call was a put-up job instigated by one of his friends. However, the number did have a New York City area code. He called back later that day and was a bit surprised when a professional-sounding woman answered. “Time, Inc. How may I direct your call?”
“I’d like to speak with Dan Levin.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, Ellis was speaking to Levin, “I guess you’re legit. How do you want to do this?”
Three weeks later, Levin and a photographer from Sports Illustrated met with Ellis at the Cape Ann Marina.
Levin spoke first. “Mr. Hodgkins, this is Peter Balasko. He’s my photographer. The plan is that we will follow you around for a week. I’ll be asking you questions and Pete will be taking pictures. How does that sound to you?”
Ellis had one question he needed answered before things went any further. “Who’s picking up the bar tab tonight?”
“We’re on an expense account, Mr. Hodgkins. Wherever you go for the next week is on us.”
Ellis smiled and said, “So what do you want to know?”
“We’re here to learn about you and bluefin tuna fishing. While researching you, I came across an article written in the Gloucester Times. It was about the time when you were fourteen and you caught a 750-pound tuna with a hand line. Why don’t you tell me about that and then we’ll progress from there.”
“I had forgotten all about that.”
“You forgot that you landed a 750 pound tuna?”
“No … I forgot about it being written up in the newspaper.”
So, the men from New York stayed a week in Gloucester. Besides interviewing Ellis and people who knew him, at night they would follow Ellis to his favorite haunts and sit at a nearby table listening in on the talk of the Cape Ann fisherman and his friends. They never overtly intruded into his life, and for that Ellis was grateful. For his part, he never took advantage of the Sports Illustrated purse. Even though they picked up the tab everywhere he went that week, Ellis was restrained in his ordering. He bought a round for the house only once.
Levin gathered what information he could and Balasko took pictures he deemed appropriate for the article. Two months later, it appeared in the November 18th, 1974 issue of Sports Illustrated magazine.
The lead sentence read as follows: Ellis Hodgkins stands in his doorway, huddled against the wind, squinting out to sea with his one good eye.
When the article came out, everyone in town loved it and hailed Ellis as a hero—everyone, that is, except his mother. She did not like the fact that it mentioned he had only one good eye.
“Why did you let them write that about your bad eye?” inquired his mother.
“I had no say in it. And besides, who cares?” answered Ellis.
That was Ellis. He had one rule that he lived by. It was a simple rule. He never broke it and he never strayed from its fundamental precept. To quote Ellis, “Who gives a fuck?” Or as stated in his high school year book: The Boy Least Likely to Give a Good Gosh Darn. It was 1953 after all. That was as explicit as they could get.
One thing all the Sports Illustrated hoopla brought home to bear, at least for Ellis, was the fact that the days of catching bluefin tuna—at least in the way he had done it—were over. The article made note that Ellis’ charters had gone from one hundred eighty-two catches of bluefin in one season to thirteen within a three-year span. It was time to move on.
He put his boat up for sale and informed the owner of the Volkswagen dealership that he was leaving town. It was nothing personal, but he was looking for new horizons. And besides, he had grown tired of the car business. He gave a two-month notice. His last day would be July 4th.
Ellis was an employee any boss would want to keep around. He had once suggested that the dealership should stay open on Christmas Eve.
“Maybe we can sell a car or two.”
“I can’t get any of the salesmen to stay here on Christmas Eve,” replied the owner.
“No need to. I’ll do it. You never know. Maybe someone will want to buy a car for a last-minute Christmas gift.”
Shaking his head at the dedication of his employee, the owner said, “Forget it, Ellis.”
A little while later, when Ellis started to get restless and make noises like he might be ready to move on to another profession, the owner handed him a blank check and told him to go get himself a boat. Ellis had sold the Cape Ann the previous fall.
“Go and do a little fishing and then come back.”
“How much do I spend?”
“Just get a boat that you like, catch yourself some damn fish, and then come back here and sell some cars for me.”
Now, two years later, here was Ellis announcing he was definitely leaving, the owner didn’t think anyone being paid as much as Ellis was would ever give up that kind of money. For the next sixty days, every time he saw Ellis, he would say, “You’re not leaving.” And every time Ellis would respond, “Yes, I am.”
On July 3rd, his boss observed him packing up his things and said to Ellis in a resigned voice, “I guess you are leaving.”
“I guess I am,” responded Ellis.
In the hopes that he would return, the dealership sent him a paycheck every week for one year and they kept him on their insurance program for the same amount of time. Ellis would call his ex-boss periodically and implore him to stop sending the checks. However, they kept coming every week for fifty-two weeks straight. Even long after Ellis had moved far from Gloucester.
His many friends and acquaintances threw him a going-away party, the likes of which were seldom seen in that neck of the woods. It was a massive affair—standing room only. Half the town showed up. Two days later, he packed up his conversion van and his current lady friend, Karla, and headed south.
Act II of Ellis Hodgkins’ life is about to commence.
Chapter Seven
His village sits at the mouth of the Touloukaera River. Touloukaera means life giving in the Tequesta language. Aichi is awake early this morn. It is still dark as he paddles his canoe across the short expanse of water that leads to the barrier island to the east.
Today he will build three fires on the beach for the purpose of giving thanks to Tamosi, The Ancient One—the God of his people. The fires must be lit before the dawn arrives. It has been a bountiful season. The men have caught many fish and killed many deer. The women of his village gathered enough palmetto berries, palm nuts, and coco plums to last until next season. There is an abundance of coontie root for the making of flour. Tomosi has been good to his people.
Tonight, the entire village will honor Tomosi. But this morning, Aichi will honor Him in a solitary way. Because tonight, at the celebration, he will wed Aloi, the most beautiful woman in the village. It took many seasons to win her heart, and now he must acknowledge Tomosi’s role in having Aloi fall in love with him.
He builds three fires to represent man’s three souls—the eyes, the shadow, and the reflection. When the fires are burning bright and the flames are leaping into the cool morning air in an effort to reach Tomosi, Aichi will face the ocean. With the fires behind him, he’ll kneel on the fine white sand and lower his head until his forehead meets the earth. He will then start to pray and will continue with his prayers until the sun rises out of the eastern sea. At that time, he will ask that he be shown an omen that his prayers have been heard.
The first rays of the awakened sun reflects off the white sand. Aichi raises his head and there before him is the sign Tomosi has sent him. Not a mile away, floating on the calm, blue ocean are three canoes of great size. He can see men walking on what looks like huts. He knows they are sent from Tomosi because they each have squares of white fluttering in the light breeze. White denotes The Ancient One. And if that were not enough, no men paddle the massive canoes. They are moving under their own power, traveling north to the land where Tomosi lives. The men upon those canoes must not be men at all. They are the souls of the dead being taken to the heaven of the righteous.
Aichi leaps to his feet and runs along the shoreline trying to keep abreast of the canoes. But in time, he falls behind and soon they drop below the horizon. What a wondrous day this is. He has communed with his god and tonight he will wed Aloi. With joy in his heart, Aichi runs back to his canoe. He must tell the people of his village what he has seen.
What Aichi has seen are not spirit canoes. They are three ships from the fleet commanded by Juan Ponce de León. He is sailing along the coast of a peninsular he has named Florido which means “full of flowers.” He is in search of gold to bring back to his king. He has also heard from the Indians to the south that somewhere to the north lies a spring of clear water that if one drinks from it, one would have eternal youth. To bring a cask of that water back to Spain would make him a rich man indeed. The year is 1513 A.D.
Aichi and Aloi produce many children and grandchildren. But to no avail. The coming of the Spaniards has decimated the Tequesta. Most have died of the diseases brought by the white man. Others were captured and sold into slavery. By the year 1750, the village by the river that celebrated Tomosi’s largess in the year 1513 is abandoned and overgrown with plant life.
In the spring of 1788, the Spanish drive the Creek and Oconee Indians south to the land once populated by the Tequesta. The Spanish refer to the bands of Indians as Cimarrons, which means Wild Ones. The Americans to the north bastardize the name and call the Indians, Seminoles.
In 1789, a band of Seminoles, tired of running from the Spanish, inhabit the place on the river where the Tequesta once lived. They name the river, Himmarasee, meaning “New Water.” They live in relative peace for twenty-seven years. But at the outbreak of The First Seminole War, the Seminoles move their village farther west and into the Everglades to keep out of the white man’s reach.
In 1821, Spain cedes Florida to the United States, and the Americans begin surveying and mapping their new territory. Over time, the shifting sands of the barrier island caused the mouth of the river to empty into the Atlantic Ocean at different points along the coast. As the coastline was periodically charted, the surveyors—not understanding the effects of the shifting sand on the river’s behavior—thought that the various entry points were “new” rivers; hence, each time the land was surveyed, the map makers would make the notation “new river” on the updated chart.
The 1830 census lists seventy people living in and around the “New River Settlement.”
In the year 1838, at the beginning of The Second Seminole War, Major William Lauderdale and his Tennessee Volunteers are ordered to build a stockade to protect the settlers along what has become known as The New River. He selects a location of firm and level ground at the mouth of the river where once the Tequesta and Seminoles had built their villages.
The fort is decommissioned after only a few months. Two months later, the Seminoles burn it to the ground. The fort is now gone, but the name remains.
There are no roads into Fort Lauderdale until 1892, when a single road linking Miami to the south and Lantana to the north is cut out of the mangroves. In 1911, Fort Lauderdale is incorporated into a city.
During the 1920s, there is a land boom in South Florida. Everybody and his brother is buying land. When the most desired land runs out, developers make acres of new land by dredging the waterways and using the sand and silt thus obtained to make islands where future houses will one day stand.
Because of its natural geography and the dredging that went on in the ’20s, Fort Lauderdale has become known as the American Venice. There are countless canals, both large and small. Most houses on those canals have a boat tied up behind it. And many of those who do not live on a canal have boats sitting in marinas or sitting on a trailer in their backyards.
In 1974, twelve percent of the population of Broward County, in which Fort Lauderdale lies, make a direct living off the boating industry. Another twenty percent benefit indirectly.
Into this world Ellis Hodgkins descends … trailing Karla in his wake.
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Chapter Two
By the age of twenty-three, Ellis had his own boat, the Cape Ann, and his own charter business, bringing wealthy men out to the banks for the sport of fighting and landing a bluefin tuna. For, by then, word had gotten around that if you wanted to test your mettle against nature, fighting a thousand-pound bluefin for two or three hours was one way to do it.
In those days, when the fish were still plentiful, Ellis was the man to see. He had an uncanny knack for knowing where the great fish swam in the warm summer months. Men came up from New York, men flocked in from the mainland of Massachusetts, they came down from Maine, and they flew in from America’s heartland to hire Captain Ellis.
His fishing haunt was the Middle Bank, also known as Stellwagen Bank. Stellwagen is now a marine sanctuary, but back in the day it was Ellis’ private fishing preserve. An apartment on T Wharf, overlooking the Rockport Inner Harbor, doubled as his base of operations for his charter business and a house of ill repute when he was not fishing.
• • • •
The incessant ringing awakens Ellis. However, before lifting the receiver, he glances at the clock sitting next to the phone. Its luminescent hands throwing off a slight green glow. The time is 4:46 a.m. He had been asleep for less than an hour.
Groggily, and in a rasping whisper, Ellis speaks into the phone, “Hello?”
“Ellis, old buddy. It’s me. Marty.”
“Marty?”
“Yeah … Marty. Marty from Long Island. Me and my two buddies came up to do a little fishing.”
Ellis’ head clears a mite. He is wishing he had a glass of water. And a couple of aspirin wouldn’t hurt either. He had spent a hard night of drinking a concoction invented by one of his friends. He did not know what it consisted of, but he did know the prime ingredient was rum … and a lot of it.
Before he can further respond to Marty, a voice next to him intrudes into the conversation. “Ellis, honey. What time is it?”
Oh yeah. I forgot about her, thinks Ellis.
“It’s early. Go back to sleep.”
From the phone comes a reply. “Damn right it’s early. And we’re already up here in Gloucester. We’re going fishing. We have no plans to sleep until we’ve landed a bluefin.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you, Marty. Now tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“Ellis, I know I just woke you up from a sound sleep. So I’ll make this easy for you. We’re going fishing. You, me, Ted, and Verne.”
“Ted and Verne?”
“Yeah! Ted and Verne, they’re friends of mine. Now get your ass up. We’ll be there in an hour. We’re in an all-night diner on Route 128, just finishing breakfast.”
Ellis is now fully awake. How dare this New Yorker call him in the middle of the night and demand he hop out of bed and take him fishing. Sure, Marty’s a regular and a good customer. He’s also a generous tipper when he catches fish. But still.
Then Ellis remembers that his coffers are at an all-time low. It’s been a week since his last charter. Not because he didn’t have the business, but because he’s been too busy partying with his cronies and trying to bed every young female within the town limits of Rockport … and a few just over the town line.
Last night when they got low on rum, he had to make a call to the package store over in Gloucester. It went something like this:
“Hey, this is Ellis.”
“Hi, Ellis. What can I do for you?”
“I need a gallon of rum, but I can’t pay for it right now.”
“No problem. It will be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks.”
Everyone liked the Boy Wonder.
For financial reasons, Ellis had decided to take the charter, but he wasn’t going to make it easy on ol’ Marty.
Speaking into the phone, his voice now strong, he said, “What makes you think I don’t already have a charter for the day?”
An eager Marty explains. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll pick up the full tab. I’m sure they’ll let us tag along.”
That’s why Ellis liked Marty. He was an eternal optimist.
“Well, it just so happens that I’m free today, but you’ll have to pick up the bait. Stop at Charlie Cucuro’s fish house. You’ll pass it on your way in. You can’t miss it. It will be on your left, and there’s a big red and white sign that you can see from the road.”
“Will they be open this time of morning?”
“It’s a fish house. They’ll be open.”
His conversation with Marty at an end, Ellis turns his attention to his bedmate. She’s a comely lass who goes by the name of Susie. Her hair is long and blonde. She has a figure that just will not quit. He had met her the day before as the sun was making a spectacular descent behind the high hills in the west. The diminishing sunlight rippled in her hair as it does upon a wheat field in midsummer. She was a tourist up from Boston, walking T Wharf with her girlfriend.
Ellis had observed her from the vantage point of his second floor apartment and was smitten. He was soon standing next to the girls and introducing himself. He invited them up to his apartment for a cool drink, and called a friend to come over to entertain the girlfriend while he spoke with the blonde. Long after the gallon of rum had been delivered, the friend took the girlfriend home and Ellis was left alone with Susie.
One thing led to another and here they were.
Ellis leaned into her and gently kissed her cheek. She shifted in her sleep and smiled. He did not want to wake her. He would leave a note on the kitchen table telling her how much he had enjoyed meeting her and that he would be back sometime after sundown if she felt inclined to continue their escapades from the previous evening.
From the kitchen phone he called his mate, Wayne. “Come on, buddy. We got ourselves a charter.”
“What do you mean we, white man?”
“I mean get your ass outta bed and meet me at the wharf in thirty minutes.”
“Damn! I just hit the sack. Why didn’t you tell me we had a charter today?”
“Look, Wayne, I didn’t know it myself until ten minutes ago. We need the money, and thank God the fuel tanks are full. So, we’re going.”
“Okay, Captain. I’ll see you at the wharf in half an hour.”
The two men meet, climb down the ladder to their waiting dingy, and row out to the moored Cape Ann. As Wayne inspects the fishing tackle, Ellis brings the boat to life. At first she roars, but then settles down to a contented purr.
Wayne disengages the line tethering them to the mooring and Ellis deftly maneuvers the Cape Ann alongside of the wharf. It is now almost 6:00 a.m. The sun is throwing a gentle light up and over the eastern horizon, turning the sky a light gray as the clouds turn dark—almost black. But that would not last. Soon our star—our sun—would emerge in all her glory. The sky would turn orange, the clouds would rapidly turn from dark gray to purple, and then sing their joy as they became a vibrant pink. Glory hallelujah, the sun has risen! But all that means less than nothing to Ellis, his head is throbbing.
Marty and his friends arrive and soon the Cape Ann is headed due east, into the rising sun.
Ellis was not a religious man, not by a long shot. He might not have marveled at the majesty of God’s sunrises, but he did have one ritual. Every time he took out a charter or just went out fishing for his own enjoyment, he would look to the south and see the concrete towers of Boston. And he would always say a silent prayer of thanks that he was out on the open ocean and not shackled to a desk in one of those monstrosities. The sea was Ellis’ church.
After a little more than an hour, the boat slows; they are now over the Middle Bank. It’s time to fish.
Wayne had rigged the gear on the way out. Each line hooked and baited.
The three New Yorkers stand at the stern and slowly let out their lines while Ellis keeps the boat steady and on course. It would not speak well of the captain if the lines were to tangle. After a hundred yards of line have been released, the anglers set their drags to fifty pounds and sit back—metaphorically speaking—to await the great bluefin tuna.
The minutes slowly pass … the hours drag on. Ellis thinks of Susie and her firm, round rear end. He keeps the fishing lines from tangling as he crisscrosses the bank in search of bluefin. The men down in the cockpit are swapping lies about the fish they had caught on previous outings and the women they had bedded in their younger days. Wayne sits in the small cabin wishing he was back in bed. He too had had a rough night.
Out of the depths, a bluefin strikes. Marty is the lucky one. It is his line running out to the south. Ellis slows the boat. Wayne comes alert. He yells to the other two men to reel in their lines—fast!
Ellis’ headache is forgotten. Susie is forgotten. The only thing that matters now is landing the bluefin. It will be a two-man affair. Marty down in the cockpit and Ellis up on the fly bridge. The rest of the men on the boat have suddenly become superfluous.
Marty gives the fish some lead. Not much … just enough. Then he braces his knees against the transom. He has to do this right or the whole day will be for naught. He lets the fish run, thinking it had just scored a tasty morsel of mackerel.
Ellis says nothing. This is Marty’s play. The boat is idling, but only momentarily. Once the hook is set, it will be Ellis’ job to move the boat forward or to put her in reverse and move her backwards to keep Marty’s line from getting tangled in the props. If the tuna takes off to the right or left and heads for the boat, Ellis will have to adjust his course. If the tuna pulls the line under the boat, it will be all over. Until the tuna is landed, he’ll be working just as hard as Marty.
The reel is spinning at an alarming rate. The line is going straight out to sea. Twenty-five yards … fifty yards … seventy-five yards … wait … wait … NOW! Marty pulls back on the pole. BAM … the hook is set.
His friends slap him on the back and congratulate him. Ellis frowns and yells down to the men. “It’s far from over. Give him room. Marty, you get in the chair, you’ve got a fight ahead of you. And Wayne, you know what to do. Stay behind the chair and don’t let our customer get yanked out of the boat. We haven’t been paid yet.”
Ellis was thinking of a good friend of his, a charter captain by the name of Mike. It was just him and a single customer. There was no mate. A tuna hit, and the man sat down in the fighting chair with a big smile on his face. Mike was doing his delicate dance of keeping the line away from the props. He was in reverse when it happened. The tuna was a big one. Before Mike knew it, his customer was pulled from the chair and into the ocean. There was no time to react. The man was chewed up by the props and sunk to the bottom. A week later, a fishing trawler brought the body up in their nets.
Marty cranks the reel … he pulls back on the pole … he cranks again … he pulls again. At first it’s exhilarating, thrilling … and so satisfying. But as time passes, his arms begin to ache. His feet are braced on the foot rest and his legs are on fire. Every muscle in his body is taut and tired.
If Ellis had not been fighting the fish in his own way from up on the fly bridge, the tuna would have pulled the boat miles out to sea. The process was simple. All they had to do was wear the fish out. Once it was exhausted, there’d be no problem reeling him in.
The adversaries are starting to get tired. But who will wear out first—the human or the fish? In a way, Marty was cheating. He had two diesel engines helping with the fight. The tuna had only its brute strength. The minutes wore on.
In a last ditch attempt to be rid of whatever was pulling him to his death, the tuna dives deep and heads straight for the boat. Ellis sees the line heading their way and gives the throttle a slight push forward. He has to keep the fish from the boat until it has no more fight left in him. Marty holds tight to the pole and cranks the reel. At this point, he just wants it to be over.
At the two hour-mark, the line goes slack. The tuna has given up. There is no fight left in him. He is on the verge of drowning because he cannot swim any longer. There is fear in his eyes … he knows he is going die. He is being pulled to what he does not know, but he does know that his days of swimming the cold Atlantic are at an end.
Up on the boat, Marty reels in the last few feet of line. The tuna rolls on the surface. He beholds the creatures that will take his life.
Wayne is there with the gaff. He hooks the tuna just behind the gills. This way the fish will bleed out and there will be just that much less blood to hose down off the deck when they return to port.
The tuna weighs six hundred pounds. So naturally, no one is going to pull it up and over the gunwhale. Wayne sets up the gin pole, a contraption made up of a four by four and a block and tackle. It is the gin pole that will bring the tuna on board.
With the fish secured, everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Marty’s buddies break out the beer. Marty sits back down in the chair, takes a deep pull from the cold brew, and accepts the accolades from his friends. Marty soaks it up. The praise is well earned.
Wayne stores the gear and gives Ellis the thumbs up. It’s time to head for home. Another day, another dollar.
Ellis, from his perch high up on the fly bridge, nods to Wayne and puts her in gear. His course, 270 degrees—due west. Five minutes later, Ellis sees a large dark form, just under the surface, off the starboard bow. It’s moving his way. He knows what it is and he cuts the engines.
They won the battle with the tuna. No way could they win against this creature.
The whale changes course and comes at the boat from amidships—starboard side. She’s beautiful. Ellis is enthralled. If she continues on her current course, the boat will be nothing more than flotsam in a few minutes. And all on board will be sleeping in Davy Jones’ locker this night.
On she comes. The men down in the cockpit are unaware of what is happening. They are swilling beer and laughing. Wayne is out of sight. He’s most likely in the cabin, knocking down a beer himself.
Fine, thinks Ellis. If we can come out here and kill a beautiful creature like a bluefin, then we should be fair game ourselves.
On comes the whale.
Ellis braces for the collision.
Short of the boat, the whale dives.
Ellis lets out his breath. He had not been aware that he had been holding it.
He’s about to restart the engines when the boat rises five feet into the air. The whale has come up under the Cape Ann. The lady whale is saying hello. She is a playful thing. A few seconds later, the boat has been gently deposited back onto the surface of the water. A giant tail, twenty feet off port, swishes in farewell.
Ellis grins, points the Cape Ann toward the setting sun, and shouts down below. “Wayne, bring me up a goddamn beer!”
Another day, another dollar.
Chapter Three
The wind is blowing at close to sixty knots. The sea is rolling—creating valleys twenty feet deep. The sheer walls of water would freeze a man’s heart if he was unlucky enough to find himself at the bottom of one of those aqueous canyons. The freezing rain slants in almost horizontally, carrying with it chunks of hail that dimple the surface water. Spray from the whitecaps fills the frigid air with its salty fury.
• • • •
Winters are harsh in New England and even harsher if you are out at sea. So Ellis looked around for something to keep him busy during those months and also put a few shekels in his pocket.
At the time, he drove an old Volkswagen beetle and liked the dependability of the car; hence, he decided to become a Volkswagen salesman during the winter months while the Cape Ann was laid up in dry dock.
Ellis being Ellis, he had a demand when he applied for a job at the local dealership. “I’ll work for you winter and spring, but come summer, I’m going fishing. If you can live with that, then we have a deal.” His renown as a sport fisherman had preceded him. The local dealership enthusiastically put him to work selling cars.
Ellis earned the Top Salesman Plaque for six months running before leaving for a summer of fishing. Not a bad life for a twenty-five-year-old bachelor. It afforded him the time and means to pursue his two favorite sports—fishing and meeting young women. Not necessarily in that order.
As legendary as he was for his fishing acumen, Ellis was also celebrated—at least by the male population of Gloucester—for his way with the fairer sex.
There was the aforementioned Susie. Then there was Cindy, Fran, Terry, Elouise, Diana, Mary Beth … well, the list goes on. Their names alone would take up an entire chapter. This aspect of Ellis’ “career” has been brought up for a reason. There was one name on the list that had a profound effect on Ellis’ life, but not in a way that he or anyone else could have ever imagined. Her name was Natalie. And her profession, at the time, was that of a nurse practitioner at Beverly Hospital.
• • • •
It’s a beautiful January day. The sun is shining. Cottony white clouds race across an azure sky. The scarlet feathers of a lone cardinal stand out against the snow-covered branches of a stately oak—his morning song filling the cold, crisp air. The people of Gloucester are starting their day. God sits on his heavenly throne and smiles down on Cape Ann. He is pleased with his handiwork.
It is now the third winter since Ellis started selling cars. The time is just a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. and Ellis is in his car heading for work. He’s thinking of the night before and lamenting the fact that, for the first time in a long time, he had gone to bed alone.
I needed some rest anyway, reasons Ellis. Then he ruminates further. Perhaps I’ll call Sally after work and see if she wants to come over for a little dinner. Now that he has that out of the way, he tries to turn his mind to more mundane matters, like selling a Volkswagen or two before day’s end. But he can’t help himself; a smile spreads across his face as he thinks, If I ask her nicely, I wonder if Sally will wear her white mini-skirt this evening?
The black Porsche 914 cuts the chilly air as it heads towards Ellis’ fate. The car is moving with the flow of traffic—about sixty miles per hour—when suddenly and without warning, Ellis goes into an uncontrollable sneezing fit.
One sneeze after another in rapid-fire succession. And with each sneeze, Ellis’ eyes close. At first, he’s able to keep the car in its lane, but then, fate intervenes. The right front tire hits a patch of black ice.
The Porsche skids to the right, across an empty driving lane, and heads directly for a sign post held up by two one-foot-square, solid steel I-beams. The ground in which they are imbedded is frozen solid. If a car were to hit either beam, there would be no forgiveness. It would be like hitting a brick wall, only worse. The wall would collapse … the beams are going nowhere.
Ellis sees his death fast approaching. There is no time to react. Just before impact, he thinks of Sally. He wonders—knowing how much he liked her in that white mini skirt—if she will break with tradition and wear it to his funeral. He hopes she does. That is his last conscious thought before impact. The Porsche plows into the left I-beam and explodes into many pieces. Then there is only darkness.
A trucker hauling a load of lumber is the first to stop. He is a big, tough man. He had fought in the war with General Patton. He has seen death, but not like this. For the most part, they were clean deaths. A bullet hole and an exit wound. Even the men who had stepped on land mines were in relatively good shape. Yes, they were missing a leg or two, but you could still identify them by their face. Now, he is repulsed by what he sees and takes a step back.
There is nothing to be done. The poor son-of-a-bitch is obviously dead. He will wait until the police arrive, give his statement, get the hell out of there, and then stop at the first bar he sees. He needs a drink.
Thankfully, the cops soon arrive.
The first police officer on the scene has seen his fair share of accidents, but this one is something else. The car lies in pieces and the man who had been driving did not fare much better. The officer has radioed for an ambulance, but only as a matter of form. He should have called for a hearse.
It is rush hour and traffic is heavy. Plus the fact that people are slowing down to take a gander at the mayhem, keeps the ambulance from arriving sooner. But eventually it gets there and the cops fill the driver in on the gory details. The driver shrugs. He too has seen his fair share of death.
He says to his partner, who is new on the job and still learning his way about, “Before we take him to the morgue, we have to confirm that he’s dead.”
Leaning into the destroyed car, the ambulance attendant puts his stethoscope to the corpse’s chest. “Goddamn! This man is alive!” he shouts.
The cop runs over. “Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. He has a heartbeat!”
With great difficulty, the two attendants get Ellis—or what is left of him—onto the gurney. Once he is secured within the ambulance, the emergency lights are activated and the siren starts its woeful wail.
At the hospital, Ellis is rushed into an operating room where various liquids are pumped into his veins in an effort to stabilize him ... to keep him from going into shock and ultimately cardiac arrest. X-rays are taken and show that every bone in his head has been broken—all twenty-nine of ’em. His right leg has sustained breaks in twenty places. In short, Ellis is a mess.
However, the biggest mess is Ellis’ face. Because of the trauma of the collision, it is twice its normal size. And with all those broken bones, the plastic surgeon that has been called in has no idea what the man looked like before the accident. How can he put him back together again if he doesn’t know what he looked like before?
He mutters his predicament to the nurse standing next to him. She turns to him and says, “I’ve got a picture of him in my wallet. Will that help?”
“Go and get it!”
Natalie runs to her locker and retrieves the cherished picture of Ellis that she has kept close since he gave it to her over a year ago. As she walks back to the OR, she thinks, That son-of-a-bitch is damn lucky I held on to this picture. But she’s smiling as she thinks it. Ellis was one of the kindest and most attentive lovers she had ever known.
Back in the OR, the doctors get down to the business of saving Ellis’ life and reconstructing his face. Natalie is also there, doing her job. She is a professional, but still, a tear or two trickle down her cheeks. But they are hidden by her surgical mask.
Besides everything else, Ellis was permanently blinded in his right eye.
It’s twenty-four hours before he regains consciousness. His jaw is wired shut. He’s wearing a cast from the hip down on his right leg. But he’s having fun and holds court daily. His cop buddies from Gloucester smuggle in cocktails for him. His many girlfriends stop by—bringing flowers. His male friends can barely fit into the room because of all the women crowding around his bed.
A month later, he’s discharged and walks out on two crutches. A month after that, he’s using a cane, and the month after that he’s back at work. No … not that kind of work. He’s back to chasing anything wearing a skirt.
It’s hard to keep a good man down. Just ask Natalie. She was the first person he called when he decided he had been celibate long enough.
In Ellis’ mind, the whole affair was just another day in his life.
No big deal.
I just read your article and felt I had to respond. I hope that you don't mind. And I do not expect a response. I just want to impart a bit of knowledge or maybe it might be called wisdom. I don’t know, you decide.
I was a junkie for thirty years—exactly thirty years. The only time I did not get high within that time-frame was the one time I shot some bad shit and lay in a coma for three days (I lived alone). I woke up and found that I had vomited upon myself and soiled myself (if you know what I mean). Then I went out and copped some more shit, but from a different source—hoping I wouldn’t kill myself. That is how much of a junkie I was. I got high every day for 10,950 days.
I do not know if you are ever going to write about the subject again, but if you do, I thought I’d give you a little insight into addiction that was woefully lacking in your article. Not your fault. Here are a few things from the street level that I think you should know.
Here goes:
I had been on the methadone clinic for so long that I was allowed to come in only once a month, which meant I took home a month’s supply. I was on 110 mg at the time. My genius plan was to detox myself over a seven-month period and then walk away clean. No muss, no fuss.
I made a chart and planned out my campaign. I would decrease my dosage once a week until I was down to 5 mg. A piece of cake.
I stayed true to my schedule and the dosage went down every week. But still I got high. Man, did I love opiates! Then came the last week. I took my last pill and waited. Nothing happened. That was easy, I thought. Then, on the third day after stopping, I fell into the fetal position and stayed that way for about a month. I didn’t know that opiates stayed in your system for seventy-two hours.
That first month was hell. I can’t and won’t describe what I went through. Although one thing of interest is that I could actually feel my brain coming back online. The synapses in my brain started up once again. I felt the neurons passing signals to other neurons. It was a crackling sensation, like an electrical discharge.
I could not stand for more than a few minutes at a time. I had constant diarrhea. My body shook. I screamed out in pain. My torment ruled my life. But here is the most insidious thing about coming off opiates: You cannot sleep. There is no respite from your pain. It’s twenty-four hours a day of waiting for your body to get right. For the first month, if I got ten or fifteen minutes of sleep, that was a good night.
My mind was cool. I had decided to get clean and I was—in my head. My body just had to catch up. It took six months before I was somewhat human again. It’s been seven years and I’m still not right. I’ll never be right. I’ve destroyed my body in so many ways.
This is my take-away from all that shit I went through: When it’s your time to get clean, you’ll get clean. All the interventions in the world won’t do it. All the rehabs in the world won’t do it. Only you can do it.
I got clean at sixty years of age, and while I was in that fetal position and in indescribable torment, I started writing my first book. I have just published my fifth. I’m no Stephen King, but I’m making money from my writing and my books are well received. So please tell people there is always hope. But it’s up to them.
Thank you for listening to my rant,
Andrew Joyce
I’ve been angry all my life. Everyone was always out to take from me. I’ve never had any friends. Even when I was in high school, the other kids would go out to lunch together while I sat by myself, just off the school grounds, and felt the loneliness that had become my life.
On Saturdays nights, the other kids would go out on dates or pile into a car for a night of adventure. I would hitchhike to the main drag, plant myself on a bus bench, and watch the world go by, wishing I was a part of it.
Things didn’t get much better after I became an adult. I existed in the world, but was not a part of it. I had no use for anybody. My loneliness had long ago morphed into hatred. Hatred for the whole damn human race.
Then one day, I saw a dirty beggar down on 8th Street, by the 7-Eleven. I took great joy in his miserableness. At least someone was worse off than me. There was no way that he could have any friends. He was both lonely and homeless. I, on the other hand, had a roof over my head.
I tarried to revel in the spectacle. I was enjoying myself.
He held out a plastic cup, imploring me to contribute. Was he joking? Could he not tell from my sneer what I thought of him?
I was turning to leave, when a well-dressed man came up to the beggar and grabbed his filthy hand. He shook it vigorously while saying, “How ya doing, Tim?”
“Not too bad, Jim. Not too bad,” answered the tramp.
“You know, me and the wife still have that room for you. It would do you good to get off the streets and have a decent meal every day. If you’d ever accept one of my invitations to dinner, you’d see what a good cook Ruth is.”
“Thanks. But I’m doing just fine … for now. Let me take a rain check on that. Okay?”
“Sure, Tim. Sure.”
Before he left, the man took out his wallet, extracted a five-dollar bill, and put it into the cracked plastic cup held by the beggar.
I just shook my head in disbelief, turned, and walked into the 7-Eleven to get my cigarettes and a few scratch-offs.
When I came out, the beggar was in an animated conversation with a well-dressed, good-looking woman. I figured that he was harassing her and decided right then and there to go to her aid, if for no other reason than to harass the tramp.
“Excuse me, ma’am. But is this man bothering you?”
She looked at me as though I had two heads. Then she started to laugh.
“My God, no! It’s the other way around.” She turned to the beggar and said, “Tim, would you like this gentleman to intercede on your behalf?”
The beggar smiled and answered, “It’s alright. He’s a friend of mine. And he knows how I get around beautiful women. He was just trying to protect you from my lustful ways.”
It took a moment, but finally the woman broke into a big grin and said, “Tim McCarthy, if you aren’t the living end. Okay, we’ll finish this discussion later. But I’m going to get you into a decent place to live if it’s the last thing I ever do.” She dug into her purse and came out with a twenty and into the cup it went. She then wrapped her arms around that disgusting person and gave him a long, tight hug. She patted my hand before she left, saying, “You make sure to take care of our Timmy.”
I have to admit, as she strutted away, I was thinking what a great-looking ass she had.
I was brought out of my thoughts by, “She really knows how to swing that thing to hold a man’s interest.”
It was the beggar.
Okay. Hold the goddamn train. Apply the brakes. What the hell was going on? I tore my eyes away from the rapidly retreating woman and confronted the beggar.
“Please tell me … what is it with you? Why do those people associate with you?”
The tramp smiled and asked if I minded if we walked as we talked. He had an engagement and did not want to be late. I shrugged. As long as he didn’t get too close to me as we walked, I had nothing else to do. I was glad I was not on the lee as we walked. The wind kept the stench at bay.
I opened the conversation by asking, “Why did you tell that woman I was a friend of yours? I’ve never seen you before.”
He winked at me, took a few dollars out of his cup, and handed them to a homeless man as we passed by. Not a word was spoken by either man.
Finally, he said, “Even though we have never met, I consider you a friend. I mean, here you are, accompanying me to my luncheon appointment.”
“I’m walking with you to get an answer to my question. I’m no friend of yours. So, tell me. Why do these well-off citizens treat you like a long-lost friend?”
We passed another homeless person and, again, he dipped into his cup and shared his bounty.
I had to know. “Why are you giving away the money that you spent hours begging for?”
“It’s only paper with green ink on it. It doesn’t mean that much to me.”
“Then why do you stand on the street and beg for it?” I had him there. Or so I thought.
“I do it to meet people. Like I met you this morning. I think we’re going to be good friends.”
“You do, do you? I can’t stand your smell, I can’t stand being around you. I think I’ve gone as far as I want with you. I don’t care why people like you. It has no bearing on my life. Forget that I even asked why. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a life to live.”
“What kind of life?”
That stopped me in my tracks. I turned back and took stock of the slight, skinny, disheveled man who stood before me. With contempt in every syllable, I said, “A hell of a better life than you’re living or are ever apt to live.” I was so proud of myself.
He smiled. “Please have lunch with me. It’s my treat.”
I was taken aback. “What restaurant is gonna let you in?” I mocked.
He held up his right index finger and simply said, “I got a place.”
Strange as it seems, I was starting to warm to the guy. I had hit him with my best insults and none of them bothered him. At the moment, I was unemployed and had the entire day to kill before my nighttime TV shows came on, so for the second time since I met the dude, I shrugged my shoulders and decided to go with the flow.
“Okay. As long as you can find a restaurant that will seat you—and you’re paying—I’ll have lunch with you.” I thought it a safe bet. No one was going to let him through the front doors of any establishment, let alone a restaurant.
I’d never noticed before, but times must have been rough. Well, I was unemployed, but that was my fault. I just couldn’t get along with people. But what I mean is, there were beggars at almost every corner. And every time we passed a homeless person, the little guy passed out money from his cup.
After his last spurt of generosity, I sneaked a peak into his cup; there were only a few bills left and none of them were a twenty. He must have given it away.
At last we came to a restaurant, and I must admit, it was pretty fancy. I doubt if they would have let me in. But my new-found friend walked past the front door and around the corner. Did I say “friend”? That sounded strange coming from me.
“Follow me,” he said.
We went down an alley and stopped at a door. Obviously the back door to the place. A slight knock on the door and we were granted entry. We walked down a short hallway that came out into the main kitchen. The head chef, when he saw us, yelled across the room, “I’m a little busy right now. Your table is ready. We’ll talk if things slow down before you’re ready to leave.”
Tim (I might as well call him by his rightful name; after all, I was going to break bread with the guy) yelled back over the clamor of the hectic kitchen, “I’ve brought a friend. Is that okay?”
The chef smiled a broad smile and waved the large knife he was holding. Indicating it was just fine and dandy with him.
Tim steered me to a table over in a corner. Before we could get situated, a busboy came out of nowhere with two glasses of water and a basket of rolls. A minute later, he was back with two glasses of white wine that he placed on the table. He said not a word. But his smile bespoke many words. He was also a friend of Tim’s.
As we sipped our wine, Tim apologized. “I hope you don’t mind, but we won’t be ordering off of menus. My friend over there,” he said, pointing at the chef, “likes to feed me his special of the day. He’s always quite proud of what he comes up with.”
“No problem. I’m impressed. But now that we have a few minutes, please tell me why everyone loves you. I’m almost as old as you. I’m certainly a lot more presentable and cleaner, no offense, but I’ve never had a friend in my entire life.”
“No offense taken. I do have a secret and I will tell you what it is, but first I want to hear about you and your life.”
This was all new to me. Someone cared enough to want to know about me? I took a deep breath and then let out everything I’d been holding in for years. I held back nothing. I told of all the rejections and hurt I had endured. I told that man all my deepest, darkest secrets—all my disappointments.
And when I had finished, I was crying. Nothing loud or out of place, but the tears were streaming down my face. Tim handed me a linen napkin and pretended not to notice.
By the time the food arrived, I was composed and kind of hungry. The plates were garnished, and the presentation was like any of the plates going out the swing doors and into the dining room. Maybe ours were even a little bit better looking. The food was wonderful. It was some kind of French dish and probably the best meal I have ever eaten.
We didn’t speak much during the meal, but as I was mopping up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread, Tim cleared his throat and began to speak.
“You wanted to know what my secret is for having so many friends. Well, it comes down to one word.”
In anticipation, I leaned forward a little. But no secrets were forthcoming. “Hold on a minute. This is better said with some spirits in hand.” He held up his empty wine glass and a busboy, a different one this time, but still with a wide smile, filled our glasses.
After draining his glass, Tim spoke these words.
“The one single word that you have to know … that you have to live by … is love. It’s so goddamn simple. Love every person you meet as you would want to be loved. The more love you put out there, the more love you’ll get in return.”
I waited for more. And after a minute, Tim looked at me as if to ask, Are you waiting for something else? “I’m sorry, but that’s it, my friend. Just one simple word, Love … Love with a capital ‘L’ .”
I leaned back in my chair, disillusioned. So there was no secret after all. Well, at least I’d had a good meal.
Tim saw my disappointment and said, “Why don’t you meet me tomorrow at the 7-Eleven. I’ll take you to the park and introduce you around. You’ll meet all sorts of people, and I guarantee you’ll like every one of them. And in time they’ll be your friends too.”
Long story short … I took him up on his offer. Today I have a new job and I am one of the most liked persons in the office—and it’s a big office. I have a girlfriend, and on the weekends, we help out down at one of the food banks, or just take long walks in the park and say hello to our many friends.
And when I see Tim on the street with his cup, I always put in a twenty and shake his hand. I don’t offer him a place to stay because I know that’s not in his cards. He has to be out on the streets … meeting new people and saving lonely souls.
She comes to me in the terrifying night when I need her the most
She is there by my bedside, in the morning, to start me on my day
She is warm, she is enveloping
She owns my body
She owns my soul
She is my lover
I put her in the old bent spoon
The flame underneath
She bubbles, she boils
In goes a small piece of cotton
The syringe brings her ever closer to me
The old belt goes around my bicep
The vein bulges
Now I bring my lover to me
Smoothly, the needle enters
Smoothly, my lover comes to me
She caresses my entire body with her warm glow
Our love has been consummated
She is everything to me
I will never give her up
She is my lover, she is my life
All my poems cry into the wind. All my words … all my dreams … are like leaves in a storm.
As I leave her behind, she starts to cry. I’ve never seen her cry.
I’ve never looked into her eyes without getting weak in the knees.
I’ve never kissed her without chills going up and down my spine.
She stands by the road, the cool wind blowing through her dark hair.
I finally realize she is only a girl.
I’ve been around. I never should have taken her.
I see the tears falling down her cheeks.
I must go. I have things to do.
Her silence holds me.
Her tears hold me in place.
But I must go. In time, she will understand.
In time … she will understand.
That is what I tell myself.
I’ve never seen her cry … until now.
I’ve never felt like this … until now.
I take a step back.
My hand reaches out.
Her hand takes mine.
I will never let her go.
Her smile sings to me … she will never cry again.
