I saw a couple of sailboats and some birds—it was quiet this far from shore—and if you stared over the side into the water you could make out the bottom, thirty or forty feet down. Rick kept taking things out of his pockets: a piece of gum, a chunk of bait, a pill from a bottle of medicine, a visor, a box of Tic-Tacs. He put on sunscreen and smoothed his mustache. Then his rod snagged—it was so bent I thought he would snap it—and he pulled a fish right out of the water, a beautiful, flat, wide fish, shimmering aquamarine color. It had incredible skin. He held it up; it was flipping around like crazy. I’d never seen a fish like that. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep it or throw it back, but he laid it on the deck and stepped on it and stuck a knife into its head. Then he threw it in a Ziploc bag.

“That, right there,” he said, “is good eating.” I watched as the interior of the bag fogged over with moisture. I think the fish was still moving.

I said, “Is it dead?”

He said, “What do you mean?”

“Would you kill it, please?”

He said, “It’s dead.”

“Is that goatfish?”

“That? No.”

WE HAD BEERS from a cooler and watched the other people fish. There was a woman across from us wearing a thing like a black slip and drinking a Coke. Rick said, “Look at her. She’s incredible. My dick’s been hard the whole day.”

She looked like Breakfast at Tiffany’s—that actress with the skinny neck. I smiled at her. She smiled back. “Guess what,” Rick said. “She wants to fuck you.” They started the engine again, and we cruised along the water, spray coming over the side and hitting us. He kept staring at the woman. She flipped her long black hair, talking with the captain, and turned her beautiful ass in our direction. She was small and had a girl’s waist and tan shoulders. Her legs were perfect. He said, “What I’d do to get my rocket off in her.” The boat was turning around then. We headed back.

They let us out at the dock, a short way from the buildings and the people lying out on the sand. We came walking up the beach with Rick’s fish, and Rick went someplace to clean it. The women, Joanie and Diane, were lying side by side.

“Look at this,” Diane said, and sat up to show me the back of her head. “Joanie did this to my hair.” It was all braided in teeny rows. She was excited.

“That’s wild, honey,” I said. “Thanks, Joanie.”

She said, “No problem.” She was propped up on her elbow, with her free hand covering her eyes like a visor. She squinted into the sun, smiling hopefully.