NIGHT FISHING

NIGHT FISHING

Northern Gulf of Mexico, Fishing Vessel Crimson Tide,

40 miles south of Mobile Bay, Alabama, 4 AM

The tiger shark had followed the boat for several hours attracted first by the low-frequency sounds that a working shrimp boat created and further reinforced by the smell of dead and dying fish that trailed behind. A twelve-foot female, her sensory systems fired urgent signals into her walnut-sized brain alerting her that food was nearby. Having found no prey in days, she was starving and the 38 pups she carried in her swollen belly were even hungrier. The crew working on the deck of the shrimp boat, The Crimson Tide, were well aware that on most nights, the darkened waters around the fishing vessel teemed with large, hungry sharks as the boat crawled along at no more than a couple of knots.

Captain Tom Armstrong turned the bow of the Crimson Tide upwind into the 4-foot seas that had been building since nightfall, attempting to provide some relief for his crew working on the back deck. An 18-knot southeast wind was worrisome. Tom punched the button on the VHF radio to check the weather forecast and took a sip from a cup of cold coffee. Standing in the darkened wheelhouse, the only lights being the green glow of the navigational electronics, he steered the vessel between the brightly lit gas rigs that now dotted the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Tom had fished the Gulf for many years and was successful enough to send one son from his first marriage through medical school and support two young kids from his second. The hours were long, the benefits lousy, and the work was back-breaking, but Tom would have it no other way.

Like most commercial fishermen, he was an independent breed, happily accepting the harsh, dangerous working conditions for the freedom of the open seas. A fourth-generation shrimper, his great-grandfather had been one of the original settlers along the coast of Alabama and had survived by working the fertile waters of the Gulf coast until the day he died. Tom was built like a steam locomotive, short, muscular, with silver hair and a Drill Sargent jaw-line. He wore a University of Alabama ball cap, red t-shirt, yellow, farmer-john foul weather gear, and dirty white shrimper boots, the standard footwear for all fishermen along the Gulf Coast. Tom was straight as an arrow and no-nonsense. A shrimp boat was a work-place and a dangerous one at that. It was no place for alcohol, drugs, or foolishness. Tom had a family to provide for and there was nothing more important than that. He was arguably the best shrimper in the northern Gulf of Mexico.

The strain on the rigging and winches was proof of Captain Tom’s uncanny ability to find shrimp. This was another huge haul and, after the nets were emptied onto the rolling deck, the crew would be sorting shrimp for the next hour at least. The Crimson Tide was a quad-rigged shrimp vessel, pulling four trawls simultaneously. Haul back, the complex process of retrieving the nets required coordination between the wheelhouse and the crew. One man pulled in the “lazy line” which, after a series of maneuvers, left the trawl bags hanging suspended above the rear deck. A few tugs on the bag tie-offs and the contents of the trawl spilled out across the bright, white deck.

Haul-back could be dangerous business and all hands had to be aware of what was happening around them. Winches working against the forward movement of the vessel and the load of the trawl created enough tension in steel cables to break bones. The risks on deck were only exceeded by the hazards of falling overboard. Decades of shrimp trawling in these waters had conditioned sharks to follow the vessels, their reward being a free meal as hundreds of pounds of unwanted “trash” fish were shoveled overboard.

“Hold what you got!” yelled Chris, as the four huge trawl bags that hung over the deck dripping slimy water, swung slowly in time with the rolling boat. The rear deck where the men worked was awash in the glaring lights set high in the boat’s rigging. The cold, mercury-vapor sparkled jewel-like from the sides of the thousands of fish trapped in the trawl netting, their deciduous scales falling like snowflakes onto the deck.

Chris Franklin was Tom’s best deck hand and had worked on the Crimson Tide for 8 years. A native of Pascagoula, Mississippi, Chris had worked in and around shrimp boats since he was a small boy and knew no other occupation. He hoped to one day buy his own shrimp boat but there always seemed to be more month left after all the money was gone. Chris was the exact opposite of the captain, tall, wiry, and heavily tattooed. Years of chain-smoking, hard-drinking, and two failed marriages, had left Chris with two estranged kids, a chronic cough, and one testicle, the latter having been lost to cancer. Lately, the 10 or so days at sea, were the only time when he took a sober breath. Captain Tom had come to accept the fact that the first few days on board would be tough for Chris, but a few days of "drying out" would see him morph into a different person and an excellent deckhand.

Carlos Flores, the cook and second mate, set the break on the huge winch sending a shudder through the entire vessel. Carlos, an Cuban immigrant, was dark, swarthy, 5 foot 5 inches tall, and almost the same width. His father had worked the fishing fleets in the Caribbean and, it seemed natural that Carlos would do the same. Carlos was easygoing and an extremely hard worker. The three men formed a veritable “shrimping machine”.

“Gordo! Dump the port trawls first!” barked Chris over the thrumming of the diesel engines.

Carlos grabbed the tie-offs, and quickly jerked the bags open, whereupon a myriad of sea creatures flooded the deck; stingrays, fish, small sharks, crabs, starfish, and, of course, shrimp. Carlos had learned the hard way that you had to be careful when handling many of the animals that fell from the trawl. Shrimp-like creatures called thumb-splitters could inflict a serious wound, blue crabs could almost pinch a finger off, and if you were stuck by a stingray or catfish spine, the wound would fester to the point that, at best you could be laid up for days or, at worst, you could lose a limb.

The two men grabbed several trawl baskets and squatted on deck to begin the tedious sorting process. The shrimp were tossed into the baskets according to their size and the rest of the catch was directed out of the scuppers and into the sea. Sharks that circled the boat gorged themselves as they slashed through the cloud of dead and dying fishes that drifted on the ocean surface.

Captain Tom stood in the wheelhouse and spoke over the ship’s hailing system. “How does it look?”

“Damn good!” Over the noise, Chris had to yell toward the bi-directional speaker that allowed communication to and from the wheelhouse. “I'm guessing about 5 baskets, mostly white shrimp, 16 to 20 count.”

“We should be finished with this trawl in about 30 minutes,” said Carlos as he tossed a particularly feisty crab overboard.

“If this wind continues to pick up, we might have to cut this night short and put the hook out,” said Tom. “I don’t want Gordo to fall overboard and give some shark a stomach ache. There’s probably some kind of gov’ment regulation against that.”

“I don’t think sharks like Cuban food anyway,” quipped Chris.

“I think they like Gringos better,” retorted Carlos weakly.

“Hold tight!” yelled Tom through the hailing system as The Tide plowed through a large wave sending a shower of water down on the men.

Icy seawater rained down on Carlos. “Hijueputa! That’s cold. Captain, why don’t you see if you can find a smoother road than this one!”

“I’ll see what I can do. Chris, how much longer before that deck is cleared?”

“Almost finished with the port trawls. We’ll dump the starboard trawl directly. I reckon we will be finished just before sun-up.”

“Let me know as soon as you have things squared away back there. I’m gonna slowly steam for calmer waters. We got more weather coming in and it’s only gonna get worse out here.” Tom set a course for the Mississippi Sound and turned on the auto-pilot. The auto-pilot would hold a particular course indefinitely but required human intervention to navigate between islands, through channels, and around buoys.

“Works for me.” Carlos grabbed a shovel and began heaving the last remains of the trawl into the sea. He stood for a moment gazing overboard as an unusually large tiger shark, its muscular flanks dappled with dusky grey stripes, rose into the lit surface water and leisurely grabbed several fish floating there. A cold chill crept through him as the dark shape disappeared back into the depths from where it came.

“Dios Mio!! You’re a big one!” Carlos crossed himself and uttered a short prayer of contrition.

“Go ahead and dump the starboard trawls.” Chris’ command snapped Carlos out of his macabre thoughts.

Carlos walked to the starboard side of the vessel, pulled the tie-off on one of the two remaining trawls and the contents spilled out. As the bag emptied, a barnacle-encrusted, metallic cylinder fell from the net and clattered across the steel deck. The impact triggered an internal mechanism that opened a valve, releasing its pressurized contents.

“What the hell!?” Carlos instinctively stepped away from the strange object. “That damn thing is making a hissing sound.”

Chris was paying no attention to the events on the back deck, as he placed the freshly sorted shrimp in the salt-bath chiller that would instantly freeze the catch before they would be stored below deck. The Crimson Tide had an unusually large chiller, testimony to Captain Toms’ shrimping ability.

Carlos bent over to get a better look at the object as it abruptly stopped hissing. “Did you hear that?”

Carlos shouted over the din of diesel engines and the gathering storm. “CHRIS! Take a look at this thing.”

“What the hell?” An impatient Chris walked back to the rear deck to stand next to Carlos.

Carlos pointed at the mysterious object that lay among the dead fish on deck. “That thing was making a noise. I don’t like this worth a damn!”

Chris nudged the cylinder with the toe of his white, shrimpers’ boot. “I don’t hear anything? It’s just trawl-trash. Probably fell off a tanker. Toss it overboard and let’s finish up, my bunk is calling my name.”

“I’m not getting near that thing!”

“Oh, good lord.” Chris hefted the cylinder overboard and then returned to his task. As it hit the water, another valve opened and a stream of bubbles trailed from the object as it dropped into the silent depths.

Suddenly, loud music blared from the ship's hailing system causing both men to start, as Captain Tom tuned to the country station broadcasting out of Biloxi.

“I fell into a burning ring of fire.”

Johnny Cash’s baritone boomed from the speakers.

“DIOS MIO!” exclaimed Carlos whose nerves were now on edge. Carlos’ heart raced and pulse quickened. Adrenaline flooded into his circulatory system preparing his rotund body to fight or to flee. Just as suddenly, a sickening nausea swept through his gut and his body temperature began to rise. Air rattled in and out of his lungs with each labored breath. Beads of glistening sweat appeared on his face and arms. A dazed look across his face, his normally tanned complexion turned ghastly pale. Carlos's hands began to tremble uncontrollably and his entire body was wracked by waves of spasmodic muscle contractions.

“Gordo, hand me those baskets.”

Unable to speak, Chris said nothing.

“Carlos!”

“What’s wrong?” said Chris, shocked by the sudden change in his appearance.

“I………I………AHHHHHHHHHHHH.” A gut-wrenching scream cut through the din of diesel engines and pounding waves. Carlos lost bladder and bowel control simultaneously. A quivering mass of flesh, he fell across the ship’s railing and heaved dark, clotted blood into the blue Gulf waters. Blood seeped from every orifice soaking through his clothing, splashing onto the stark white deck, and mingling with the fish slime and water.

Even without the two-way system of communication, Captain Tom probably could have heard Carlos’ tortured scream in the wheelhouse.

“What in God’s name!?” Tom almost jumped from the captain’s chair. A cold chill ran up his spine as he rushed out of the wheelhouse toward the rear deck.

Carlos stood on shaky legs, turned toward Chris, and mumbled something unintelligible. Chris ran toward him and tried to catch him as he fell toward the railing again. Carlos projectile vomited blood and bits of flesh that covered Chris and splashed across the pile of unsorted catch. He drew back in revulsion. As the boat rolled, the bloodied heap that was Carlos, tumbled overboard just as Tom pushed through the rear door of the ship.

The sight that met Tom was horrific. Chris stood on the rear deck covered in carnage, his body now also wracked in convulsions, the reddening sky of dawn seemed to accentuate the hellish scene. Chris’ face was contorted in pain. As he turned his tortured face to the blood-red sky, his primal scream pierced the early morning. Tom caught Chris just before he fell to the deck, lowering him slowly onto the pile of fish. Tom knelt beside his dying friend.

The boat rolled again and blood that pooled on deck sloshed out the scuppers and streamed down the side of the ship as Johnny Cash continued to sing;

“I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher.”

The bloody red cloud mixed with the white wake of the ship as the auto-pilot steered the vessel toward the glaring lights of the casino coast.

Carlos' body slowly descended into the silent depths as the cloud of blood carried down-current. The tiger shark had trailed the vessel for several hours, picking up the dead and dying fish that rained down from the surface, but its hunger was not sated. Now sensing something altogether different, the shark first bumped the object to test its palatability and then slammed into it, rending a bloody piece of flesh from the torso.