Dead Sea

    According to the chief, we were still on course for the oil drilling platform. Mitch, Basil, Professor Williams, and I had spent the morning performing other duties below deck. I also spent some time with Tasha and Malik. My late-night conversations with Mitch and the professor kept running through my mind, and I decided to try to live up to whatever the kids wanted me to be. Once the storm had passed, we met up on the flight deck, got out our deep-sea rods and tackle gear, and began the day's fishing. Tran and Nick had saved the guts and heads from yesterday's catch in a bucket so that we could use them for bait. We lined up along the railing with the bait bucket between us and cast our lines. The professor had found a floppy-brimmed hat somewhere onboard and he wore it to keep the sun off his head. He looked like a geriatric Gilligan. Basil was quiet and sullen. He didn't say anything about his mutinous thoughts regarding our destination, and the three of us didn't let on that we knew. Instead, Mitch and the professor traded jokes back and forth, and I laughed. Basil pretty much ignored us, standing off by himself farther down the deck.

    We pulled in half a dozen groupers and striped sea bass, and Mitch hooked a small shark, which was about four feet long. Then the professor caught a really nice-sized tuna-enough to feed us all for one meal. He wasn't strong enough to haul it up over the rail, so Mitch grabbed the line and did it for him. The tuna had swallowed the hook. Blood dribbled from its mouth and ran across the deck. The fish flopped around, thrashing its tail like a hammer. Its gills flapped uselessly.

    "Can you take it off the hook for me, Mr. Bollinger?"

    Mitch grinned. "No way, Professor. I hauled him in for you. You can take him off yourself. I ain't baiting your hook again, either."

    "Youth," Professor Williams said in mock disdain. "No respect for their elders."

    "You know what they say, man-age before beauty."

    Nose wrinkling in disgust, the Professor bent down and grabbed the fish with one hand. His other hand forced its mouth open. Slimy fish blood trickled over his fingers and wrists and dripped onto the deck. He tugged on the line, peering down the tuna's gullet. It wriggled in his grasp.

    "Oh dear," the professor said. "He really did swallow the hook. This must be what is meant by 'hook, line and sinker.' Poor thing. He's in bad shape. Will one of you gentlemen please hand me the needle-nose pliers out of the tackle box?"

    Basil leaned over and picked up the pliers. As he handed them to the professor, he suddenly drew away.

    "What the hell's that on its tail?"

    We all looked closer. Near the bottom of the fish's tail was a small, ulcerated sore. It was raw and open, leaking pale fluid.

    The professor frowned. "It appears the fish is infected with something; perhaps a parasite or fungus of some kind, or a reaction to some pollutant."

    Mitch shook his head. "Looks like a bite mark, doesn't it?"

    "That's not a bite," Basil argued. "More like a sore. Professor's right. It's probably a parasite, maybe a worm of some kind. We won't know for sure until Tran and Nick clean it."

    The professor took the pliers from Basil and forced them down the tuna's throat. It was still bleeding, and his grip kept slipping as a result. The fish continued struggling. I had to give it credit. Like us, it kept on fighting, even if death was inevitable. Suddenly, the tuna jerked in the professor's grasp. He dropped the pliers. The hook ripped free, taking a chunk of fish innards with it. The line went taught and the hook's point speared the professor's hand, right between his thumb and forefinger. It dug deep, the barbs slipping beneath his skin. Professor Williams shouted in pain and the fish flopped away across the deck. The professor stared at his hand- his own blood flowing overtop the fish blood.

    "Jesus," Basil gasped. "You okay, Professor?"

    The color drained from the older man's face. "No, I am most assuredly not okay. It hurts a great deal. Could one of you please get it out? I'm feeling light-headed."

    I held him up from behind while Mitch went to work on the hook. The professor was bathed in sweat, but his skin felt cold. He hadn't been kidding. He was limp in my arms-on the verge of passing out.

    "You'll be fine," I assured him. "You're just in mild shock. Take deep breaths and try putting your head between your knees.

    "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm afraid that I don't deal very well with pain. I feel pretty silly."

    "Don't worry about it. I'd freak out too, if I had a fishhook in my hand."

    Frowning, Mitch jiggled the hook. The professor groaned.

    "It's in there pretty good," Mitch said. "The barbs are underneath your skin. I'm going to have to work it out slowly."

    The professor gulped. "Will it hurt?"

    "Yeah."

    "Then I suggest that Lamar and Basil hold me down. I'd hate to lash out at you in the heat of the moment, Mitch."

    Mitch grinned. "I'd hate that, too. Hold still, now."