The Waters of Stingray

Ike, certain He'd handled himself well, was pleased. He broke precise half-inch chunks from the body of a soft-shell crab to bait the three hooks tied to his line. The crabs were kept captive in a wooden tray on the floor boards of the boat. They sloshed about lazily in the salt water brought over the side in a dented galvanized bucket which had a hemp rope tied to the handle.

The boat, built by an oysterman out of native bull pine logs and planks, was a 20-foot Chesapeake Bay canoe pointed at both ends. A canopy nailed to four poles provided shade. The engine, ancient, rusty and leaking drops of oil into puddles of black water beneath it, had been salvaged from a junk-yard Dodge. When they wanted to move, they shifted gears and let out a clutch as if driving an automobile--only they never used any of the gears except third and occasionally reverse.

Doc had charge of the engine. His blunt surgeon's hands sensed its idiosyncrasies and babied it into obeying. Doc himself was stocky and sunburned. He wore a long-billed baseball cap and chewed a cud of Brown's Mule tobacco, the juice from which he spat into the water where pallid jellyfish undulated.

"I've got something," Beanie said before Ike cast out his own baited hooks. Beanie's pole arched and jerked. He worked over his reel. Ike, Doc and Bobo moved to port to stare at the water.

Beanie brought the stingray alongside--a flat and sinister-looking animal with a thrashing tail. The saw-toothed barb under the tail was searching for the enemy. Beanie lifted the stingray into the boat by means of a crabbing net, put his foot on the back of the flapping fish, and cut out the hook with a cork-handled knife. Using the crab net again, he returned the stingray to the water where it slid into the shadows.

"Tell your friends a god saved you," Beanie said to the stingray. Beanie was a ruddy, middle-aged man who owned a heavy-equipment business. Up the Rappahannock he had a polished ocean cruiser with diesel engines, but he preferred fishing in the rough, outsized canoe with his friends. He wore a great tasseled sombrero which shaded his face and bare shoulders.

"He might start a new religion among the stingrays," Bobo added. Bobo was small and grizzled. In his early 70s, he had beautiful silver hair which he brushed straight back and a narrow, haughty face. Anybody who didn't know him would have believed him a native of the region--laconic, scowling, suspicious of strangers. His old khakis were stained with fish and bait, and there were holes in his tennis shoes. Actually, he was an attorney for the railroad and might be found during the week at the country club suavely greeting guests and waltzing the lathes.

They were all men Ike was proud to be with. They had come for him early Saturday morning while it was still dark and had driven toward the mouth of the Rappahannock in Doc's battered and rattling station wagon. They were very serious about their fishing, discussing it all the way to the water. Doc hunched over the wheel like a racing driver. In the rear, rods and gear clattered on the metal floor. Dried fish scales fluttered over their feet.

Ike was disappointed with their clapboard cabin. He hadn't expected a luxurious resort, but with (continued on page 156) Stingray (continued jrom page 107) all their money he was surprised that it was hardly more than an unpainted shack with a few bunks in it. It stood in a sandy space among spindly pine trees bleeding resin. The kitchen stove was an iron wood burner, and the plumbing was outdoors. The cook, Charley Bird, wore a dirty apron and was pulling feathers from a chicken when they drove up.

Ike didn't show his disappointment. He was the newcomer to the group. They had been a long time inviting him, and he knew he was being tested. He was careful, because he liked these men and, regardless of the cabin, wanted to be included among them.

The first evening while Charley Bird fried fillets from blues they'd caught, they drank gin under an awning attached to the cabin and dealt hands of stud poker on a scarred table. Charley Bird kept a mist of insect killer rolling around them. Ike played a tight game, winning a few dollars by tough and canny betting. It was, he was sure, how they wished him to play.

He was up first the next morning. When the others staggered out tousled and bleary-eyed, he had already loaded bait, gear and gasoline into the boat. Because of him, they were able to put into the bay earlier. He felt their approval.

The gray-blue water was perfectly calm under a blazing yellow sun. The bay was so smooth it looked as if it could be walked upon. Ike was no longer afraid he might become seasick. He was able to relax enough to enjoy both the company and the fishing.

During the morning they had little luck, though Beanie got his stingray and a fair-sized drum which he stuffed into a croaker sack hanging over the side. Bobo, their helmsman, had taken them around several buoys and a steel lighthouse with spidery legs set on rocks. Finally they had pulled up anchor and just let the boat drift with the tide in the hope of bungling into fish.

It was lazy living. They sat in the shade of the canopy smoking and talking quietly. They drank cans of beer from the ice chest, being careful to sink them when empty instead of letting them float on the water. The boat weltered a little. They bit into peppery sirloin sandwiches Charley Bird had fixed for them and wrapped in wax paper.

In the midafternoon Ike was the first to see the sky changing. The others were supposed to be old salts, yet his alertness picked out the cloud.

"Rain?" he asked.

They stirred in the dark shade of the canopy to peer at the cloud. Bobo shielded his eyes.

"Black," he said. "We better move in."

There was no alarm in his voice. He had simply stated a fact. Doc switched on the engine, pressed the starter and engaged the clutch. Bobo swung them around toward land. Beanie and Ike reeled in lines and straightened tackle as the boat moved toward the hazy line of the shore.

Beanie opened them each a can of cold beer from the ice chest. They sat drinking and discussing the fact that if there were a storm, they might try surf casting for striped bass which often hit bait in rough weather. Occasionally Bobo would turn to look at the tumbling black cloud spreading rapidly over the sky. It was as if two skies were over them--one dark as night, the other belonging to the day. Doc increased their speed, and water slapped against the bottom of the boat.

"It always does this on the workers' holidays," Beanie said.

They felt the first breeze from the storm. One moment the air was hot and moist around them, and the next a coolness touched their sweaty skins. Ike smiled at the relief from heat, but he saw the others were glancing more frequently at the black cloud swallowing up the sky.

He looked at the land. The shore was still a long way off. Apparently an ebb tide had carried them farther than any of them had realized. The air was not only cooler, but there were also swells in the water. The boat rocked on growing waves.

The breeze, too, had become stronger, gusting at times and throwing spray into their faces. Some blue sky was left, but most of it was covered with black clouds. Shafts of sunlight piercing the land were smothered.

"There's the rain," Beanie said.

They could see it falling behind them. At first it was miles away. Like a veil it blotted out all that it covered and made advancing pits in the water. Squawking gulls were flying out of it.

Ike shifted on the board seat. Like so many people born and reared in the mountains, he was a poor swimmer. He was used to trout streams and narrow rivers, not open, unlimited water. He looked at the life jackets stored in the bow.

Wind and rain hit them simultaneously--like a fist. Ike was surprised and made anxious by the force of the blow. The boat heeled, hung trembling, and righted itself. Rain, shooting obliquely, stung his skin. Like the others, he was cold. They huddled under the flapping canopy.

Bobo fought to keep the boat on course as rain twisted about them. They were still bucking an ebb tide, which caused the canoe to fishtail. Each time that happened, wind hit them broadside. The boat kept falling off and sinking into deepening troughs of swelling waves. Water foamed higher than the gunwales.

Because of the rain pouring on them, they could no longer see land. Bobo was only guessing at his course, as he had no compass. The swooping motion of the boat caused Ike's stomach to tighten sickeningly. He was shivering from cold. Water had slopped into the boat and was rippling back and forth under the floor boards. He wanted to put on a life jacket, but did not because doing so might appear cowardly to the others.

The Dodge engine sputtered and stopped. Quickly Doc pressed the starter. The engine caught and ran. They were all relieved. Then the engine quit a second time. Working very fast with his surgeon's hands, Doc unscrewed a cap and checked the gasoline with a dipstick. The fuel was low. Beanie twisted the top from a five-gallon can. The boat was turning longways into the waves, and more water was coming over the side.

Just as Beanie started pouring in gasoline, a howling gust of wind and rain hit them. The canopy ripped off. The boat dipped sideways into a yawning trough. A gunwale caught the wave, and water fell in. The boat stayed down. In a moment it was full of water.

Ike lunged for one of the life jackets. Fighting to keep his head up, he strapped it on. The wooden boat did not sink entirely, but lay awash. Tackle boxes, rods, and the three other life jackets floated away. The crabs found freedom. Ike's bare leg brushed the clinging softness of a jellyfish, and he jerked it back. The leg began to sting.

He was very much frightened. He held tightly to the boat, which weltered heavily in the waves. The others were doing the same. The water seemed warm compared to the wind.

"If we just hang on, we'll be all right," Doc told them. He had lost his billed cap. "These things don't last long."

"Somebody'll miss us," Beanie agreed. His sombrero drooped. "Charley Bird'll have the oystermen out looking for us."

"The wind's blowing us toward shore," Bobo said. His silver hair was plastered flat to his skull. "Whether they find us or not, we ought to land on a beach."

The storm beat on them. Black clouds rolled right down over the water, and the rain hissed. The boat, low in the water, would not entirely support them. They had to stay outside and grasp the edges. Big waves sent it under. At such moments they all bobbed free and waited for the boat to rise.

During the late afternoon the rain lightened somewhat, and the wind quieted.

"It's gone now," Doc said. "In a few minutes we'll see sunshine."

He was wrong. They were merely in a pocket of the storm. The rain again grew heavy, and the wind shrieked. In spite of his life jacket, waves splashed at Ike's mouth and he swallowed salt water. Coughing, he pulled back his head. Rain hit against his face and clenched eyelids.

Nobody said anything about the lowering darkness, but they knew if they weren't found before night, there was no chance of rescue until morning. Rain continued to fall. Gradually blackness of night joined that of the storm. They could see no lights, but in lulls of the wind they heard the distant mourning of a foghorn.

Bobo was the first to have trouble. Older than the rest of them, he was growing weak. Waves tore him loose from the boat, and swimming had made him arm-weary. He sank under the water. Beanie, still wearing the sombrero, had to grab him.

"I'm all right," Bobo said.

He wasn't all right. He was limp with exhaustion and cold. Beanie got on one side of him and Doc on the other. Between them they held him up.

During the long hours, however, they, too, grew tired. Waves broke over them, and they had to struggle not to lose Bobo. His head lolled about.

Ike believed they were going to the. He could imagine a story in the newspapers about their bodies being found. He had once read of drowned men eaten by crabs and turtles. He drew up his feet as if a wrinkled, ancient mouth were reaching for his flesh.

There was no end to the night. Though the waves rhythmically lessened in size, unexpected big ones smashed at them and buried the boat. It would stay under a long time. Slimy from jellyfish, they groped for it like blind men.

Bobo was in bad shape. His head slumped forward until his face was in the water. Beanie and Doc struggled to hold him up. They put him into the boat, which would partially support him, but waves washed him out.

"Give him the life jacket," Doc called across to Ike.

"No," Ike said.

"You're still strong. We can put the jacket on him and if we lose him he'll stay afloat."

"I don't want to drown either."

"Damn you, give us the jacket," Beanie said, pulling himself around the boat to Ike. He jerked at the harness. Ike knocked away the hand.

"Keep off me," Ike said, his fist doubled.

Beanie's sombrero hid most of his face as they bobbed side by side. Beanie cursed. Doc was holding Bobo.

"I'm all right," Bobo said weakly. "I don't need it."

"You need it," Doc told him.

"I'll be OK," Bobo insisted.

Beanie pulled himself back around the boat to help Doc hold Bobo. They were losing the power of gripping with their hands. The force of the waves pulled insistently at Bobo.

"Let's use our belts," Beanie said. "We'll put them together and strap him to me."

He wasn't talking to Ike, who had again closed his eyes against the rain. He heard them thrashing around in the water on the other side of the boat.

Toward morning the water quieted and the wind began to lay. They had drifted so far they could no longer hear the foghorn. When the long and terrible darkness lifted slightly, all but Bobo raised their trembling faces to the glow of light. Bobo, unconscious, was strapped to Beanie, who had lost his sombrero and whose mouth hung open. Doc, his skin inflamed from the stings of jellyfish, moved feebly beside them.

Ike heard the plane before the sky was entirely clear. The aircraft belonged to the fishing fleet and was used to spot menhaden. It went over the first time without seeing them. A few minutes later it returned and circled.

The boat that came was not Coast Guard either, but a fishing trawler. The engine made deep chuggings in the water. The crew pulled them up to a deck covered with crates and nets. The captain, a young man in coveralls and rubber boots, helped Doc work on Bobo. The men brought clean rags and a bottle of ammonia for the jellyfish stings. Bobo groaned. They carried him inside to lay him on a bunk.

The hot sun warmed Doc, Beanie and Ike. The day was clean and golden. Their clothes were quickly dry. The cook served them bowls of oatmeal and mugs of black coffee. They stretched out on the deck to sleep while the trawler moved into the mouth of the Rappahannock from the bay.

The trawler maneuvered to a pier made of black pilings lashed together by cables. Charley Bird, a doctor and an ambulance were waiting. A crowd of women in aprons and white kerchiefs had come down from the tomato cannery. They watched silently while Bobo was put onto a chrome litter and taken away in the ambulance. A deputy sheriff wearing a tan uniform drove Doc, Beanie and Ike to the cabin. The Coast Guard had telephoned their wives in Richmond.

Charley Bird loaded the bags and said he would clean up the cabin before locking it. Ike sat by himself in the rear of the station wagon.

"Bobo'll be OK," he said as Doc drove toward Richmond.

"Sure," Beanie answered.

"I guess I hit the panic button," Ike went on, not wanting to plead. "I never learned to swim much."

"Why worry about it?" Doc asked.

Yet neither of them turned to look at Ike, and from there on in to the city they talked quietly and as if he were not among them.