The Forty Fathom Bank and Other Stories by Les Galloway Read Free Book Online

wine. The kerosene lamp, swinging a little in its gimbals, threw a soft shadowy light over the cabin. From time to time the thump of a shark could be heard, probably stiff now, rolling against the hull.
    â€œToday is my birthday,” May said in his same slow voice, and, after straightening the corkscrew with his strong fingers, methodically pulled out the cork.
    â€œThirty-one?” I asked, remembering his fishing license.
    â€œThirty-one,” he replied. He filled both cups and pushed one across the table to me.
    â€œWell, congratulations,” I said. “I feel like it has been my birthday, too.”
    We raised our cups in the yellow lamplight and drank. The wine was a rich Burgundy and in scarcely more than a minute I could feel my muscles relaxing and a pleasant drowsiness came over me. I kicked off my shoes and pulled up a blanket. The dishes were still on the table. Since May had cooked the dinner, I knew I should clean things up.But I could not budge. I closed my eyes for a moment. My whole body seemed to float away, and though I could hear May moving about and the soft clatter of dishes, I still could not budge. It was only when I heard the double click of May’s suitcase being snapped shut that I managed to open my eyes for an instant. And then, guilty as I felt for not having forced myself up, I had to chuckle at the sight of May’s stocky frame clad in a pair of red flannel pajamas, like some little boy in a fairy tale, as he reached up to put out the lamp.
    The dream was vivid. I was standing in the wheelhouse with my hand on the throttle. There was a big load of rocks in the hold and on the deck. The rocks were covered with little specks of something that looked like mica and glittered in the bright sun. The hull was down almost to the sheer strake and the after deck was awash. The water rushing in and out through the rocks made a sharp hissing sound. Close by lay a low sandy island, apparently far out at sea. May was standing on a small dune watching the boat pull away. He had on his sweatshirt; his new sea boots were turned down. He held his black skull cap in his hand and was quietly puffing on his pipe. In the dream, it was imperative that I leave him there because his additional weight would capsize the boat. I shouted to him that I would be back, but for some reason, either because he could not hear me or was not interested, he just stood there quietly puffing on his pipe. I shouted again, but this time I could not even hear my own voice. I turned up the throttle slowly so that the
Blue Fin
would not go down by the stern. As the little island receded, I realized I was crying. But when I wiped away the tears I found great red streaks on the back of my hand.
    When I opened my eyes, I could still hear the sharphiss of water through the rocks and then the softer grinding of gravel on gravel. For a moment I could not disengage the dream from the unfamiliar reality in which I found myself. Then slowly it came to me that the
Blue Fin
must have swung on her anchor chain and lay in closer to the shore across from Año Nuevo. Little waves, probably after waves from the reef, were washing up on what I could tell now was a shingle beach, rolling the small pebbles and making the hissing sound among the larger rocks. The moon had risen; by its pallid light through the open port, I could see the glass chimney of the kerosene lamp swaying in its gimbals, and again, like on the previous night, erratic circles danced on the bulkhead, the rudder post thumped woodenly and from forward came the rhythmic grumbling of the chain in its iron chock. No sound came from May’s bunk, but I could make out the outline of his sleeping figure and even thought I could discern his slow, even breathing. And over everything, like a thick blanket of some noxious gas, lay the dark ammonia stench of the sharks in the hold.
    For the first time in what seemed like days, or even months, I thought of my wife and the