Ray Carlin woke up early and sat on the easy-chair in the hotel-room balcony, watching the sun rise up the Indian Ocean. Inside, Martha Carlin, sat straight in her bed, her hair in curls, complained of the slow breakfast service, which in comparison to their previous vacations, was much fast.
Since the couple's arrival on the tropical island of Augusta Atlanta the day before, Carlin's wife had as usual nagged without end. But the masculine was determined to enjoy this one week-holiday.
He was the manager of a bank in The Royal Country. This all expenses-paid trip was the reward for getting hundreds of new accounts. Accompanying the Carlins was Harris, the most promising young executive from the Bank's headquarters. Mr Carlin was able to see the enthusiasm of Harris oozing away at the complaints of Mrs Carlin, as he joined a group of young people.
Carlin got adapted to the tropical holiday rhythm. He left his usual eggs and bacon and feasted on mangoes and papayas with other guests on the hotel-roof, then to go to the beach.
Around ten to eleven, his wife would join him under their thatch-roofed cabin to start the day-long desires for soft-drinks and the application of sun-tan lotion, although she hardly exposed herself to the sun. Sometimes she would lower her body into the hotel pool, her permanent wavy hair protected by a fez-like cap, and swim very slowly for several meters before climbing out.
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On the third morning, Carlin watched as a young, wood-brown guest at the hotel followed on a single ski a speedboat around the cyan lagoon. Locked muscles, thighs tensed at the chop of the speedboat, he seemed to be chiseled off from an Oak tree. His laughter was echoing around the place. Carlin was feeling jealous of him.
He walked to the mirror and saw his reflection. He was 52, round and out of figure. Sunday was only four days away, when he would climb on a commercial and would only dream of returning here. He would stay at the bank for nearly a decade, then retire in style. His gaze then went on to a young woman walking along the beach; her figure making him wake up the carnal beast inside him.
"Why don't you just stop thinking of such things," came a voice behind him. Mrs Carlin had come to join him. She arranged herself under the umbrella.
Five minutes later he looked at his wife. She was preoccupied in a Rom-com novel, of which she brought a bundle. He wondered like so many times before this, how can someone have such an unquenchable longing for romance comedy while disapproving of the stark reality of the world.
It was not a marriage of affection or any sort of that stuff, even in the early days as she made it completely clear that she was disapproving of those things. For over 25 years, he has been engulfed in a loveless union, its wrenching monotony only ridiculed by dislike.
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It was on Friday afternoon that Harris crept up to him in the lobby. "Game fishing?" he whispered.
"No, of course not," said Carlin. "She would never agree."
"Don't tell her then."
Carlin was awestruck by the idea. He stifled. The image of the muscular, oak-brown man on the ski came on his mind, slashing his way across the lagoon. "I'm on," he said. "When do we do it?"
At 4.00 the next morning, Carlin slipped quietly out of the bed and glanced at Mrs Carlin. She was on her back like always, breathing slowly, her curly hair being kept in place by a plastic bag. After dressing up, he met in the lobby with Harris and Alpha Gilder, their tall American guide. They drove through the dark country to a minuscule harbor, and boarded a wooden boat.
"This is the Vanessa," said Gilder. "The captain is Monsieur Beaumont. The boat-boy is his grandson Jean." The old man greeted by a nod. Then he started the roaring engines, sliding across the lagoon to the open sea. Jean prepared the fishing rods.
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It wasn't much long after Harris and Carlin had each caught three fishes, the biggest a kilo-wise Trout. Seeing that the gentlemen can handle the equipment with much flair, old man Beaumont set course for deep azure some kilometers out. When reached, he had his grandson take the wheel. He took a needle and thread, and sewed the fins of the dead trout so that it looked alive. Then, assigning the new bait to the ocean, he returned to his chair.
The seas were getting higher now. The Vanessa was indulging wildly in midst of great waves. Just after nine'o'clock, a rod bucked swiftly and the line ran out quick, the reel clicking.
"Your turn sir," said Gilder to the bank manager.
As Carlin adjusted the wheel that increased the resistance of the reel, the rod bent into an arch. But the line went on running.
"Tighten it," the guide said, "otherwise he'll scuttle off with your line in full."
The plump man tightened his muscles and closed the clutch wheel further. The tip of the rod went down. Gilder looked at the marks that showcased the strains. "45 kilos," he said, "You're onto something big. That's the limit."
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Carlin gripped the rod tightly with both hands, placed the soles of his shoes against the end of the boat, and leaned back sharply. The butt of the rod was vertical between the thighs, the tip pointing at its apex. The line was still running. He pulled harder, bent his head and hung on. After two minutes, the reel stopped. Whatever was down there, took 600 meters of line.
Old Beaumont turned and said, "Sturgeon."
"The king of gaming fishes here," exclaimed Gilder, "he'll fight you like no one else. Better if you get onto harness."
The guide slipped the webbing over Carlin's shoulders. Two straps went around his waist. At last Carlin realized how burning the sun was. The tops of his bare thighs began to prickle. Sweat was conquering over his body. His face was already burned by the sun.
Slowly the rod rose as the fish followed the boat with much more speed to loosen the pull at its mouth. Carlin managed to reel in 50 meters of the line before the fish broke. When he did, the force nearly pulled the rod away from Carlin's grasp. The fish took in more than 100 meters of line before he stopped.
Four times in the next hour Carlin won back 100 meters; four times the fish clamped back his line. The bank manager was beginning to learn about pain. His fingers were throbbing, his wrists hurting, his forearms were bending and sending convulsions up to the shoulders. The webbing was eating into him wherever it touched. "I can't take it anymore," he said through gritted teeth.
"Just hang on," Gilder urged, "That is the battle. He has brawn, you have brain. It's all a game of tactics."
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Just after 10.00 AM, the sturgeon tailed for the first time. Carlin brought him unto 500 meters. The boat was on the tip of a roller wave when the great fish came out of the wall of cyan colored water. Carlin's mouth fell open. The beak with whiskers of the sturgeon lunged for the sky above. His dorsal fin was erect. He was like standing on his caudal fins, his body shuddering as if he was walking on the water. For a second, he was there, staring at him, when he disappeared back into the waves.
Old man Beaumont broke the silence with the shout, "C'est l' Monarque!"
"Vous etes sur?" Gilder turned around and asked. The old captain nodded.
"All right! That fish is a legendary one around this place," said Gilder, "A grey sturgeon with white diamond-shaped scales, five meters from tip to tip, is thought to be bigger than the record of 500 kilos. He's been hooked twice, and he broke out twice. They call him the Monarch."
As the afternoon sun advanced, the sun was using the deck as its anchor. Carlin was looking old and ill. His palms were watery due to the blisters, the sweat-dampened webbing cut into his shoulders. He sat hunched over his rod, lone with pain and a bout of self-determination which he never ever felt before.
The Monarch was 300 meters away, again tailing. The boat was in a depression, which made him leap towards them. The line was slack, making Guilder scream, "Take the frigging line otherwise he'll break loose!"
Carlin's fingers were working on the reel with a blur. The line went tight as the sturgeon dived, then reeled out again and again.
Guilder stooped and peered over at the lava-red face. Two whitish-red eye balls were watching him, two crumpled ears flanking the head. Guilder patted his shoulders and said, "Let me take it for now. You can have it at the finale."
Carlin opened his mouth to speak, "It is my fish," he said, "Leave me frigging alone!"
They fought on and on - the English bank manager and the sturgeon. Again and again the fish lunged and took line, but the breaks were growing shorter. Each time Carlin pulled him back in agonizing pain, he got a few meters.
His exhaustion was at its peak. By 4.30 Carlin had been fighting for eight hours. One of them will have to give it up. All of a sudden, the line went slack. Carlin pulled with all his might. The weight was too much.
"All hail the Monarch!" Guilder shouted.
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The sea was calm now, after the rise of the evening sun. Jean and Harris, who were sea-sick for most of the adventure, came out to see. Monsieur Beaumont stopped the engines and locked the wheel. The small band looked on in silence. At 20 meters, they were able to make out the Monarch's great weight. The beak with whiskers stood erect for a moment, then reeled aside. He gave up.
For the first time in eight and a half hours, Carlin let go of the rod. In pain he unbuckled his harness. He was too weak to stand, he slumped on the deck. The other four were prying over the edge.
The Monarch was lying on his side, tired almost to the point of death. Jean leaped to the fish, his spiked gaff held high.
Carlin's voice sounded more like a croak than a shout, "No!"
The boy stopped and looked back. Carlin was on his hands and knees, a wire-cutter in the mashed meat which was his palm. With the support of his free hand, he stood upright and dragged himself to the stern. Deliberately, Carlin placed the cutter's blades on the steel wire around the fish and pressed it. The wire parted.
"What the hell are you doing? He'll get away!" Harris shouted.
The Monarch shook his head and pushed himself into the cold water. A wave rolled onto the body as he went on deeper. His fin flicked twice before being completely submerged into the dark and cold home of his underwater.
"Frigging hell," said Gilder.
Carlin tried to stand up, but blood has made its abode in his head. He slumped down, unconscious.
When he regained consciousness the sun was down and the Vanessa was coming home across the lagoon. Carlin took no notice when the boat hit the jetty and Jean scuttled off towards the village. Guilder helped him off the boat, saying that their first stop would be a hospital now.
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Carlin slowly walked up the jetty where a number of villagers were lined up. The first person in the line was Monsieur Beaumont. Carlin nodded to the old captain and smiled. "Merci Beaucoup," he said.
"Salutations , chef Pêcheur," Beaumont said, tipping his hat. As Carlin walked by the villagers, every villager tipped his hat and repeated, "Salutations , chef Pêcheur."
"What are they saying?" Carlin asked.
"They are greeting you," said the guide. "They are referring to you as the master fisherman."
"Because I got the Monarch?"
Guilder laughed, "Hell No," he said, "It's because you gave him back his life."
It was nearly 10.00 PM when Carlin reached the hotel. He was looking very strange now. The calamine lotion was thickly smeared at his arms and legs, drying up to a dirty chalky white. Both hands were in bandages. His face was brick-red in color.
Slowly, he discovered a small crowd waiting to greet him.
"Welcome back, Old Man!" someone said. Everyone raised their glasses in respect.
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Carlin was slowly going up the stairs to his room just as Mrs Carlin came out from the Beauty Saloon, brought out of the salon by her husband's return. The day was spent in towering rage since the morning, totally puzzled by her husband's absence. She searched for him and eventually learned where he has gone. Her face was red too, from anger rather than the sunburn.
"Carlin," she blared out in rage, "Where the hell... What in the freaking hell do you think you look like?"
The bank manager looked down upon his wife and did something which he only dreamed of till now for years. He shouted, "QUIET!"
Martha Carlin's mouth dropped open like a hatch.
"For 25 frigging years," said Carlin in a quiet tone, "you have been threatening me of going to your sister's. I'm not going to fudging stop you; I am going to stay here."
Down the stairs, the crowd was in silence.
"You will not live poor at the junction of Bourbon Street and Langley Road," said Carlin, "I shall give you my home and whole of my savings."
Harris shivered, "You can't leave The Royal Country! You'll have nothing to live or eat on!"
"Hell yeah I can. When Monsieur Beaumont came over to me at the hospital, we struck a deal. With my high pension funds, I will buy his boat. He will stay on as the captain, with Jean going to college, I will be his boat-boy. For two years, he'll teach me the ways of the sea and the fish. After that, I shall start up a tourist firm for fishing here."
"What about the bank?" asked Harris.
"What about me?" wailer Martha Carlin.
"To hell with the bank," he said, "And to the deepest pit of hell with you, madam."
He went on climbing the few steps of the staircase, when the crowd downstairs broke out into cheers.