An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A sailor-smuggler navigating Cold War tension bites off more than he can chew when his friend dredges something up from the deep.
-> Content warnings: mentions of period typical homophobia, Baltimore (LMAO)
The sun on the bay is bright, light bouncing off the pretty blue waves, white sails bobbing up and down in the water, the ocean and sky the same shade of cornflower. Too bright, Carlos' hangover reminds him. Too damn sunny for ten in the morning. The piercing headache smacks him between the eyes. The more he has to glare through his Wayfarers at the lacquered wood of his deck, soaked to a fine shine by sea spray the worse it gets. Wet, cold, and miserable. Same shit, different day.
They've been sailing since six, since before daylight. They're deep into the Chesapeake now, far, far away from the other boats. Carlos will keep sailing until the one other person on his ancient fishing trawler tells him to stop, which could be now, and could be four hours from now. Sometimes he wonders if his navigator throws darts at a map and decides where to go.
The hand that thumps between his shoulder blades nearly makes him hurl. He can feel the bruise starting to settle beneath his skin, moving into the neighborhood with all the others.
Speak of the devil.
Rubbing his aching spine (aching everything — his whole body just hurts) he turns. Simon grins. Sometimes he reminds Carlos of a shark — all teeth.
Most times he draws a comparative line that's closer to seagull.
”I'm dropping the net — should be some good schools around here somewheres.“ Somewheres. Carlos just stares at him. Not just because he talks so loud it makes Carlos want to kill himself — the fake Curtis Bay lexicon Simon puts on is grating. Simon isn't even from Baltimore -- as far as Carlos knows, Simon isn't American, his accent completely unplaceable. Carlos has grown up here his whole life, and he still doesn't say somewheres.
”Great,“ and that's Carlos’ whole reply, focusing on driving the boat and trying not to throw up. Simon flashes him a two-finger salute before he grabs the net. It's heavy, weighted, black braided nylon. He loops the half hitches like a machine, dragging lengths of damp, limp cord. It thumps in tandem with Carlos' headache.
Simon was the one who woke him in a hurry this morning. Something about “feeling good about today's catch.” Like he had the right after keeping Carlos out so late the night before, dragging him up and down Fells Point. He never knocks, either -- always from the window. Carlos is pretty sure he threw his bedside clock at him when he saw the time, and then -- fool that he is -- he threw on the first pair of shoes and boating shorts he could find in his pile of unlaundered clothes, because Simon is never wrong. In terms of fish, anyway.
Annoying as he is, Simon is an invaluable employee. Not many grown men could handle a net that heavy by their lonesome — Carlos can barely do it, and this boat is like an older brother to him. He's got a sixth sense for where the fish go and where the currents carry them — and for trouble. Carlos only half-regrets fishing him out of the ocean.
He’s a big man – well into six foot high, broad-shouldered, amber-skinned and all warm, bloody undertones. The thick skin under his eyes makes him look like he’s never gotten a good night’s sleep. The sunlight makes them bright – almost blue, with little pinprick pupils. High cheekbones, square jaw, thick black hair. The soaked white t-shirt he wears clings to his musculature, giving Carlos a full view of his shoulder blades shearing through his back while he tosses netting into the water.
His throat feels dry. Carlos reaches into the cooler by his feet and cracks open a Natty Boh. Breakfast.
The water explodes in cacophonous splashing, deep booming gulps. Drinking the nets greedily. Crawling up the sides of the trawler and onto Carlos' nice leather shoes.
He should have gone home after the second barfight. He lets out a ragged sigh and presses his forehead into the steering wheel. Shut out the light, just for a few seconds. He can take a breather since they're miles away from another boat. The nausea rolls with the trawler, stomach listing portside. He forces himself to drift elsewhere. He's on a hammock in the Bahamas, drinking out of an open coconut with a dinky little umbrella, surrounded by big-tittied Caribbean women. Mute, big-tittied Caribbean women. All around him is beautiful silence.
“Carlos!”
Well. The fantasy was nice while it lasted.
He peels himself away from his steering wheel and pushes his sunglasses up his forehead, so Simon can see just how crusty his eyes are. He gets little sympathy, if any. Simon just keeps talking — loudly.
“What do you want, cretin?” All he gets for a nerve-wracking period of long silence is another sharp, toothy grin.
“Someone's crabby this morning.”
“I'll kill you.”
“Just checking in. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep at the wheel.”
The afternoon passes as Carlos predicted it would — with Simon's incessant back-and-forth and a big haul in the nets. It's good — better than good. A couple hundred dollars worth of fish to sort and split between them. Simon's never steered him wrong (in terms of fish), which is why he tolerates him. On certain days, Carlos might even like him.
They pull into the harbor just as the sun starts sinking beneath the bone-white sails of boats still bobbing in the bay. Fishermen going home. There's always a little thrill that skitters down Carlos' spine coming into the harbor. What if customs boards him? What if the coast guard starts sniffing? What if he gets caught.
A caustic mix of fear and excitement, the giddiness of doing something wrong. He calms himself down with another Natty and the realization that he's got nothing on his boat, for now. He takes another look at Simon.
He's perched on the trawler's stern, by the motor, staring squinty-eyed at the horizon. Oddly silent. Always like this when they start pulling toward land. Carlos has half a mind to call it sulky. It was the same a year ago, when Carlos pulled him soaked to the bone and wild-eyed out of the harbor. Man could barely speak, but he kept looking across the bay to the horizon, the moon overhead. He does it nearly every night now. Watching for something.
Not his business. The beer is making him fuzzy at the skin, washing the aches down — this is good. Now he just has to convince Simon to leave him alone and actually get a decent night's sleep, and the world will right its own wrongs.
The boat slides into her place at the docks like a well-mannered dog. Carlos kills the motor and slaps the gangplank down, stumbling his way to dry land. Simon's quiet, slithering footsteps follow behind, which means he wants to talk.
Carlos reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, the old charred-looking Zippo flickering to life with sparks and smoke. The cigarettes are soggy and wrinkled from salt spray. The insides of his lungs burn with the first drag, a kneejerk reaction to irritation — a little bit of pain to make whatever conversation he and Simon are about to have that much more bearable. A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.
“So,” Simon says, swimming into view behind a cloud of gray smoke, “what d'you say about you and me going on another night fishing trip? Soon.”
“I'd say you're an idiot.” The last time Carlos and Simon went on a 'night trip,' the two of them almost got caught. And for what? A couple hundred bucks and some bunk dope that won't even sell. Hoffman actually laughed at him when he opened the panels underneath the fish crates. Carlos is still sore and bruised all over from the beating he gave him for wasting his time.
So much for letting Simon take the lead.
“I know you've got some bills piling up-“ Simon stops talking to duck out of the way of Carlos' fist. That's fair — he's not exactly at his best, and Simon is slippery. Mostly he wants Simon to shut up.
“Easy! I'm just sayin'.”
“Maybe if you didn't drink your money, you wouldn't be sayin' anything.” Simon just responds with his hands up and a slow grin, showing off his teeth in the beams coming from the dock lights. It’s not like Carlos has room to talk.
“What can I say — it's fun to imbibe. It's all too interesting for me not to.”
He's fucking weird. Like an alien just learning what humans do for fun. Booze is interesting, girls are interesting, Carlos is interesting. The man grew up under a rock, probably, and Carlos doesn't know why he deals with him at all. Probably hit his head falling off the pier.
He takes another drag off his cigarette.
“Look,” Simon just keeps talking, hunching a little to get closer to Carlos' height, ”we won't even have to go all that far. I could get a friend to meet us out on the water once we're past Assateague. Gimme a few days to set something up.”
“I never agreed to anything.”
”What if I said there's money involved? Lots of money.“ It grabs his attention, at least. The bills keep piling up — and Hoffman keeps knocking, demanding either payment or another run.
Simon usually has good instincts — for fish. Not so great for drug smuggling. But if he's right...
Something on his face must have shown. Simon takes it as bait, hooking himself onto Carlos' inner monologue and refusing to let go. His hands drop down onto his sore shoulders.
”Just you and me and the open sea! Think about it.“
Carlos runs a hand over his face and thinks about it. He does. He at least entertains the idea, chews on it, and it tastes foul.
”I don't know, Simon,“ he says, hand migrating to the nape of his neck. ”Coast Guard's got a lot of boats on the water these days.“
”So we avoid the boats! And if we can't avoid the boats, no problem — we're just two good ol' boys on the water.“ All his guard hairs stand up, prickling at the implications two 'good ol' boys' alone at night would cause. Young men by themselves on an isolated boat -- and Carlos has heard about the crackdown on queers in the city. If this were high school, there'd be blood, but the bastard's already walking off. Carlos didn't even say yes . He calls after him to try and save some shred of his dignity.
“Nobody's going to like how that sounds!”
Simon twists just enough he can point Carlos' way, all teeth, somehow managing to navigate the gangplank onto the boat without his eyes. “Then bring a girlfriend! Maybe two. Or bring your mom!“
~*~
Nighttime on the Chesapeake is already eerie — wide open water with no one else in sight. Their only company is the wide, staring white eye of moon overhead.
But then you have Simon being — well, Simon. Staring ahead at empty water, leaning on the bow of the ship. He reminds Carlos of old mermaid figureheads, bent over the deck, clinging to the rails to keep from going overboard. Carlos thinks about jerking the boat, just a little. If he goes over, well — it'll teach him not to do stupid shit like this.
He doesn't. The two of them are on a mission. Carlos has his head on a swivel, watching for spotlights. Even with the moon this bright, boats are hard to see this far out, away from the yellow haze of civilization. Simon is looking for — something. Probably whoever he's decided is going to meet them on the water.
It's eerily similar to the last time the two of them went on a little night mission.
Carlos shakes his head — get those thoughts out. It's over. It's done. He's not going to be bitter about it. He looks at the charts and the compass, keeping his bearings eastward. They must be past Assateague by now — into the Atlantic. Dangerous places to be, when the world is tiptoeing the line between war and peace.
”Stop here!“ Simon calls over the sound of wind and engine puttering. He jumps damn near out of his shoes, not paying much attention to his navigator recently.
”Shut up, “ he hisses, killing the engine, ”sound carries out this way.“
”Didn't think you'd hear me while you were moping over there,“ Simon hops down from the bow and makes his way to the back, strangely stone-faced. He gathers up netting in his arms and starts dragging it to the rails. Carlos tries stopping him — tries. Simon damn near bowls him over.
”I thought you said we were meeting people!“
”Plan's changed. The package is underwater.”
“Jesus Christ, Simon! You don't even know how deep that water is!”
“Sure do-” Carlos grabs him by the shirt collar and starts shaking him, lips pulled back, all teeth.
“You're not doing this to me again, you son of a bitch! I'll toss you over and leave you here to drown!” Simon opens his mouth to say something, but there's a thud from behind him, and then the boat lists. Hard. Carlos nearly eats shit on the deck. Simon is strangely still and upright — Carlos clings to his collar just to stay on his feet, looking around for what they could have hit. Or what hit them.
Carlos' mind immediately goes to submarine, and his mouth goes dry. Simon only smiles — there's no mirth in it. It's a sharp, evil thing even without teeth. He peels Carlos' hands off his shirt. The netting hisses through his big, calloused hands again.
“What are we even fishing for?” Carlos asks, grabbing a flashlight and desperately sweeping it over the surface water.
Silent, calm waves. Deep, dark water.
He catches something slick and orange darting just out of frame, sliding back under the surface just as he flicks his arm that way. He jerks back.
That was big.
“Simon?”
He turns just as Simon drops the net into the water.
The damage is immediate — whatever he managed to snag starts thrashing in rage. He can hear it slamming everything it has against the side of the boat. It shakes everything, the whole world. He feels organs in his body vibrate that shouldn't, things coming loose in his boat that should stay put. It's deafening.
“Help me pull him up!” Simon is wrestling against the knots and ropes, one foot up against the rail to keep from getting tossed into the drink. Carlos crosses himself before he sprints for the lip of the boat. He slides, deck slick. He finds the pulley and hooks it through the netting, barely managing to avoid a big, nasty-looking spine. A lionfish? There's no way — water's too cold, and that spine was the size of his arm.
He scrambles toward the pulley crank, slamming his hand against the button. It comes to life with a gritty whir, protesting the weight. The boat lists. A can and some fishing tackle roll overboard, lost forever — Carlos grabs the railing behind him. If there’s a god, he hope he hasn’t fucked up too badly. The last thing he wants is to get in the water with whatever Simon is hauling up.
As soon as the netting breaches water, the scariest, shrillest shriek rips through the night air. It's worse than anything he's ever heard. It's a thousand dying whales, seagulls, high-pitched things of the deep, all screaming in unison. The sound of Hell opening up and swallowing them whole couldn't make a noise like that.
Carlos screams, out of reflex. It's eaten up by the sound that thing is making. He slaps his hands over his ears, but it doesn't help. It's so loud it's dizzying. So all-encompassing. In his head. Something warm and wet dribbles over his knuckles and onto his neck. Nausea threatens the back of his throat. The world sways with vertigo. Cutting through the scream is a whistle — sweet, soothing whalesong.
Just as soon as it started, it's over.
He’s on the deck -- not quite collapsed, but close, both knees cold and slimy. His ears are still ringing, and he can still hear faint echoes of whatever the fuck that was in the back of his head. He wobbles when he stands, one hand slick with blood.
There is something wiggling on his boat, covered in netting. Big. Twice as big as Simon. Carlos takes two steps towards it and it snaps its head — head? human head? — toward him. Lank, wet, black hair falls into its face. One eye socket is a pit. The other is caution orange, pupil blown wide in the moonlight, iris too big to be human.
“Simon,” Carlos gasps, “what the fuck are we fishing for?”
The thing in the net keeps squirming, glaring at him with one hateful eye and a mouthful of shark teeth. Simon kneels down by the wiggling creature, trying to untangle the netting.
“Hey there,” he says, smiling wide with too-sharp teeth, “little brother.”