Matt, I'm knocked out.
I'm going to read the opening.
And this section is called "Marlin."
And that's all.
Just going to start reading.
Can you hear me all right back there?
Val shifted his eyes from the bait riding just
beyond the wake and glanced back toward his brother.
Davis surveyed the horizon, arms crossed,
a white sun visor shading his eyes,
wire man's gloves tucked into the back pocket of his shorts.
Last night, Val had been as terrified of Davis
as he had of anyone or anything in his life.
It had been over Lee Anne.
Face half hidden by wild, bleached blonde hair,
her eyes averted, she had obsessed
Val from that first moment weeks ago,
when she had stumbled in with Davis, something
concealed in her gaze.
And then last night, her suddenly stepping into him,
fitting her mouth to his.
Now, 65 miles off the North Carolina coast,
nostrils packed with blood-stiffened cotton,
Val felt his broken nose throb.
Davis wasn't talking to him.
With none of the sometime cat-and-mouse stalking
of the Blue Marlin, the strike came without warning.
Magnus, jerked off balance, recovered and braced himself
in the fighting chair, the reel screaming is the marlin ran.
Voice breathless and tightening with adrenaline,
he yelled, "crash strike!"
Val looked up at the bridge.
The captain nodded that he'd seen it,
the marlin stripping off line.
Val checked the cockpit.
The wash-down hose was coiled and hung up, gaff ropes,
leaders, baits, everything put away,
the deck cleared for safe footing.
Davis adjusted the brim of his visor,
then reached into his back pocket
and pulled on his gloves.
Val swung Magnus's chair in the direction of the fish,
waiting for its first spectacular leaps.
Surprisingly, the marlin didn't jump, but, fighting
like a tuna, dogged it.
Magnus quickly worked it closer to the boat.
The swivel reached the rod tip.
Davis took hold of the 30-foot leader
and, wrapping the piano wire around his gloved hands,
two wraps on each hand, he braced himself
against the gunwale and began to raise the fish to the surface.
Val divided his attention between Davis and the water,
waiting for the fish to appear.
He marveled at Davis's strength, the pole vaulter's
powerful hands and the massive deeply cut forearm muscles.
He'd felt those hands close on his throat last night,
before he found himself on the ground.
Now it was like watching a great athlete climb a rope,
only the rope was a wire, slippery, razor-thin, almost
impossible to grip.
With each pull, Davis retrieved more leader,
then passed it behind himself and wrapped each hand
twice more, bringing the fish to the surface.
No matter how many times he'd done this,
Val never got over the sense of wonder and beauty
he felt when he saw marlin rising from below.
Now he could see its pectoral fins,
each of the iridescent neon blue of anger, a color you never saw
on a tired or beaten marlin.
The mackerel bait was on the fish's back,
right behind the highest part of the dorsal fin.
Gary, the captain, yelled down to Val, "too small.
That's definitely no keeper.
Cut it loose now, or do you want to tag it?
You make the call.
Only take a couple of minutes to tag."
Val picked up the pole with the barbed tag in place.
This Marlin was nowhere near as big
as the one Magnus had taken yesterday and probably
weighed less than the tournament's 300-pound minimum.
Either way, it wasn't a keeper.
Most everyone conservation-minded
tagged the smaller ones before letting them go.
"We'll tag it," he called.
"Can you handle that, Davis?"
Davis didn't answer.
As Val extended the barbed tag toward the fish's back,
he saw the round, black eye move.
The Marlin turned quickly, and it darted away
from the transom.
Davis pointed his hands toward the fish
and let go of the leader, the wire
wraps falling cleanly and freely off his gloves.
Magnus said, "we can cut him loose now,
save everyone time and trouble.
With that hook in his back, he's battling
like a much bigger fish."
Val asked Davis, "can you bring him up one time?
We'll get that tag in him quick."
Davis didn't answer.
Val shouted above the engines and sudden scream
of the reel, "Davis!"
Davis reached out and grabbed the wire leader to him.
Wrap by wrap, pull by pull, he brought the marlin back
to the surface and close to the boat.
Val leaned overboard and pushed the tagging pole
toward the fish.
The marlin darted forward and turned,
sending up an explosion of spray.
This time, Davis didn't let go of the wire,
but held on as the marlin shot away from the stern.
Val yelled, "we'll cut him loose."
Val dropped the pole on the deck behind him.
He was surprised to see Davis keep hold of the leader, knees
braced against the gunwale.
He yelled at Davis to let go.
Davis shouted something back, but Val couldn't make it out.
"Let him go, Davis.
Let go of the leader."
Val unsheathed his wire cutters.
As he extended their open mouth toward the wire,
there was a sudden squeal of deck shoes,
the sound of someone pivoting on a basketball court.
Davis staggered against the board that covered the transom.
There was a loud crack.
Davis went headfirst into the water.
He surfaced, pushed the sun visor back from his eyes,
started to turn toward the boat.
Suddenly, he was pulled down.
Val rushed to the transom.
Davis was just below the surface,
with his hands together, outstretched.
Neither panic nor struggling, he seemed to be swimming.
But when he didn't surface in another moment,
Gary yelled from the bridge, "Magnus, pull him back up!"
Gary threw the boat into reverse, water
boiling under the transom, as Magnus pumped the rod once,
twice.
The Blue Marlin was just below Davis,
rose with him toward the surface.
Frantic, Val grabbed the rod and helped Magnus pull it upward,
Magnus cranking the real.
Davis and the fish were right beneath them.
"Stop," Val yelled.
"Neutral, neutral.
Watch the propellers!
You'll back over them!"
Val heard the engines go into neutral.
Val and Magnus pulled up on the rod,
which suddenly lost tension and threw them backward.
The wire leader had snapped at a kink
a few feet below the swivel.
Val staggered forward and looked into the water,
expecting to see Davis rise to the surface.
Davis and the marlin were free of the rod,
but the hook was still in the marlin's back,
and Davis was still wired to the fish.
Val dove, and swimming awkwardly--
shoes on, clothes on--
he moved five, 10 feet below the surface, driving his legs.
Reaching out, he grabbed for Davis,
gathered a handful of his shirt, but suddenly
his grip was ripped open as Davis was yanked away.
Val broke the surface with a painful gasp for air,
took another deep breath.
Below him, he could see Davis and the marlin glowing
iridescent in the sunlight, where the clear blue water gave
way to black.
He stripped off his shoes and took another enormous breath
and, driving his legs harder, pulling with his arms, he dove.
He swam deeper this time, ears and sinuses
aching, lungs starting to burn.
He swam deeper.
Beneath him, Davis and the marlin
got smaller and smaller, shimmering
into a deeper twilight blue, then
disappeared into the black.
Lungs bursting, Val looked up, surfaced
distant, the sun huge and undulating.