“It’s a cobia!” Tank shouted from the bow, where he had a better view down into the water.
Alberto continued to fight the fish, reeling as he lowered the rod, and the fish taking some of it back from the drag as he raised it. But Alberto was slowly winning the fight.
He was also beginning to tire. It’d only been five days ago that he was pulled from a drifting boat, nearly dead from dehydration.
I stood beside him, ready to catch him if he wore himself out too much or catch the rod if it slipped from his grasp. I could see the fish—a big cobia—well over the thirty-three-inch limit.
“Do you want me to boat him for you?” I asked, concerned.
He looked up at me, determination etched in his little face. “I can do it. I can catch him by myself.”
Tank moved back with the net ready. I pulled a long gaff from under the port gunwale.
“No need for the net,” I told Tank. “That’s definitely legal-sized.”
I thought Alberto was on the verge of collapsing when he finally got the fish close to the boat. With a quick, fluid movement, I gaffed it and lifted it over the side.
The sudden lessening of the tension on his line caused Alberto to stumble back. He landed on the deck, sitting up with the rod still in his hands.
I dropped the cobia to the deck, where it flopped feebly, and then I knelt beside the boy. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, breathing hard. “Yeah, but he got away.”
“He didn’t get away,” I said, moving so Alberto could see his catch.
“Holy cow!” he exclaimed. “That’s the biggest fish I ever caught.”
I took the rod from him and helped him onto the little seat in front of the console. “Take it easy,” I told him. “You caught him all right. No man could have done a better job; that is one big cobia.”
Tank went aft and held the fish alongside the ruler stuck to the inside of the hull. “It’s forty-four inches,” he said.
“Can we keep it?” Alberto asked, looking back.
“Anything over thirty-three at the fork is good,” Tank said. “This fish is well past that.”
I got a small scale from the console, hooked it in the fish’s gill, and lifted it. “Just over forty pounds!”
I carried it forward. “Stand up, young waterman. Check out your catch.”
With the tail almost touching the deck, the fish and Alberto were practically eye to eye.
“That’s a big fish,” he breathed, looking it up and down. “We didn’t let Savannah down.”
“You sure didn’t,” I agreed, smiling broadly. “They don’t get much bigger than this on the Gulf side.”
“Can we have it for dinner?”
“Absolutely, little man.”
Tank sat down on the gunwale and I noticed his face was flushed and he was breathing heavy.
“You okay, Master Guns?” I asked, dropping the fish in the box.
“Just a little winded,” he replied. “There’s an inhaler in the cooler.”
I quickly retrieved it and handed it to him. He pushed the button and took a deep breath from the mouthpiece.
“What’s wrong?” Alberto asked, moving over beside Tank, and putting a hand on the man’s knee.
Tank squinted up at me and I nodded.
He smiled at Alberto and ruffled his hair. “I’m sick, kid.”
“Huh?”
“I have a disease,” Tank said. “It’s called cancer and I don’t have much longer to live.”
“Then you’ll be dead? Like my mom and dad?”
“Yeah, son,” he said, pulling Alberto to his side. “Everyone dies sooner or later. It’s the only thing in life that’s guaranteed. But if a man’s lucky, he can choose how he spends his last days. I chose to spend mine down here, where the air is warm, and the fish are biting.”
Tank smiled down at him. Alberto seemed to accept and understand Tank’s wisdom, and smiled back.
We drifted along the bank, fishing. Alberto caught another cobia that was too small, but he made up for that with his next cast, boating a near thirty-pound black grouper.
By the time the current carried us to the north end of the shoal, the fish box was half full. I started the engine and moved around to the opposite side. At the south end of Channel Bank, I shut off the engine and we drifted north again.
“You called him Master Guns,” Alberto said, leaning against the gunwale, rod in hand. “And he called you Gunny. What’s that mean?”
“Tank and I used to be in the military—the Marine Corps. Do you know what that is?”
He shook his head. “Like a soldier?”
“Soldiers are Army,” Tank told him. “Marines are soldiers of the sea. The smallest, fastest, and most deadly branch of America’s military.”
“When I retired, my rank was gunnery sergeant,” I explained. “And Tank was a master gunnery sergeant. Gunny and Master Guns are sort of short for those.”
My cell phone chirped, resting on its charging pad. It was Savannah.
“Alberto didn’t let you down,” I said, grinning at him. “He’s caught the biggest so far—a forty-pound cobia.”
“Really?” she asked. “That’s amazing. How is he?”
“The fight wore him out a little,” I said. “But he was fine after a few minutes rest, and he’s caught a grouper and a couple of snapper.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?” she asked, the concern clearly evident in her voice.
“He’s fine, babe. Want to talk to him?”
“That’s okay,” she replied. “Just make sure he doesn’t overexert himself. And be sure to put sunscreen on him.”
“I will,” I assured her. “Was there a reason you called or just checking up on us?”
“Jimmy called me,” she said. “He knew you were fishing. The boat wouldn’t start, and he asked if I’d go pick him and Naomi up at the Rusty Anchor. We’re leaving in just a minute.”
“We?” I asked.
“The dogs haven’t been off the island in days,” she said. “I
