He had been piloting the small boat out to sea for many seasons, fishing only for the dreaded shark and manta ray. Every morning, before the rise of the sun above the coastal mountain range, while the fog remained perched upon the small fishing village, Admiral Casey would walk along the waterfront. Smoking his tobacco-stained pipe, bundled warmly in his old navy coat and carrying a sturdy, black fishing pole, he would often smile, doffing his cap at the fellow fisherman who were preparing for their day's journey to sea.
El Tiberon was not a fancy boat. She was made of wood, rusty bolts, and an old motor from a '57 Ford automobile. There was room enough to sleep beneath the cracked frame of the thinly covered cabin, small, but room enough to stretch his long legs and hide from the afternoon sun and early spring rains. White at one time, the chipping paint, salty spray decay and years of battling with the power of the ocean gave El Tiberon the look of a spotted mountain leopard. Casey did not care how she looked. He could start her almost immediately every time and cruise out to his ocean target just as fast as Shephard's yacht. More importantly, El Tiberon always brought back the big fish.
After throwing the remaining bits and pieces of his bread and marmalade breakfast to the gulls, Casey walked down South Street towards his boat which rested west of Galway Boat House and boarded. He carefully laid his pole tip-up towards the bow, and reached into the cabin for a red gas can before heading to Jersey's Station.
Old Jersey was bald and as fat as a Kansas hog. The Admiral bought his gas at 5:00 a.m. each morning. After filling the five gallon can, Casey and old Jersey sat down and listened to the morning weather and fishing reports, chatting and sipping hot coffee. They watched the fishermen walk down the Embarcadero to their boats, disappearing into the fog that swallowed everything under a half-mile distance. At 5:30 sharp, the Admiral, now warm inside from the hot, sweet fluid, left Jersey's station and carried the full container back to his boat. He poured about one half of the potent liquid into the engine, pumped the choke cord three times, and fired her up.
When El Tiberon hummed and purred in coordinated rhythm, the Admiral cast off two rope lines from the dock and shoved off towards the lifting fog, away from Shephard's yacht where he kept her tied up. Once clear, he gently engaged first gear, sending the boat slowly into the channel towards Gertie's Live Bait and Supply House.
The flimsy wooden shack rocked to and fro in the gentle ripples caused by the morning sea tide and the sudden emergence of El Tiberon . Gertie came hobbling towards Casey from inside a small cabin, supporting her large body with a curved cane. Gertie and Casey had been close friends for many years. In fact, Casey was the only one to visit Gertie when she had the operation on her leg two years before. He often watched over the store during her occassional bouts with sickness, a result of the infection that overtook her body and nearly stole her life. Casey and Gertie loved to crack wise with one another despite being best friends.
"What do you want today, you old rooster," she bellowed, peering out from under a hooded raincoat which covered her thinning grey hair. Gertie had lost her husband to a boating accident at sea years before, and Casey knew that despite her harsh tone and gruff appearance, she enjoyed the relationship that the two had built over the years.
"The usual, you female relative of Jonah's Whale," piped the Admiral, kidding one of his dearest friends.
Reaching into the bait tank, she removed a brown burlap sack that was hanging half in, half out of the salt water which filled the tank. Gertie saved bonita heads and barracuda carcases for Casey.
"One of these days, one of them sharks is going to bite off that nasty old head of yours, you old goat," Gertie barked back.
"If one does, he'll die of blood poisoning." Casey and Gertie shared a chuckle. Despite the constant bickering, the two shared mutual admiration, even though they would never admit to it. The locals talked how their constant bickering resembled the dialogue between two young adolescents, not quite grown enough to give into the natural attraction that existed, yet mature enough to know the hidden feelings that warmed their insides.
Gertie heaved the sack of live bait towards El Tiberon . Admiral Casey caught the bait sack with his strong left hand before it hit the boat deck. He dropped the bait into a tank at the back of his boat before doffing his cap towards his old friend. Gertie retreated back into her home, talking and smiling to herself.
Admiral Casey stood tall at the wheel of his boat and slowly made his way across the narrow channel towards the huge boulders that defined the opening to the blue-green waters of Morro Bay. The Admiral had despised the sight of the large mechanical cranes that spent two years dredging and filling in the ocean floors with the rock and sand, but the breakwater it had created made travel to and from the dock comfortable for his small vessel. He brought El Tiberon up to five knots, filled and lit his curved tobacco-stained pipe, and headed towards the buoy which marked open sea.
Casey spotted five fishing boats out on this particular morning, men preparing their deep sea fishing equipment and listening to the first morning weather reports. It was on this morning, on the breakwater boulders that led to the mouth of the open sea, that he saw the dog for the first time.
A mixture of terrier and what appeared to be many other breeds, the small, thin canine was one of several other dogs on the beach that afternoon. Most were chasing sea gulls and splashing in the shallow waters. This dog, however, was not part of the jovial pack. The Admiral noticed that his tail was lying motionless on the sand, and his eyes were fixed far out to sea.
Admiral Casey watched the dog for a moment before focusing on the buoy that would guide him out of the channel. Off to the north and behind the gigantic rock that filled the bay, Casey heard the thundering call of the San Simeon Lighthouse boat horn. Once beyond the rocky breakwater, the wind which had been held back by the boulders eagerly began to work on the deep, wind-driven lines which covered Casey's face. The old man felt at home when the ocean breeze blew through his thick grey beard and the early morning fog moistened his blue coat. Casey did not mind that the thick air would wrinkle his coat, or that the smoke from his pipe would blow into his eyes. The weather would clear, and he would spend the next five hours hunting for dangerous shark and manta ray.
Quickly, take me to Chapter II: The Rock
Berkeley Santa Cruz