An Open Swimmer Read Free Page B

now?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Jerra.
    â€˜Okay, start with A.’
    Jerra looked up at him.
    â€˜A . . .’
    â€˜Come on.’
    â€˜Shit, nothin’ starts with A.’
    â€˜What about amberjack?’ said Sean, smiling.
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Jerra, embarrassed as hell. ‘Abalone?’
    â€˜Not a fish,’ said Sean.
    â€˜Plenty of Bs. What about bastard-of-a-big-barramundi?’
    The old man laughed.
    They talked names for a while, wandering off the alphabet when cobia came up. Then it was just big fish.
    â€˜Nothin’ else worth lookin’ at, once you’ve seen a big fish. Thrashin’ and jumpin’ and thumpin’ on the deck, spreading ’is gills like wings.’ He watched Jerra nodding. ‘Bloody sad business, too, seein’ a big fish die. That’s somethink else, boy. Ever seen it?’
    â€˜No,’ he lied. ‘I always clubbed ’em before they suffered. Didn’t like to see ’em die.’
    Hard silver and black, flat against the boards, laced with salty pearls, glistening. The gills lifting ponderously, straining, lifting, falling. A fingertip on the smooth eye. Short, guttural death-grunts. Tears of blood tracking the deck. The sleek silver of scales, sinews in the tail wearing to a feeble spasm. Every big one on the deck looked at him the same way as that turrum, dying open-eyed when they were ready. Jerra always left them there, stalling, his back to the other deckies.
    â€˜Strong lad, you must be.’
    Jerra shrugged. The old man pulled on the stinking sea-slug of a smoke.
    â€˜Any deep stuff?’
    â€˜Not much further than the shelf. We used to pass the whalechasers on their way in. Seagulls stuck to ’em like shit to a blanket.’
    With the catch bubbling eyes and gills in the holds, tails flailing, mucous spittle raining, he would wait at the rail as Michaelmas Island came into view, and opening the sea with sneezing jets the dolphins would cut diagonally for the bows, waiting for bait scraps, running back on broad muscular tails, arching in flourishing sweeps with open mouths, eyes entreating laughingly. Then they would catch up and wait for a whack from Jerra, taking turns at presenting their backs to the flat of the oar.
    The morning he was thinking about other things, he hit too hard and the leader squealed. They never came again.
    â€˜Sometimes we’d take white pointers following the whales being towed in. Big as whales, too. Tearing great hunks of blubber out of the whales.’
    â€˜Catchin’ them bastards is somethink.’
    â€˜Just as they came up on the gaff, I’d have to shoot. A couple of times. To be careful.’
    Gaping, writhing in their own spray. Pink sheen. Thud-thud-thud of the tail against the stern. Gulls waiting.
    â€˜They’re tricky buggers, orright. Mate o’ mine, years back, lost a foot to a bronzie. An hour out of the water it was. Red took to it with a cleaver.’
    â€˜You worked on the boats.’
    â€˜Oath. Did the salmon all along the coast. Sharks when it was bad. Small stuff, herring, snapper. We even went to abalone, one or two bad seasons.’
    â€˜Who’s we?’ asked Sean.
    â€˜Me an’ the wife.’ He dragged tea with sucking lips. ‘How long you stayin’?’
    â€˜Got about three weeks,’ said Jerra. Abalone. That’s what his lips looked like; wet an’ rubbery.
    â€˜Can’t see anybody wantin’ ter stay that long.’
    â€˜Pretty good here,’ said Sean.
    â€˜Lots better places,’ said the old man.
    â€˜Good coast,’ said Jerra.
    â€˜Little bus, eh? All set up.’
    Jerra nodded.
    â€˜Move around a bit yourself?’
    â€˜Not for years. Been to Perth. Bad times we drove up and sold straight to the rest’rants. Rabbitin’ for a spell. Got away quick, though.’
    â€˜Didn’t go much on it?’
    â€˜Too many big mouths.