Ode to a Fish Sandwich by Rebecca M. Hale

Author:Rebecca M. Hale [Hale, Rebecca M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, International Mystery & Crime, Travel, Caribbean, General
Publisher: Green Vase Publishing
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

The Fisherman

BURT STARTED HIS day in the predawn hours, when darkness still lay across the island, wrapping its black shroud around the shoulders of the snoozing volcano.

With a wide yawn, the fisherman blinked himself awake. He needed no alarm clock. The shallow bed in his one-room shack didn’t inspire late sleeping. The building’s roof leaked when it rained, and gaps in the walls let in all manner of insects, sometimes even a few snakes.

Clearly, he hadn’t chosen the residence for its amenities; it was simply the most convenient location to the pier where he docked his boat. Besides, most of his earnings were used to maintain the cinderblock building where Winnie and the kids lived. The rent on the leaky shack was about all he could afford.

Stretching his arms over his head, Burt shuffled groggily to a counter mounted against one of the shack’s interior walls. He poured water into a rusted coffee maker, plugged its cord into the only working electrical outlet, and pushed the start button. He dressed while the brew percolated through the machine; then he filled a plastic travel mug with fresh coffee, added a few shakes of artificial creamer, and took his first swig.

Smacking his lips together, Burt stepped outside and crossed to the pier. He needed no artificial illumination to guide his way; he knew the layout by memory. He moved comfortably in the darkness, feeling his way on instinct.

With several loud grunts, he lugged his fishing gear into the boat and strapped a couple of plastic coolers to the side of its hull. Giving the equipment a last tinkering, he untied the moorings, yanked the pull-string for the tiny motor, and puttered out to sea.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the spot he’d selected for that morning’s outing, a deep quadrant of water about a half-mile offshore from the diner.

Or rather, he reached the spot that Delilah had selected for him.

Every morning, her spirit told him when and where to drop his lure lines, at what depth, and with which bait.

A dozen years after her death, she still made all the important decisions in his life.

Burt had no complaints about Delilah’s continued intrusions. In fact, he welcomed her guidance. In fishing-related matters, she appeared to have superior knowledge and expertise.

Rarely did his outings fail to yield a sizeable catch.

He loaded his hooks, cast his lines, and sat back to wait.

~

THE FISHERMAN’S PEACEFUL sigh seeped into the inky blackness. He took comfort in the sea’s familiar company.

It was a typical morning, the same as any other.

His routine seldom varied, except to sit out a passing storm or to prepare for the threat of a hurricane.

Once he’d secured his limit, he would motor the boat toward shore, dropping anchor by the curving boulder pile outside the diner. The rocks had become a natural dock. He could easily maneuver his vessel close enough to heft a cooler full of fish over the side. From there, he would carry the chest up to the diner’s kitchen.

After offering Winnie her pick of the morning’s haul, he would sell the remainder to the ferry operators.

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