Grand Cayman Slam Read Free

proportion to the number—and type—of fishing magazines they have read before flying south. And this orthopedic surgeon from Bryan, Ohio, had spent a brutal February and March poring over articles on the flats masters.
    So he arrived at the docks at dawn, new fishing cap upon his head and Polaroids strung around his neck on mono line, a dreamy, boyish grin on his face.
    It was one of those pink and iridescent blue sunrises unique to the Keys. Along with the diesel smell of the harbor came the jasmine and frangipani spice of Key West on a freshening south wind out of Cuba.
    “Damn,” was all he could say, his face glazed with pleasure. “Damn, I don’t care if the fish hit or not. It’s just something being here.”
    He wasn’t lying. He was one of the rare clients: one of the rare sportsmen who hire me because they see fishing as both pleasure and poem. He was among the few I really enjoyed fishing with; a man who did not gauge the success of a trip by the number of iced fish carcasses he could stack on the dock upon our return. So the two of us climbed into my little Boston Whaler and powered off toward the flats of distant Content Key, the little skiff stretching across the clear water as if upon air, brain coral and sea fans appearing and disappearing beneath us as if upon some screen of personal reminiscence.
    I had gone over the tide charts carefully beforehand, marking the ascent of tide peaks in my own mind, plotting a fishing itinerary that should guarantee us that epic intersection: a bonefish or permit foraging upon the same flat that held our bait.
    It turned out to be a good day. He thought it a great day. He landed and released three good bonefish, then lost a permit to a staghorn after two Homeric runs that made his reel scream as if about to explode.
    He had big plans for the next morning. And the next. And I was more than willing. After spending a month alone on my stilthouse listening to my shortwave and eating my own cooking and forcing myself to complete a daily exercise routine that would test a Spartan, I was looking forward to fishing with a friend and eating black beans and yellowtail at the El Cacique and drinking cold beer with my buddies at the dock.
    But Westy’s call ended all that.
    I was out washing down the Whaler when the call came. Steve Wise, America’s version of a houseboat David Niven, came ambling barefooted out of the marina office to get me.
    “Phone for you.”
    “This late?”
    “And it’s not even a lady.”
    “Didn’t give his name?”
    “No. But it sounds like he’s calling from Mars.”
    All phone systems are reflections of their own community. New York’s is chaotic. Key West’s is erratic. The Caribbean phone people really don’t seem to give a damn. If it’s not too hot, they can fix it tomorrow.
    Westy did, indeed, sound as if he were calling from Mars.
    “Yank! It’s meself, Wes O’Davis!”
    “I can barely hear you.”
    “Aye—because yer gettin’ old an’ fat and yer ears are dyin’.
    “And you are spending a lot of money on this call, old friend, so I assume it’s important—so what’s new?”
    “Other than bein’ jailed for murder, not much.”
    “Did you say murder?”
    “Hah—see, yer ears are givin’ out!”
    So I lined up another guide for my fishing friend from Ohio, called the airline and made reservations for a flight from Key West to Miami and from Miami to Caymans, then climbed back in the Whaler and burrowed through the spring darkness across five miles of tricky water to my stilthouse.
    One thing about living alone—there’s never any trouble packing.
    I stuffed shorts and a half-dozen shirts, running shoes, and razor blades into a canvas satchel. I thought for a moment, then added my lucky Limey knickers, black watch sweater, and cap—and finally the cold weight of my Randall attack /survival knife.
    You can bet that when O’Davis is around, trouble can’t be far behind.
    So in the spring heat of a dank Miami