Chapter 3 - LANDING


The wind was still woofing in Smithport at three o'clock, when the last crescent of the old moon rose up over the islands, casting an eerie light on the anchorage. Even under the lee of the land, williwaws were churning up wavelets, and they slapped against the moored lobsterboats. Loose lines clanged against uprights. The boom arm on the Co-op hoist swung and creaked.

Dunk Carrigan watched the boats twitch and sidle in the gusts as he held the hose running between the gas tank on his father's truck and his own outboard jug. The old man was offshore with Sonny, which usually meant a five day trip, and Dunk intended to replace the gas after he sold today's wrinks. What Buster didn't know wouldn't get Dunk in trouble, he figured. He hoped.

Tall and raw-boned, with a shock of bright red hair and a shaggy goatee, Dunk was still scared of the old man, even at 16. Buster ruled his roost with a nasty tongue and a hard hand, driving Dunk's mother into a hollow-eyed silence, and regularly sending Dunk's sister Ann into gales of tears. But Buster saved his best shots for his son, telling him of his worthlessness so long and so often, that Dunk was half convinced he really was the hopeless numbnuts the old man said he was. He sure seemed to get it wrong most all the time.

He'd paid off his 16-foot flatiron skiff, though, and was paying off the 20 horse Merc that drove her. Only trouble was the payment due yesterday had left him without enough cash to gas up for this morning's tide. So he was borrowing a little fuel. Dunk sneezed and wiped his tongue on the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt. The taste of gas always gagged him. He spat over the railing into the water.

When his six-gallon jug was full, Dunk upended the siphon and let the excess flow back into the truck. He replaced the caps, and lugged his tank and siphon down the ramp to the Co-op float, where his skiff was tied, swung the jug over, and hopped aboard. He was just clicking the hose on when he heard a big CAT thundering through the gut and into the reach. In the broken silence masses of gulls lifted off the waterfront buildings and made a raucous towse in the air.

"Holy Moly. Tell me it's not Sonny and them. Please!" But it sure sounded like the SUZY-Q, and Dunk began pulling his skiff between the pilings under the wharf, deeper and deeper into the dripping darkness. Lucky the tide was down.

"If the old man sees me, he'll figger it out, surer than skunk," Dunk cursed to himself. "But there's a couple three hours to dead low water, and maybe, just maybe I can hide out til they're unloaded and gone home."

Well they sure weren't wasting any time. No sooner had Sonny swept in and backwatered up to the float, than Buster jumped out and scuttled up the ramp. Dunk had never seen the old man move so quick, unless it was to hurt someone. While Sum and Jumbo secured docklines, Buster fired up his truck and spun rubber backing it out to the end of the wharf overhead, next to the hoist.

"That's funny," thought Dunk. Usually they cull fish onboard and load it into tubs for Wild Bill's trucks. Dunk was too deep among the pilings to follow exactly what was happening. In the halo of the docklights he could just see Sum's gotohell hat, which had once been crimson colored with a white H, but was now mostly fish guts, and had an eagle feather stuck in the side. So he was surprised to see a 55 gallon drum lift up off the SUZY-Q when the electric dock winch clunked on and hummed. And he heard it tunk down on Buster's truck bed.

"Bury that sucker in my barn," Sonny said, and Jumbo hustled up the ramp as Buster squealed out on the Co-op's slick decking. Dunk heard the door slam. The truck tore-assed out of the parking lot, and shifted up, going out of earshot over the Carver's Island bridge.

"Pretty slick, Sum," Dunk heard Sonny say. "Another half hour and this place would have been full of eyes."

"You wanna cull fish, or have breakfast?" Sum asked, lighting a Camel Filter, and offering the pack to Sonny. Sonny took one.

"No rush now. Let's wait til the boys are back, and we can all be about it when the day shift get here. How about some of those Monk tails and a cuppa java?"

"Finest kind," Sum replied, and the sound of their voices muted as they went below on SUZY.

Dunk slowly pushed his skiff between the pilings to the downstream side of the wharf, then quietly skulled his way between the moored boats and lobster cars, keeping something between himself and SUZY-Q, until he was under the bridge and out into the reach. There he let the skiff spin her way down tide and wind, as he sat on the stern thwart, smoking, and wondering what Sonny and them were up to?

Off Goose Island he lowered the leg, squeezed the bulb, pulled the choke, and started the Merc on the second tug. Setting a coarse for the ledges he called Little Italy, Dunk throttled her up onto the step, stood up amidships, and conned her over the lumpy waters with the long stick tiller. New moon coming up. Double tides. The wrinkles were showing already, and Dunk had payments to make.

"Whatever the old man is into, he can't thump me now," Dunk exalted.