He was piecing together how to bring the monster around to the boat’s port-side diving door when it suddenly twisted and went back under. That was when Gannon dropped the rod altogether. The reel clattered against the deck as he grabbed up the thick monofilament line with his gloved hands and began tugging the huge fish in hand over hand.

He had it just off the hull, holding the banjo-tight line firmly with his left hand, and was kneeling down on the deck lifting the gaff with his right when he felt it give one more mighty thrashing spasm.

“No!” Gannon screamed out as the frenzying line gave a funny jerk and the weight suddenly and completely disappeared on him.

He groaned as he stood and lunged over the gunwale with the gaff. But the huge fish was already gone. Gannon watched brokenhearted as its immense beautiful tail, already ten feet deep and counting, waved bye-bye down in the clear water as it dived.

Spit the hook a foot away! Gannon thought in agony as he slammed the gaff down loudly against the deck.

He glanced forward at the jagged, now-useless piece of metal clamped to the bow rail that used to be his radio antenna.

After busting up his boat!

He lifted the sea rod and reeled in nothing and shook his head in furious disgust as he stared at the empty hooks.

“Fish one. Gannon less than zippo,” he said and after a moment began laughing as he looked for a towel.

He’d been a fisherman all his life, and it was either that or weep, he knew.

2

The sunset sky was glowing like a sheet of gold leaf by the time Gannon reeled in everything and got all the gear and tackle packed up and stowed tight.

After he washed up in the head, he went back up into the flying bridge and set the GPS for Cooperstown on Little Abaco to the south. Cooperstown was actually a little out of his way as he lived farther south and east out on Eleuthera Island. But with the radio antenna MIA, he wanted to be near shore by the time it got too dark.

He slipped his face shield up and his Costa polarized shades on and opened the boat wide to about thirty knots. Through the breeze, the sky began to lose its glow, and the endless plain of water took on the dark metallic tone of tarnished silver. Even for a Monday, the fishing lanes northwest of the Bahamas were deader than normal, the horizon empty in every direction. In fact, the only other vessel he got a glimpse of all day was a faint outline of a container heading west to Florida that morning when he started out.

His thoughts drifted to dinner. There was leftover lasagna in his fridge that he could nuke. Instead of fresh-grilled swordfish, he thought, shaking his defeated head in the rush of the wind. Oh, well. At least the beers would be cold.