The old man turned from the inlet and looked west, to the horizon, where the Gulf fell away from the sky. The morning sunlight spilled off the wide brim of his black hat, leaving yellow trails in the sand. The light seemed to warm him; he shifted, and his faded brown jacket, torn at the collar, by the pockets, and along the hem, opened a crack. Underneath, he wore a red flannel shirt over a sweat-stained T-shirt. He stood hunched over, a humped back raised like a huge fist under his jacket. The folding chair he had carried from the road sat idle at his hip.
He turned back to the inlet and waited. He watched the thin line dip and bob in the rolling water. Nothing hit. He waited some more.
A soft breeze ran up the shore with a group of early joggers, their brightly colored running shoes kicking up clumps of sand. The old man licked the salt in the breeze as it passed over his roughly hewn face. It was a face of determination: a large, strong nose, sunken, piercing eyes, and a craggy forehead. Bushy grey sideburns swarmed down his cheeks in wide arcs, crisply shaved at an angle, in defiance of the years.
Overhead, pelicans soared, their wings spread wide, in command of their world. Two split from the formation, and swooped down to skim the flat Gulf, a few inches off the surface. On a rock at the end of the jetty, a black cormorant watched them, his round belly splayed over yellow webbed feet.
The old man reeled in his line, and lifted the pole to clear the bait over the concrete blocks of the jetty. Their tops were smooth and dry, but underneath, they were covered with sharp barnacles and slick green algae. The bait flapped in the breeze as he wound in the last of the line. He then whipped the pole back and hurled the bait back out over the inlet. It rose up and caught the wind and sailed over the channel, where it hung, seemingly weightless, as if waiting for its line to catch up. It then fell, landing in a slight splash in swirling eddies where the current doubled back on itself.
The old man pulled the bait through the eddies into a circle of calm. The summer sun rose higher, bleaching the rocks and brightening his coat. Still, nothing hit his bait. He reeled some line and waited some more.
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The inlet woke to activity later that morning. Motor boats splashed and bounced out the inlet; their engines strained and whined against the sea, as it spilled back on itself in tidal haste. A procession of cars crossed overhead, the hum of tires loud in the hollow beneath the bridge. Out in the gulf, a sailboat glided north, triangles of white set against the pale blue morning. Tourists shuffled along the beach, the men in brightly colored shirts, the women in bikinis covered by white wraps.
The old man reeled in his line, set the pole next to his chair, and hobbled to his tackle box. He selected a lure, stepped back, and fell into his chair. He dropped the lure into his lap, and picked up the pole. He tried to grab the line with his left hand, but the hand shook too much.
He knew what had to be done. It was a routine he repeated countless mornings. Unclip the leader, pull off the baited hook, clip on the lure. Simple. He just had to deal with the shaking. His twisted, mottled hands would eventually do the work. It was only a matter of catching the clasp at the right moment. It would take time, but time, along with the sea, was what he had left.
Tourists gathered, out of curiosity and pity. One of them moved to help, but then stopped. The old man was somehow too frightening.
While his hands fumbled, the old man’s mind wandered to a time of cobalt-blue skies, and purple ocean swells. He strained in the searing sun, bent over, using all his strength, pulling against the huge fish. It was a good fight. The water splashed his face and dried to salt in the wind, stinging his eyes. His muscles ached and his stomach churned, from days of working sails and threading out lines. There had been no food, and only a little water. He would eat that night, though, because he would beat the fish.
The clasp sprung open, and the old man pulled off the leader, lifting the bait off the hook. The crowd let out a barely audible gasp and broke up. His hands went back to work to clip on the lure. It was another struggle, but then he had always struggled against the sea. They were old adversaries, he and the sea, and neither would admit defeat. It was a battle for respect, and both knew the other would not give up. The lure clipped onto the line.
He tossed the old bait in the sand. Small bait. Pathetic really. Nothing like the whole squids he had hung on strong, thick hooks, years ago. Squid that he would eat when it had stood too long in the sun to be used for bait. It had kept him alive between fish. That, and the merciful exhaustion of the nights.
A loud siren blared from the bridge. Red lights flashed and bells clanged and gates descended over the road. The bridge yawned and creaked, and slowly broke in the middle. It lifted, like two arms praising the heavens. The air shook in a dull thump-hum as an old shrimp boat, its long arms tethered to its sides, fought the current and headed into the Gulf.
The old man watched the shrimp boat as it rolled on the incoming swells. A lone pelican circled a few hundred feet away. Suddenly, the pelican pulled its wings into its body and fell like a rock. It crashed inelegantly into the Gulf, making a huge splash. The surface calmed. The pelican came up, the flaccid skin under its beak bulging.
The pelican floated on the water, proudly enjoying his conquest, and then in a difficult effort, flapped his wings, skidded forward, flapped some more, and finally lifted skyward. He flew over the bridge, and descended to the river with feet stuck forward, like landing on skis. He slid to a stop flapping madly.
Good for him, the old man thought. A good fisherman always eats. A slight smile creased his sunken cheeks. He stood and walked slowly to the edge of the inlet. He cast his lure and reeled it back. He cast again, and again. Each time the two triads of hooks under the lure returned empty. No fish today, he thought. Might as well begin the long walk home. The sun was now too hot for fishing.
A sand piper darted back and forth on the beach, chasing the waves and pecking at bubbles in the sand. The old man closed his tackle box and folded his chair. It had been a good morning, even though he would go home empty. There would be other mornings, plenty of them, for catching fish.
James K. Richardson