happened. Tom and I stick to the everglades now. The alligators and water moccasins are a whole lot safer."
I chided him, "What are you talking about? Did a drug runner in a cigarette boat run you over?"
"Don't I wish it were that simple," he retorted. With a puzzled look on his face he asked, "Wait a minute, didn't Joyce ever tell you the story?" I shook my head, 'No'. Surprised, he then proceeded to call over his wife, Terri, and his brother, Tom, to recount the details of their fateful trip into... the devil's fog.
Friday, May 16
"Tire needs air," pointed out gravel-voiced Tom Haskins to his younger brother while they waited in line to launch their father's nineteen foot Mako at one of the four Haulover Marina boat ramps.
"You're right," acknowledged John, "but I ain't getting out of line for that," as he surveyed the three trailers ahead of them and the five strung out behind in the parking lot. "I'll do it when we get back. I have an air compressor in the garage."
John, short and dumpy, stood cross-armed watching his wife return from the marina rental/bait shop. "Got the ticket," called Terri while waving the launch fee receipt.
"What took so long?" asked John.
"There was a long line... and hardly any one spoke English," she explained.
"Typical south Florida," muttered John. He took the ticket, "Damn, ten bucks to just drop a boat in the water. Did you try smiling sweetly and flashing some skin to get a discount?" he joked.
"Is that what you want?" she grinned. "Next time."
Tom, the tall, lanky, solemn one, ignored their good-natured bantering; their childhood of twenty years had inured him to his little brother's off-color humor. Tom walked to the rear of the boat to check the transom drain plug. On their last outing the device hadn't been seated properly; it dislodged and they took on a foot of water in less than a minute of leaving the boat basin. If they hadn't found the plug quickly they would have joined the other dozen craft submerged offshore the marina.
No problems this time and twenty minutes later John made a right turn around the last harbor channel marker. The boat's bow was pointed southeast toward open water on a beautiful, spring morning.
"Where you headed, Buddy?" queried Tom.
"Buoy forty-three. We'll anchor on the shallow side before the shelf drop-off. If we don't have any luck there, I'll take 'er straight out two hundred yards more so we can drift parallel and troll the deep-side of the shelf. We'll drift up the coast and be in line with Haulover when we're finished. Saves on gas." Big brother nodded in agreement.
Their destination, a deep-water marine navigational marker positioned two miles south of Miami, tethered in forty feet of sparkling, aquamarine Atlantic Ocean. A hundred yards away on the east side it dropped off to six hundred feet, where allegedly the big, game fish lurked. It was already nine a.m. They had left later than planned due to the unexpected crunch at the marina, but spirits were high and all were enjoying the venture under a pleasant, partly cloudy sky.
They arrived at the swaying orange and white buoy, seven miles from embarkation (with one quarter of a tank expended) and dropped anchor on the west side. Excitement was building; they were getting antsy to get their lines in the water.
"Tom, did you clear the backlash and rig my pole like I asked?" posed John as he tossed a floating wire chum basket over the stern. It made a light 'plop' three feet away. Satisfied with its downstream position, he dropped the tethered rope in a coil next to the gas can.
"Nope, you didn't ask."
"Bull! I did too," and the brothers began quibbling like two typical siblings.
"I'm ready with my hand-line," announced Terri. "Where's the bait?"
John ended his adolescent verbiage with, "God will get you for this," and redirected his attention to his wife. "Right here, Sugar." He opened a white plastic bait bucket and offered a small, split squid. "Yummy, yummy. Need me to bait the hook for you?"
Accepting the squishy sea creature, she retorted, "Nooo, I believe after changing a couple of thousand diapers, I'm more than qualified to handle this manly detail." Then she deftly looped the size 4/0 hook through the blue-gray, black-dotted squid and formed an S as black slime oozed out. "Ugh. I like shrimp better," and wiped her fingers on a rag of an old dish towel.
'Zzzzz!' line spinning off a reel. John's head snapped in Tom's direction, "You turkey, you're in the water already?" His brother snickered as John struggled to untangle the knot in his reel from their previous trip.
A half-hour passed, only three small throw-back sea perch had been caught. John declared, "Time to mosey on down the trail, partner." After weighing anchor they proceeded seaward; a dozen other small craft dotted the horizon. "Must be where the big un's are hiding, it sure wasn't back there," he speculated. After two miles at a slow troll speed the wind had picked up and the seas were two to three feet with a light chop - not too much of a problem, yet.
Terri was chewing the fat with John at the wheel when she noticed a large bird skimming the water behind them. "Hey, guys, check it out!" Both turned at her hailing to observe a giant, wandering albatross with a eight-foot wingspan, soar upward and pass directly overhead. "Wow! Did you see the size of that puppy? What was it, Johnny? It had webbed feet and a beak similar to a hawk."
"I don't know, but it sure was a big mother."
"Albatross," informed Tom. "Seen 'em when I was stationed in San Diego."
"Oh yeah, albatross," repeated his brother while winking at his wife. He gave a couple of cocky dips with his shoulders, "Thought those birds were found only in the south Pacific, Tom."
"Aren't they supposed to be bad luck?" questioned Terri.
"Only if you wear them around your neck," scoffed Tom. The trio watched the giant fly higher and further away, heading northeast, the same direction they were traveling.
"Where's it going?" continued the young woman.
"Must be lookin' for a freighter in the shipping lanes," assessed Tom.
"Shipping lanes?" repeated Terri. "That sounds like a dangerous place a small boat like ours. How far away are they? I don't see any ships. It's too hazy out there."
"About another five miles," informed her brother-in-law. "Say, how we doing on gas, Buddy?"
"Little over half left," replied John and killed the motor. Where they were positioned, eight miles offshore, the water was much too deep to anchor so they began drifting at about two mph as planned. Miami's skyline was still visible; they would have had to be more than ten miles off shore to lose sight of land.
The lines and the chum basket were quickly deployed into the briny again and in practically no time at all Tom and John reeled in two 'keepers'. They tossed them on the ice in the well. Terri remained happily expectant, although her hand-line only extended outward fifty feet - a fourth of the men's distance. At last, her faith was rewarded by a sharp, hard tug. The line drew taunt with no jerking. The fish had begun an immediate run. "Oh, my gosh!" she cried out. "This guy's heavy. I don't know if I can hold him!" The men shouted encouragement while clearing their lines out of the water.
"Atta, girl, don't take it in until he slacks off!" coached her husband. Alarmed, he realized Terri's hands were unprotected. "Hey, where's your gloves?" She leaned forward, straining to hold on the plastic reel with her two bare hands. "Whoa, baby, too late for gloves now! Keep your fingers clear..."
The monofilament abruptly went limp. "Oh, no," he lamented. "I think it broke," as she dejectedly rewound the loose line around the plastic ring.
"Tough..." started Tom. Suddenly, a three-foot long sailfish broke the surface. Terri's line was in its mouth with the hook secured inside. The dazzling game fish jumped up head-high just six feet from the boat. Seawater sprayed the startled onlookers as the fish seemingly hung in midair as if he were studying the craft's occupants. Then with its tail flipping violently back and forth, he arced downward and landed in the boat with a heavy, 'Thump!'
"Geez!" "Damn!" howled the men, their eyes bulging. "That damn fish curved in the air!" exclai
med John.
"The dorsal fin musta' got caught in the wind," countered Tom.
"Horse hocky," spat John. "It tried to get in the boat."
Nonplussed by their usual squabbling, Terri grinned from ear to ear. "Cool!"
After a few minutes of giddiness from the startled, but happy crew, the sailfish quieted. Tom whipped out his knife, "Gotta' toss him back before he dies. He's too small to keep. It's against the law, you know. Be just our luck we're nailed by the Marine Patrol on the way back in. This little sucka would cost us a five hundred dollar fine." Neither objected to the fish's release. Tom cut the line close to the mouth then seized him by the small joint at the tail and the base of the bill.
"Drat. I forgot my camera," moaned Terri.
"Watch that point, Bro," cautioned John. Tom grunted. Hefting the fish to his waist, he readied to throw it over the side when Terri exclaimed, "He has a red eye. Did he get hurt?"
"Huh?" Tom held the fish out for inspection. Turning it over both ways, they discovered he had two blood-red eyes. "Never seen a fish like this before. I thought only piranha had red eyes."
Terri and John were leaning close when the fish emitted a sharp, 'Hiss'! They jumped back. The sailfish repeated it two more times.
"What the hell...?" said Tom, then tossed the creature overboard. It splashed and quickly disappeared below.
"What in the world was that?" pondered Terri. "First a displaced albatross, now a red-eyed,