It was signed, “Pop.”
We passed the postcard around, then Abbey took it to her bedroom and taped it to the mirror. She put on her emerald earrings and announced that she wasn’t taking them off ever again, even for school. Later that afternoon the sky cleared, the wind died, and the seas slicked off.
“How about it?” I asked my father.
“Yeah, let’s go,” he said.
We launched at a motel ramp on the ocean side of the island. Mom, Abbey, and I pushed together to slide the bone-fish skiff off the trailer, since Dad’s hands were still tender from the fractured bones. The casts had been removed a week earlier, but the doctor had warned him to take it easy. You could see he was in pain.
After loading the cooler and fishing rods, we piled in and headed offshore. The little boat was cramped with all four of us on board, but it was fun having Mom there.
The ocean was like a mirror, which made it hard to see the bottom, even with polarized sunglasses. Dad used a GPS to locate the spot, which we had all to ourselves. In less than two hours we caught three dozen snappers. Most of them were small, but we kept four decent ones for dinner.
“What should we name this place?” Abbey asked.
“How about ‘Dusty’s Hole’?” I suggested.
Mom and Dad laughed in approval.
“That’s excellent!” Abbey agreed.
I peered over the side of the skiff and squinted against the afternoon glare. I could make out a dark fractured outline on the bottom, the blackened hulk in three large sections.
It was none other than the Coral Queen, dearly departed.
A salvage boat was supposed to have hauled it up to the Miami River and loaded it on a garbage barge. Barely three miles into the journey the wreck had broken up during a thunder squall and gone down in twenty-two feet of water. Already herds of hungry fish had made it their new favorite restaurant.
Dusty’s Hole.
“It’s poetry,” Dad said.
“More like poetic justice,” said Mom.
The morning weather report had spooked everybody else off the ocean and, except for the lighthouse, the horizon remained empty and endless. There wasn’t another boat in sight. I lifted Grandpa Bobby’s coin from my chest and turned it back and forth in my fingers, the gold catching the sunlight.
“Where would he be coming from? Which direction?” I asked my father.
“Your grandpa? Probably from the southwest.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Out that way, somewhere.”
“How long will it take him to get here?” Abbey said.
“All depends,” Dad answered quietly.
Mom said, “Hey, I’ve got an idea, but we’ll need to hurry.”
It was a good idea, too.
We reeled in our lines and stowed the rods. I pulled up the anchor while Dad started the engine, and Abbey dug the camera out of her backpack.
The sky was already turning rosy as we raced toward the west side of the islands, where we’d have the best view. Mom’s sunglasses blew off under the Indian Key Bridge, but she told Dad to keep going. We didn’t have much time.
The bay was even smoother than the ocean—it looked like pale blue silk. We stopped at Bowlegs Cut, drifting out through the markers on a hard falling tide. Frigate birds soared overhead, and a pod of dolphins rolled past us, herding mullet.
In the distance, somewhere beyond the Gulf of Mexico, the sun was dropping through a coppery and cloudless heaven. None of us dared to say a word, everything seemed so crystal-still and perfect.
Dad edged closer to Mom, and she leaned against his shoulder. Abbey was kneeling in the bow, aiming her camera as the last molten slice of light dripped out of sight.
I sat there dangling my feet in the ripples, watching the day fade away. I was hoping that wherever he might be, Grandpa Bobby was enjoying the same sunset.
When the flash of green came, it lasted for only a magical flick of time—so brief and brilliant and beautiful, I was afraid I’d imagined it.
But then I heard my father say, “How amazing was that?”
So excited, he sounded just like a kid.
Carl Hiaasen, Flush
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