“Li—lheeee,” I manage before he cuts off my airway. It’s enough for Lily to recognize her name and she ducks just out of the octopus’s reach as a second arm strikes Fishful Thinking’s deck.
Just as my fingers turn white and I can no longer hold on to the boat, Lily reappears brandishing the jagged filleting knife from our set in the deckhouse. She stabs it into the tentacle around my neck, severing just through to my skin; I can feel the knife’s craggy point at my jaw. The octopus lets go, giving me enough time to clamber aboard.
I run straight for the deckhouse to flip the trawler winches, and mercifully the squall has not robbed them of power. The side trawler whirs to life and I lower the net on the port side. The boom swings wide, and I worry about hitting Lily. I yell for her to stay low and close and she sidles up beside me. Instinctively, I turn on the echo sounder and watch breathlessly for any sign of life. After about thirty seconds, the octopus moves.
Blip.
“There!”
I turn over the engine.
Blip. Blip.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon . . .”
The engine sputters and coughs.
“Come on!”
Blip. Blip. Blip.
The octopus is upon us.
I pound my fists on the engine control panel and suddenly the engine wheezes to life. I pull the wheel hard to the left and Fishful Thinking starts her tight turn.
Blip. Blip.
We pass over the octopus, but the net sensors give no sign of a catch. Lily grabs the strap of our harpoon gun in her teeth and heads for the stern. She sets it down and stands with her hind legs on the transom.
Blip.
The octopus is getting farther away.
Silence.
Fishful Thinking completes her turn and we head into the surf. I scan the ocean in front of us, wiping the windows with my sleeve to clear the deckhouse of steam. The silence is thick and eerie.
I race for the stern and fasten the harpoon gun to the mount so it takes aim at the waters behind us. Lily can swivel the gun with her nose, and I show her how to do so. I tell her the few secrets I know about firing a gun—to put the butt square in her shoulder and weld her cheek to the stock—and how to hit a moving target, tips I’ve learned from my mother’s husband, who is himself an impressive shot. She listens and nods with determination.
Blip. Blip.
The echo sounder picks up something off the stern. I run back to the deckhouse and call to Lily. “He’s behind us! Headed right for you!” I see her place one paw on the harpoon gun’s trigger. The octopus is forty feet away. Thirty. Twenty. “Steady! Steady! Get ready to fire on my command!”
Lily takes careful aim.
“Remember what I told you!”
I turn back to the echo sounder. Ten feet.
Lily makes one final adjustment, nosing the harpoon gun down just a hair.
NOT! WHERE! THE! OCTOPUS! IS! WHERE! THE! OCTOPUS! IS! GOING! TO! BE!
“Fire!”
She pulls the trigger.
The harpoon catches and I pump my fist with excitement. Lily knocks the gun from the mount as the rope pulls taut and the gun rides up the side of the boat, anchoring just under the lip of the gunwale. I pull the wheel sharp, to the right this time, causing the net to drag toward the stern.
“Lily! Switch!”
Lily scampers to take the wheel as I charge to the back of the boat. I pry the gun loose, reeling in the rope attached to the harpoon. I give it one final yank as I see the net open wide and I drag the stunned octopus in.
“Raise the winch!”
Lily jumps with all her might and noses the winch switch upward. The net snatches closed as the jib starts to rise. The net emerges from the water slowly, the weight of its monstrous catch holding it down. The octopus rises from the ocean, beak first, his seven remaining arms pinned backward behind his head.
“Hello, octopus,” I say coldly. “It’s good to see you again.” And like this, helpless, hanging in his prison of woven rope, for the first time I can say this is true.
Lily trots up beside me and sits.
“Let me out of this thing!” the octopus bellows. His breathing is shallow, his arms pinioned to his body by the net. I can see they are tightly covering his gills.
“You try to kill me, we have business. You try to kill my dog, you die.”
Lily noses me in the calf as if to ask if this is really necessary. I look down at her in that way that I do when I ask for her trust—when we get in the car and we’re not going to the vet and I want her to know we’re about to have fun; when we try a new walk and she balks at the unfamiliar route; when I place her in a cool bath on the hottest of summer days, knowing this will end her discomfort. The way I did when I told her we were going on this awfully big adventure.
“You can’t kill me! You’ll never kill me!” The octopus starts to rock and the net begins to swing. The boat sways and the jib creaks and moans. Then the octopus crashes into the side of Fishful Thinking and the rope holding the net jumps off the pulley. The net plummets into the ocean and rope rapidly unspools off the crank. At the last second, Lily grabs the rope with her teeth and hunkers down with everything she’s got. She’s barely able to keep the rope from disappearing as her claws plow deeply into the deck.
“Hold on!” I sprint for the deckhouse, straighten the wheel, and give the engine full throttle. The boat lurches forward. I dive toward Lily and grab the rope. The octopus gives such
