"So Close To Shore" by B.S. Miller

So Close to Shore

by B.S. Miller

Ribbons of orange, yellow, and pink streaked the warm late-May sky as the sun started to get low. Salty water lapped against the hull of the skiff slowly drifting along in the Chesapeake Bay. Kit watched a herring gull seamlessly glide across the sky as he grabbed a strip of thin, rubbery squid from the cooler and slid his hook easily through it. 

“We got about a half hour before the tide goes out,” Bill said, checking the tide app on his phone. “I’m going to try my luck with a shad.” He picked up a five-inch lure and tied it onto his fishing line. 

The rich, bright colors in the sky reflected off the sparkling water and Kit lowered his sunglasses back onto his face before casting his line out. “I still can’t believe that those guys drown last week. We’ve practically walked to that spot drunk during low tide… Just barely seems possible, so close to shore.”

“What I read said there was no damage to the boat. They disappeared for days. And when they found the bodies, they were… scavenged. With what was left, they couldn’t tell what happened.” Bill’s brow tensed under his sunglasses and he shook his head to clear the mental image, quickening his reeling to shift his attention away from the vision of bodies being consumed by rays, crabs, worms, maybe even sandbar shark pups and the like… He tried to exhale the image along with his breath. “They were fishing for flounder, too. At least, that’s what someone said they talked about at the dock before the guys headed out.” Bill cast his line back out, letting it drop until the lure reached the bottom. He made small jerks with his rod to wiggle the lure along the bottom, trying to entice another flounder himself though there were already eight in the cooler—the limit they could have for two people in one day.

Kit watched the people on the beach packing up their belongings as the sun got lower and the sky got pinker. “You don’t think we should pack it in for the day, too?”

“I want to try to get a few more before we have to head in.” He saw the apprehension on Kit’s face and assumed it was his usual hesitation about fishing over the limit. “We haven’t been caught yet. Quit worrying so much. I’m trying to meet my quota for the month. Tomorrow, the minimum size for flounder goes up and I don’t know if my guy will keep looking the other way on that.”
Kit didn’t say anything. He drew the line in and cast out again, barely looking at the water because he was so entranced by the painted sky. While he made sure to not catch over his limit, he didn’t interfere much when Bill snagged a couple extra.

The water lapped louder, like something moved close to the boat. It rocked. 

Kit shot a look to Bill but Bill didn’t seem to notice. Bill continued jerking his rod. Maybe Bill just jerked the rod harder and made the boat rock. Kit looked back out at his own line. The boat rocked again.

“Knock that shit out,” Bill said behind him.

Kit turned and looked at Bill. “What shit? I thought that was you jerking your lure.”

Another hard knock of water splashed against the small boat.

Bill stepped wider and bent his knees to keep from losing his balance. He and Kit scanned around the sides of the skiff to see if anything was in the water around them. They saw nothing besides the intermittent sparkles reflecting on the surface. 

Smack. It sounded like a hand smacking hard against the hull.

Bill sat hard on the bench by the tiller to keep from falling, rod still in his hand. He started to reel in his line when something tugged. Another tug. His line started to go quickly out and he instinctively jerked the rod and spun the reel against the pull. The rod bowed from the tension in the line and Bill braced a foot against the gunwale for leverage as he leaned back and pulled, released a bit of line and leaned forward, then reeled and leaned back again. The boat rocked repeatedly in this tug-of-war as Bill let some slack zip out then fought to reel it back in. The boat was being dragged further out.

Smack.

Kit’s eyes shot down at the deck. He assumed whatever smacked the hull was what fought on Bill’s line but there was no way for it to be both places. Before he could finish the thought, he heard Bill holler. Bill was standing with one leg braced up against the rail as he fought the rod, braced in his hip, as the skiff tilted further and further until the keel was raised high out of the water and his rod was bowed over in a deep arch.

Snap.

The skiff smacked down onto the water the moment the rod broke. Kit was tossed over the side. Bill plummeted backward. Line tangled around his flailing leg and his head cracked against the toppled cooler, leaving a mixture of oily squid slime and ink to leak from the bag onto his slack face—and then he was gone. His limp body was tugged hard and fast over the side of the skiff and dragged just below the surface, giving the appearance of a voracious bluefish blitz—water smacking and churning like a frenzied washing machine.

Kit kicked upward until his face broke the surface and he gulped air. Something peeked at him from around the stern. Bioluminescent eyes sparkled in the dusky light and gills on either side of a slender neck fluttered delicately. Sopping tendrils of black hair pooled around it. It held his gaze as it reached a webbed, humanoid hand around the stern and gave it one last hard smack before sinking below the surface… then Kit was dragged under.