I had been told not to work night blues.
There were about thirteen party boats lined up in Belmar then, and I loved every one of them. I had spent the summer with Garafano, scrubbing boats in port until the decks came clean and the blood smell lifted. The other captains had seen enough. I could get on anywhere. That was the rule. The other rule was don’t work night blues.
So I worked night blues.
I pulled in with my yellow VW Bug, fresh off the lot, paint too bright for the dock. The guys noticed. They notice everything. You either shrink or you meet it. Most of the time, I kept my head down and worked.
Lenny didn’t like me. He didn’t have to. He was a day captain. Nights belonged to Norm, a friendly, stern grandpa with iron guns for arms. He kept his sleeves rolled tight above the biceps, like he wanted you to see what work did to a body over time. He didn’t raise his voice much. He didn’t need to. I felt safer with him on the boat than anywhere else.
The guys showed me the easy way to unhook bluefish. The easy way still took a kind of strength I didn’t have yet. You lift the fish with one hand, control the head, and free the hook with the other. Simple if your grip doesn’t shake, if your forearms don’t give out.
Bluefish don’t cooperate. They twist, throw their weight, jaws snapping, wire leader flashing under the deck lights. The leader has to be metal. Anything else, they cut clean through. I tried it the right way once and nearly lost the fish and the hook.
So I worked from underneath. It was the wrong way, the painful way. I reached under the jaw, into the gills, and freed the hook blind. The gills burned into my hands, carving crisscross patterns across my fingers. The scales slicked everything. The fish kicked when it felt the slack and tore at my hands on the way out. Night after night, I did it that way. The cuts never quite closed. Saltwater kept them open. The blood washed off as fast as it came.
Nobody corrected me. They just watched to see if I’d stop. I didn’t.
Night blues had an edge that was unparalleled. The fish and the customers matched each other, the same temper, same sudden turns. Eighty people at the rail, all convinced the fish in front of them was theirs. Lines crossed, hooks buried, voices up. You learned to step into it, not around it. Grab the leader, control the head, get the hook out, move on.
The nights ran long. Diesel hum, deck lights buzzing, beer cans rolling under boots. Cigarettes burned down and got flicked into the black. The ocean stayed flat and dark until you hit the fish.
“On the meat,” someone would say, and then everything tightened at once. Rods bent. Reels screamed. Bluefish came over the rail in bursts, silver and mean, slamming the deck, snapping at anything near them. You didn’t think. You moved.
My hands toughened slowly. The grip came later. The trembling stopped one night without asking permission.
It was hot when it finally came together. Sweat ran down my back. The deck was slick with scales. The boat sat heavy over the fish. I reached down and lifted a bluefish clean with one hand, about sixteen pounds, maybe more. It twisted once, then settled just enough. My other hand found the hook without searching. A small turn, a shift of pressure, and it came free.
No hesitation. No sting.
I dropped the fish into the box and stepped to the next line. Another fish, same motion, lift, control, pop, move. It happened. My hands did what they were supposed to do.
Around me, nothing changed. Men were still yelling. Someone was arguing over a crossed line. Someone else was laughing loudly. Beer sloshing. Cigarettes glowing. The ocean kept its own pace under all of it.
I worked through the run and didn’t think about it again until the boat slowed and the rail thinned out. I looked down at my hands. No new cuts. No shaking. I flexed my fingers once and felt the strength sit there, steady.
Nobody noticed.
I rinsed the deck when it was over, hosed the scales toward the scuppers, and watched the water carry everything back out. The lights went off one by one. The engines idled down. The dock came up out of the dark, familiar again.
I walked past the guys without saying much and climbed into the yellow Bug. The seat was still too new, too clean. My hands left marks on the wheel. I didn’t wipe them off.