The Naked Bull

Vashon persevered; endeavored to at any length. Life had become a wrangle with nonsense, buggered by a witch’s tale he found himself buried deep in the chapters of. He began, more oft than not, to hold one-sided conversations with Poulsbo’s ghost, though there was no need of reply, he knew his younger’s response by rote. And what was she peering at, just over his shoulder, if not he?

“Yet I still have time, no? The pain I can endure, suffering becomes a monotonous bother. Has a tendency to curtail some of my more…loftier future events. So now, while my eyes and fingers are still one, I must tell you a story about a place you have never been, and never will. The name of this place is Mukilteo. And the beach was mine though the exact year escapes me, I do however remember the weather: Gray pewter incessant drizzle, as were all those days and nights, being in such proximity to Seattle, what might one expect? Do you remember, my lost soul? Oh, I see the look in your eyes ‘how I do go on at times’, yes?”

He mouthed the words in his drowse, having been awake since before dawn as Mukilteo slept in the black darkness of night merging with the grey darkness that followed. The tears stung like brine, if he could drink them, he wondered, would they still themselves then?

Another morning, another day he reckoned. Issaquah did have her small mercies, after all.

The sky had only begun to hint at a dullish grey emanation when the first of many resounding explosions echoed inside the metal van. Vashon had just begun to sleep, at long last, then sat up quickly, angry at the intrusion. He presumed the treacherous hunters were pelting him with rocks to provoke some reaction from the infamous waterdog. Looking out the window he saw no one. The beach was vacant, smoke rose from the silent cabins. Then came another smack on the roof when, now awake and alert, he realized what was the mischief. His nemesis the seagulls, and their dark shadows, the crows, unable to pry open their breakfast of clams and mussels, were dropping them from a height onto the hard roof below to break them open and reach the gooey innards. Vashon laid back down momentarily and took stock. Sleep proved an elusive refuge that night for Vashon. A thousand demons refused to be ignored as neither drink nor power of will allowed him the sanctuary of the unconscious.

At last, frustrated from the effort, he gave up and walked down to the water’s edge. The salt air and promise of a morning dive chased away a good many bothers, others were not so easily dismissed. He turned to suit up and saw Mukilteo sleeping.

What was this place? Out of sight, out of time, a beachside oasis for non-conformists? Asylum for the deranged? Perhaps a bit of both. Then he noticed Redmond, the Hunter-Master asshole that wanted none of him and watched him, refusing to blink his drying blood-red eyes.

Elliott had accepted a room with a bed above the Banshee.

Vashon had opted for the van to ensure the safety of his gear. Yet there was more. Vashon had been noticing a subtle change in his traveling companion, a shift. He and his brother Poulsbo had taken him on after the incident at Malibu. Elliott was not committed to any particular place or time and was more than willing to throw in with the two brothers and join their ‘endless summer’ adventure.

He had stored his things in his parent’s garage, told them he was going on sabbatical, and the three left the states almost at once. Mexico, South America, Bahamas, Thailand, wherever there was saltwater and alcohol and woman they were there. But he was always closer to Poulsbo than Vashon, as the latter was forever high strung, aloof, moody. No one ever got too close to him.

No one, that is, except his brother.

So, Poulsbo and Elliott carried on the conversation while their leader Vashon thought, and drank, and dove, and womanized. Elliott never much cared for the way he treated women. Not abusive in any way, no, never. He was not a mean person; he simply treated them like groupies to be used and discarded after this beach or that, his well-lit stages after the lights had gone down. Vashon was the epitome of a rock star; neoprene for spandex, speargun for guitar.

Then Poulsbo got sick, ugly and sudden, fear and trembling. Then he died. It was the first and last time Elliott had seen Vashon cry. And as he stood there watching the two brothers and listening to the elder’s apology for ever having started him on that journey, he heard how Vashon took the onus. How Poulsbo had stayed in school and went to college and had become quite the rising star in the engineering field only to trade it all in for a passport and some dive gear.

They didn’t talk much about it after that. Just had him cremated and sent the ashes home in a tiny package to his father. With a letter of meager explanation and a promise, he would fill in the details whenever he was back in that neck of the woods.

Here’s a box full of your son. Regards.

The two men had continued their adventures as if nothing had happened; nothing had changed. But it was a forced march; each step, each decision, each forkful of food required a supreme effort. Things had changed. The wind had left their sails, and so they rowed in circles. Neither of them had given much thought to Poulsbo’s place in the group. Once gone, his absence screamed. Elliott had needed the comradery. Now he was just going through the motions. Vashon half expected him to jump ship any day.

Redmond leered his death wish. Vashon was in no mood for his pathetic nonsense and so, shaking his head, donned his tank and waded out into the frigid open water. Splashing his face once, twice, he took a mouthful, which was his habit, swished it around, and spit it out. He was home. Now face down, the exposed skin turning purple then numb, he watched the bottom slowly fade into the depths as he kicked out further and further. When he got to where he believed the depth to be about ten fathoms, he stopped, released the air from his buoyancy compensator, and, placing the regulator in his mouth, disappeared beneath the surface of the Salish Sea.

Saltwater was not water at all to Vashon. Sensual, viscous, more a tactile experience closely akin to blood in all but color. He felt as though he was moving through another dimension, and no matter how many times over how many years he went down, the experience of breathing underwater exhilarated him just as it had that first time in a pool in his dive class all those years ago. He had grown up in the lakes and streams of his childhood, holding his breath, fascinated with what was just under the ‘perfect disguise’.

He landed lightly on the sand bottom on his knees and looked around, adjusting his weight belt to the increased pressure. Dungeness crab scampered about in their patent sideways shuffle; large lingcod were abundant, standing their ground on wide pectoral fins with huge mouths, pointed teeth exposed.

The diver pumped air into his bladder with a thumb then, neutrally buoyant, hovered just off the bottom as he kicked slowly around. He skirted a reef of large boulders and kelp. Huge white anemones emanated a heavenly glow. Octopus plied dexterous arms through crevices, intelligent eyes discerning friend from foe. Rockfish were abundant in an eternal search for an easy meal. The Salish was alive with life of every sort, save one: The yet untouched fish woman.

Vashon shook his head each time he was reminded of the farce of what he was doing there. Even if he did see one, he mused, which he knew he wouldn’t, would he actually shoot the thing? No, that would not happen. So how many tanks was he going to have to suck dry before they all gave up this ridiculous farce? He continued on, feeling like a drunken Irishman hunting for leprechauns in his mushroom garden. He packed his loaded spear gun for no other reason than to convince the locals that he was legitimately pursuing his chore.

Check tank pressure: Five hundred PSI. Time to clock out.

Back on shore, he found Elliott checking the steel air tanks at the back of the van. Vashon noticed Redmond and his crew were oaring out to sea, Bryn Mawr at the helm of her vessel. Vashon took off his heavy tank.

“How’s the bed?” he said.

“I wouldn’t call it that, cabron. More like a mossy rock.” said Elliott, taking the tank, removing the BC and regulator, then hefting it in the van with the rest.

“That was the last of the air, ese. We’ll need to head back to the real world and get the tanks filled. I’m ready when you are, camarada,” he said. But Vashon wasn’t listening. Elliott followed his gaze. Just down the beach, between them and the monolith pier, walked the bargirl Anacortes, bucket in hand. Her eyes were bent on the sand, her steps slow.

“Get some grub. I’ll head in myself,” he said. Elliott was not ignorant to his partner’s intentions.

“She’s guapa, cabron, I’ll give you that. Just don’t piss off Whidbey. We may need him if this gig goes south” he said

“When it goes south,” said Vashon and tore his eyes from the girl just long enough to make his point “Don’t forget this was your idea.”

Elliott decided it best not to throw any more wood on that fire and walked away. He knew there would come a time, and in the not so distant future, when he would stand his ground. Choose your battles, amigo.

Vashon had peeled off his wet suit and pulled on his dry clothes, Levi shorts and a tee from Morocco least wrinkled, best smelling. The woman stopped and looked up at him as he approached. He was taken aback by a pretty face in the early morning. She wore no makeup. Of course. Where would she get face paint around there?

“Morning, Anacortes,” he said.

“Morning, mermaid hunter,” she said. There was an obvious silence as they eyed each other. Anacortes spoke first.

“You’ve been out,” she took two steps, “Any luck?”

“Oh yeah, seen plenty of ’em out there,” He lied, “Though I’m not quite sure how to tell if one’s a virgin.”

This got the woman’s attention.

“If she has mated, she will have black spots on her tail fin.”

Vashon admired her quick wit.

“Hey, I gotta go into town and get my tanks filled. Wanna go?” he said. The woman stopped and looked at him again.

“We are not allowed to leave.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. What if we sneak you out, in my van. Have you back before anyone’s the wiser” he said.

“No,” she turned, resuming her search. Vashon was persistent.

“What are you huntin’ for?” he said.

“Clams, mussels, geoducks. Anything to eat,” she said. Vashon looked in her bucket and saw one small red rock crab carcass the tide must have brought in.

“Not much to show for all your work,” he said.

“Better than you,” she said with a proud look.

“This is true,” he said, “Try under that oversized dock of yours. Gotta be something there” she glanced at the behemoth for an instant and then away.

“I don’t go there.”

Vashon kept at it.

“Hey, make you a deal. You come with me, and after we drop off my tanks, we’ll head to the fisherman’s market. I’ll get you a bucket of anything you want.”

Anacortes glanced at her meager catch then at the man. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to go with him.

“If I get caught, Vashon,” she said.

“Not gonna happen,” he assured her. He took the woman by the hand, a gesture she did not resist, and led her to the back of the van. They both looked around then, satisfied they were not being watched, opened the door, and hurried her in.

“Get under the covers and keep quiet.” He said.

She hesitated then gave him a look that stopped him. He knew she was afraid; Vashon could smell fear a mile away. Yet she gave no outward expression of it, and the strength that demonstrated moved something inside him. He half thought to abort the potential danger for her sake. “Trust me” He shook it off as he helped her in and closed the doors, jumped in the captain’s seat and headed for the main entrance.

The guard was a huntsman who worked in rotation with the others. His weapon was his harpoon. More like an extension of the person than a tool of the trade Vashon envisioned them sleeping with their barbed spears. He pulled up to the hunter.

“Need to get my tanks filled,” he said.

“No one leaves” was the solemn response.

“I heard that last time. And the time before.”

“Not from me.”

Vashon was suddenly struck by an anomaly.

“Why do you need a guard where no one passes?”

The guard had no answer, struck suddenly mute by a question with no possible answer. Vashon prodded the poor man’s tongue.

“If I can’t dive, I can’t hunt mermaid, savvy? You wanna explain that to Sumner, or your Lady?”

The guard twitched. This was the routine; Vashon said the next refrain in his head.

“Wait here,” he said and disappeared into the guardhouse where words were exchanged with someone inside. The Guard re-appeared and walked up to the van.

“Be back before dark,” he said and stepped back, signaling an end to the niceties. Vashon gave him a mock salute, and, as the wall of briar vanished, he drove through the mirage and down the dirt road. A half-mile along he called back to Anacortes.

“All clear. Come up front and enjoy the view,” he said as the woman slowly emerged from her hiding place and crawled onto the shotgun seat.

“You might want to fasten your seat belt” he advised.

“Belt?” she said. Vashon looked at her.

“You never been in a van before?”

“No,” she said. Vashon gave her a look and then, stopping the van, lifted the arm of his seat and moved over to help her. When the safety belt latched, he found himself face to face with the woman. Another silence. Vashon was sure that had it been any other woman, he would have taken advantage of the moment and planted one on her hard on the mouth. But those eyes paralyzed him again. And again, he moved innocuously back to his seat.

They drove on. Vashon glanced at the girl who was squinting at the sunlight she was not accustomed to. He reached over and flipped down the visor.

“That better?”

Silence.

When he looked back, Anacortes was staring at the mirror on the back of the visor. She seemed mesmerized.

“You OK? You act like you’ve never seen yourself before.”

Silence.

Anacortes sat smitten. Vashon felt a finger strum a string in his chest. What must it be like, looking in the mirror and seeing yourself for the first time? Jesus Christ.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t care much for mine, either.”

Vashon stopped for gas while they were out. There were no gas stations in Mukilteo. As a matter of fact, he mused, there wasn’t much of anything in Mukilteo. There was the longhouse they called ‘the Banshee’ and another he figured was their version of a town hall. Several cabins and outbuildings, and the giant pier.

“That’s an interesting place you got there, Mukilteo. You been there all your life?” he said.

“No” was her simple reply as she looked around “I have never seen so many people.”

“Don’t get out much, do you?” he said.

“No,” she said. There was a quiver in her tone.

“We must get back,” she said and began to fight against her restraint. “This was a mistake.”

Vashon did his best to calm her.

“Hold on little lady,” he said, “We’ll get you back soon enough. The dive shop just is just up the road,” his voice quieted her until they arrived at their destination. She needed help getting the seat belt off, which Vashon was more than eager to assist with. He liked the way she felt, firm, healthy. She smelled good as well, not all perfumed or painted as he was accustomed. She had a natural scent about her. If he were to tag a name, the essence (he dug deep for this) he might name it ‘saltwater fog’.

Anacortes climbed down from her seat and, once outside the van, became the man’s instant shadow, refusing to stray an inch. Vashon saw this and let it be, enjoying the sensation. When he opened the back doors and grabbed the first heavy steel tank, she did the same. He tried to stop her.

“Hey lady,” he said, “these tanks are way too heavy. You let me take care of them.” But she pulled one out by the neck as he had done and held it in her arms with little effort. She looked at Vashon in that same defiant way she had earlier.

“I work for my keep. And you may call me Ana, as Whidbey does.”

Vashon shook his head.

“Just full of surprises, aren’t you, Ana.”

They worked together carrying the tanks inside. Vashon asked the man where they might find a seafood market. There were open-air shops towards the waterfront where they would find most anything, he had said, and they headed that way. The streets became more and more densely populated. Anacortes was overwhelmed.

“So many people.”

“You should see Mexico City or Bangkok,” he said

“Where do they all go at night?” she said.

“Don’t know. Most go home, I guess. Some live out here on the street.”

“And where do you go, at night.”

Vashon contemplated this one.

“Technically, you could call me a street person. Except I keep moving.”

“Why?” she said.

“Why what”?

“Why keep moving? You have no home?”

Dodging the question, he pulled into a spot. Then, reaching in back, grabbed her bucket, handed it to her, and off they walked. Just over the hill, Puget Sound came into view. Anacortes stopped and stared, wide-eyed. She might have stopped breathing, Vashon worried. Islands and ferries dotted the vast expanse.

“Never seen it from this angle, I’ll bet. Amazing, isn’t it?” Anacortes smiled, taking his hand again in her firm grip.

Vashon enjoyed this.