The Cement Boat

As a kid, I always hoped I'd catch a marlin when we fished off the old Cement Boat near Santa Cruz, California. I never did, but one day I caught more than I bargained for. Read about it (here).

Flash Fiction

Today I’m submitting Flash Fiction for the guys at Dude Write, a great site worth checking out if you haven’t already. I’ve never attempted Flash Fiction before and the dudes have set some rules. First, no more than five hundred words, a stretch for anyone with “chatterbox” in their name—I’ve managed to keep my word count to 498. Second, the first sentence must be: Never one to turn down a dare…. I’ve based this story on a piece I wrote a while back so, for some of you, parts of this might seem familiar.

Stupid Men and the Sea

Never one to turn down a dare, I climbed into the dinky boat. Two hours after departing the Santa Monica marina, I wondered if I was going to die, just another amateur fisherman lost at sea. The menacing swells had finally convinced Frank to turn off the motor. “Let’s fish here before it gets too rough.”

It was already too rough, but I baited my line and began fishing. The Coronas in my stomach rose and fell in rhythm to the swells threatening to swamp the little boat. It wasn’t long before something struck Frank’s hook—a shark about four feet long. A sane person would have cut his line, but Frank grabbed the shark by the tail and swung it into the boat.

I shrieked and kicked the snapping jaws. The shark chomped on our bag of Coronas, disappearing over the side with our beers and Frank’s rod and reel, the hook still in its mouth.

“It’s time to go home!” I said, an unrestrained edge in my voice.

Frank didn’t argue, but when he tried to engage the engine it wouldn’t start.

The sun was now a memory as wind pushed us beyond the Channel Islands. Frank opened the engine covering, poked his head into the bottom of the boat and said, “What’s all this water down here?”

Some of the liquid swishing around the engine was probably my pee. “It’s time to radio for help!” I exclaimed.

His expression made my heart sink. “I‘ve been meaning to get a radio.”

“What about life jackets?”

“They would have been a good idea, too.” He started praying in Spanish.

“We might as well start paddling, even if Hawaii is the next landfall. You do have paddles?”

He looked indignant.

My torrent of salty epithets quickly petered out. I’d climbed into this dinghy without anyone pressing a gun to my head.

Frank produced one paddle.

I grabbed it and started paddling, spinning the boat in frantic circles. As I worked up a sweat I reviewed the situation: We were heading out into a rough ocean in a boat that should never have left its pond; it was getting dark and we had no supplies, no radio and only one paddle. The engine didn’t work and the boat was taking on water. And we knew for certain that sharks were nearby. We were screwed.

I was on my twelfth Hail Mary when salvation appeared—a Coast Guard cutter. Our fear that it might not see us quickly became a concern that the ship might run us down. Frank finally impressed me by producing a bag of roadside flares. To my surprise, one ignited, making us easy to spot. The little boat, riding dangerously low in the water, sank as we climbed aboard the Coast Guard vessel for a ride into Port Hueneme.

The next time my boss dared me to go fishing I asked, “Have you picked up another paddle?” When he nodded I told him where he could shove it.

Conclusion: Supertrout

It burst from its hiding place beneath a submerged log, and it was moving so fast

that at first I couldn’t identify it. But one look at David told me all I needed to know—at long last, here he was. The legend was true; it was Supertrout!

He seemed to be everywhere, flashing like a ball of mercury struck by a hammer. For a minute I thought he was just making a boastful appearance before vanishing into his hiding place. He didn’t immediately charge the three baited hooks resting on the sandy riverbed. But Supertrout was only pretending to retreat. At the last minute he spun around and dashed toward my baited hook.

He bit hard and sped back for the safety of his log as line screeched from my reel. I didn’t realize it right away, but I was crying. I didn’t want to catch Supertrout! I didn’t even like fishing! I liked to stand beside the river and daydream. Now I was to be cursed by catching this stupid fish, and I could see that he was sooo beautiful. I didn’t want to kill him.

David tried to rip the pole from my hands, but Dad brushed him away. This was to be my moment. If I’d known how to fish, I might have tried to lose Supertrout—since there were ways to hook fish, there must be ways to unhook them—but no matter what I did, Supertrout wouldn’t let go of my bait. David could see that Supertrout was about to reach the other side of the cove, where he could wrap the line around the dead branch of a log and snap it. If there had been time, and if I’d liked him more, I might have worried about David because he was starting to foam at the mouth. He looked like someone about to turn inside out.

When Supertrout reached the far side of the cove, I realized David was screaming at me. “Reel him in! Don’t let him get away!” Then he yelled, “Don’t give him his head!” whatever that meant. I truly would have preferred passing the pole to David, but Dad had made it clear that, want it or not, this fish was mine.

I began to reel Supertrout in. Perhaps I was strong from opening tight lids on jars of peanut butter and mayonnaise, but I surprised Dad and David by managing to pull Supertrout to the riverbank. The great fish glinted in the sunlight as it flipped about on the gravel. I just stood there and stared at it, aghast. Dad picked up Supertrout and bashed his head on a rock. I shrieked in misery as blood gushed from his gills. Dad later claimed this was the merciful thing to do, so the fish wouldn’t suffer.

There was a rusty measuring guide embossed on the lid of Dad’s old tackle box, but it only went up to twelve inches and the now lifeless body of Supertrout was more than twice that. I didn’t want to fish anymore, or ever again, but David continued for awhile, even though his heart wasn’t in it. He probably tried to convince himself that Supertrout had a twin. I noticed him looking at me with something close to hatred. On the way back to camp, he didn’t want to be seen with me and walked on ahead. With Supertrout dangling from a chain in my hand as Dad and I returned to camp, people pointed and clapped me on the back.

Legends should never die. I hope the Loch Ness monster, the Abominable Snowman and Bigfoot are never found. Supertrout spent time in our freezer, and for awhile Dad would bring him out to show people just what a great little fisherman I was, but eventually the fish became “cruddy” and was thrown away. Cats overturned our garbage can, and I caught a glimpse of Supertrout’s skeleton in the gutter in front of our house, not a fitting end for a legend.

The day I caught Supertrout, Dad drove us home with Uncle Manuel snoring in the front passenger seat. David and I were in the back, and David was staring out the side window with his back to me as much as possible. I leaned forward. “Dad?”

“Yes, son.”

“Do you think fish have souls?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” He knew I was sad about Supertrout.

The moment felt right and once again I took my best shot. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a German Shepherd?”

He surprised me by saying, “No promises, but I’ll run it past your mother when we get home.”

Later, the answer was still no, but I figured I was making progress.

Supertrout

A true story from my memoir The Kid in the Kaleidoscope.

The Himalayas had the Abominable Snowman; Scotland had the Loch Ness Monster; the Northwest had Bigfoot; and the Santa Cruz Mountains had Supertrout. Described by those lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him, Supertrout was a noble denizen of the water, a baron of bait stealing; big as a barracuda, he could be hooked but was too big to land. My older brother lusted for him like Ahab over Moby Dick. At eleven, David was three years older than me, and he took it personally when our camping trips ended without him landing the elusive fish.

The summer of 1960 was a typical California scorcher. Mom stayed behind for some coveted alone time; her idea of fun didn’t include camping or fishing. She smiled with relief as Dad, David and I piled into our ‘46 Chevy pickup for a rattling ride to Portola State Park in the nearby Santa Cruz mountains. Portola’s streams and creeks were annually stocked with easy-to-catch trout, none bigger than five inches. Few of these made it through the summer, but there were other animals: blue jays, squirrels, inquisitive raccoons, and of course…Supertrout.

Our expeditions to Portola usually included cabbage-shaped Uncle Manuel, the family’s camping expert. I never knew if he was Mom or Dad’s brother, but he was older than either of my parents and his garage was choked with camping equipment. In addition to camp stoves, lanterns and fishing gear, he had an army surplus tent that slept ten.

Uncle Manuel was like that kid you had to let into the game because it was his ball. Since he owned the tent and most of the equipment, and since he was retired from working on the railroad and his children were grown and gone, Uncle Manuel usually came along. He wasn’t so bad, but I gagged when he made us eat raw spam sandwiches. I could never convince him that the stuff needed to be fried or that it was necessary to scrape that gelatin crud off. He also brought along cans of pork and beans that he ate cold from the can. I sometimes worried we might get attacked by raccoons because Uncle Manuel would turn the tent into a gas chamber if we didn’t leave the tent flap open at night.

When we arrived at the park we’d hunt for the best campsite. The adults always wanted a spot close to the bathrooms, while we kids wanted a place so far from civilization that if we died it would take bloodhounds to find our bodies. Once the site was selected, Dad and Uncle Manuel made us comb the spot where the tent was to be erected, an important step because a sharp rock in your back could keep you awake all night, or even poke a hole in the canvas flooring. And it was a sure thing that if only one jagged rock was left under the tent, it would find its way beneath your sleeping bag. Some campers brought air mattresses to cushion their sleep, but Uncle Manuel who, like me, carried around his own padding, called those people “softies” and forbade such things in his tent.

Shortly after arriving at the park, David would become a soul possessed. He was always eager to hear anything about Supertrout, no matter how ridiculous. Uncle Manuel, usually a miser with words, once made the mistake of telling David about a neighbor whose tax man had a bookie who spotted the famous fish. Dad tried to lower David’s expectations by saying he’d never heard of a bookie who fished, but my older brother took this, as he did most things, very seriously. Park rangers were the best source of information. When peppered with questions about Supertrout, they’d just wink and say, “Nobody’s caught him…yet.”

David would sleep in his clothes so he wouldn’t need to waste time dressing in the morning. Fish were said to feed at sunrise so many campers brought alarm clocks, which seemed to defeat the entire point of a vacation. Long before sunrise he would grab his gear and head down a forested path, disappearing into the inky darkness. The beam of his flashlight would be joined by those of other hopeful anglers staggering through the dying night like zombies. Diehard anglers staked out their fishing spots early, before the good ones were gone. Most stopped at the reservoir itself, the area of deepest water, but the prevailing theory was that someone would have caught, or at least seen, Supertrout if that’s where he was hiding. The truly determined sportsmen, fishermen like David, continued on past the waterfall at the far end of the reservoir to search for the perfect spot, usually a shaded cove with deep slow-moving water.

On those rare occasions when he allowed me to tag along with him, I’d hear David mumbling under his breath, “Think like a fish…think like a fish! Where would I hide if I was a fish?” Realizing he was trying to get inside the head of something scaly that ate bugs was kind of creepy. Eventually David would settle on a shaded cove and get down to the serious business of trying to outwit a fish that probably didn’t exist, a fish that, if it did exist, would have a brain smaller than a walnut. It was usually at this point he’d wave me away to a less promising site, claiming that sound of me munching the Frosted Flakes I’d packed into my pockets distracted the fish.

When it came to fishing, nothing was more important than bait. On this subject there were countless opinions. Some people preferred worms or crickets, but salmon eggs were a popular choice. They came in little plastic jars and were available in different colors; they also came in different flavors to accommodate a fish’s changing moods, but I can tell you from firsthand experience they all tasted the same. When salmon eggs didn’t do the job, anglers might try a bit of raw bacon or a piece of marshmallow. In an exploration of taste and style worthy of Julia Child, David would sometimes cover a salmon egg in soft Velveeta cheese and add a piece of orange peel. Although delicious, these were ignored by Supertrout.

Since I wasn’t as interested in fishing as the others, I’d often play in the shallow water leading up to the reservoir. Or I’d hike the trails that led through groves of redwoods that stood like sentient giants, many of them still showing scars from a fire that raced through the area long before the white man arrived. Or I’d daydream about owning a German Shepherd like Rin Tin Tin. I begged my parents repeatedly but the answer was always the same: NO.

David seldom returned to camp for breakfast or lunch, but Dad insisted he return for dinner. Dirty and tired, he’d stagger back to camp, angry that the day had been a failure. Dad would always say that any day spent fishing was a day well spent, even if you didn’t catch anything. But David would roll his eyes in obvious disagreement. Even though he desperately wanted to catch Supertrout, deep down I don’t think he really liked fishing all that much.

It always seemed to me that the best part of fishing came at the end of the day, when everyone gathered around the campfire to burn marshmallows, tell stories and let the whoppers fly. There were always tales of cagey Supertrout who, year after year, refused to be caught and grew in size.

On the morning of our last day at Portola that year, Dad insisted we all fish together, as a family. David grumbled that my whining would most likely prevent us from hiking far enough upstream to find a really good spot. Just before sunrise, we left Uncle Manuel snoring in the tent and headed for a fishing hole not distant enough for David but close enough for me and Dad.

The spot was just fine. It looked like trout heaven to me, but I couldn’t think like a fish the way David could. There weren’t other fishermen around, so we settled in for some serious fishing and bait eating. Hours passed, and David got edgy because he knew that all too soon we’d be breaking camp and departing. He was once again running out of time. Dad still enjoyed the whole fishing experience, but David scowled at the water like it was his personal enemy.

Then something moved in the water.

Conclusion on Friday....

Stupid Men Of The Sea

Time was running out and I realized I was going to die, just another amateur fisherman lost at sea. I blamed myself; I was too stupid to live.

It was the late 70s and I was employed by Mervyn’s in Oxnard, forty miles north of Los Angeles. I designed windows and dressed mannequins, often chatting with friendly Frank Diaz, the company’s youngest store manager. Frank was only a few years older than me and his passion was fishing. He’d recently purchased a boat and fished after work. He frequently gave me his catch to bring home to Mrs. Chatterbox, who didn’t relish cleaning the smelly things. Frank started pressuring me to go fishing with him after work and I finally agreed.

I met him down by the launch and was shocked by the tiny size of his boat. It was faded red and looked like a Disneyland ride. “Isn’t this a lake boat?” I asked apprehensively.

“Lake, ocean—water’s water,” Frank reassured me. “The boat doesn’t know the difference.”

I had a sinking feeling about this, but against my better judgment I climbed in. Frank started the raspy-sounding engine and off we went.

When we were only a few hundred feet from the launch I asked, “What’s wrong with this spot? Why don’t we just fish here?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “No fish here.”

“So where exactly are we going?” It was a big ocean, and it was getting bigger as we moved farther from shore.

“We’re heading towards Santa Barbara. The oil rigs over there heat up the water and attract fish. Relax, we’re gonna have fun.” He released his grip on the wheel and opened the bag of Coronas he’d brought, tossing me one. “You’ve been out on the ocean before, haven’t you?”

I nodded, even though the extent of my maritime experience centered on being packed along with a hundred other tourists for a joyride around San Francisco Bay. I sipped the Corona as we passed the Channel Islands and headed north. The wind picked up and the water turned steel gray. The swells were getting bigger when Frank turned off the motor and admitted, “It’s getting choppy. Maybe we should fish here before it gets too rough.”

It was already too rough for me, but I didn’t want to admit that my cajones were anything less than grapefruit size so I baited my line and began fishing, the Corona rising and falling in my stomach in rhythm to the swells threatening to engulf the little boat. Just as the sun was about to touch the water, something struck Frank’s hook. He struggled to reel it in. I don’t know what he was hoping for, but what he got was a shark about four feet long.

Frank struggled to net the shark and bring it into the boat, but the net was too small and ripped. He grabbed the shark by the tail, threw down his rod and reel and swung the shark into the boat. I was suddenly confronted by snapping jaws. I shrieked and kicked it as it flopped about in the bottom of the boat. I was relieved when it chomped down on the bag of Coronas and disappeared over the side, taking the beers with it. Frank’s rod and reel also went over the side, the hook still lodged in the shark’s mouth.

The shark not only took the unopened beers; it knocked over the two we’d opened. There wasn’t anything left to calm my nerves. “It’s time to go home,” I said.

Frank agreed, but when he tried to engage the engine, it wouldn’t start.

We were completely out of sight of land. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon and the wind was pushing us further out to sea. It would soon be dark. I was terrified. I’d read newspaper articles about futile Coast Guard searches, and now the ranks of idiot amateur fishermen had grown by two. My fear intensified when Frank opened the engine covering, poked his head down into the bottom of the boat and said, “I wonder what all this water is doing down here?”

The thrashing shark had soaked us. I was shivering uncontrollably. I was also experiencing the icy grip of panic. Some of the liquid washing around the engine was probably my pee. As calmly as I could, I suggested to Frank, “It’s time to radio for help.”

His expression made my heart sink before he could muster the words. “I‘ve been meaning to get a radio, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“What about life jackets?”

“They would have been a good idea, too.”

I nearly lost it when he started praying in Spanish. “Where are the paddles? Even if it takes years we might as well start paddling, even if the first landfall is Hawaii! You do have paddles?”

He looked indignant. “Of course! What kind of a fool do you take me for?” I started to unleash a torrent of colorful epithets, but this was as much my fault as his. Nobody put a gun to my head and made me climb into this carnival ride. If there had been a gun on board I might have blown my brains out when Frank managed to produce one paddle.

I tore it from his hand and started paddling furiously, spinning the boat in circles. As I worked up a sweat I reviewed the situation: We were heading out into a rough ocean in a boat that should never have left its pond; it was getting dark and we had no supplies, no radio and only one paddle. The engine didn’t work and the boat was picking up water. We had no way of knowing how much longer we could stay afloat, and the only thing we knew for certain was that there were sharks in the immediate area. We were screwed.

Frank stopped praying and was uncharacteristically quiet. I finally threw down the worthless paddle. In the bottom of the boat I saw one of the empty Corona bottles. At least I could leave a note for Mrs. C., a message in a bottle. With a pen from my pocket and a scrap of paper from my wallet, I quickly jotted down words of affection. I was wondering what I could use as a cork when Frank spotted salvation heading our way.

A Coast Guard cutter was heading home to nearby Port Hueneme. Our fear that it might not see us quickly became a concern that the ship might run over us. Frank finally impressed me by producing a bag of damp roadside flares, and in spite of our string of bad luck one actually ignited, making us easy to spot. The little red boat was sitting dangerously low in the water by the time we were picked up. It sank shortly after we climbed aboard the Coast Guard vessel. We received a well deserved tongue-lashing from the ship’s captain for not having a proper boat, radio, supplies, life jackets or paddles.

Frank admitted to ownership of the sunken boat and was eventually fined five hundred

dollars for various maritime infractions. When we docked, I called Mrs. C. to pick us up

at Port Hueneme. Frank cheerfully greeted Mrs. C. when she drove up, acting like nothing eventful had happened. I was tempted to leave him standing there.

Frank and I managed to remain friends although we never spoke of this incident again.

That night after dropping him off at his car near the launch, Mrs. C. asked, “Did you have a good time, honey?”

I spared her the details; no point freaking her out now. “It was exciting.”

“I don’t see any fish.”

“They weren’t biting.”

“So tell me, just how drunk did you boys get out there?”

“What do you mean?”

That was when I looked down and noticed that the Corona bottle containing my message was still tightly clasped in my hand.

Have you ever thought you were going to die?