FREE FISH FRIDAY

In the pre-dawn of a new Key West fishing day, Captain Barry Silver sat at his command post on the bridge of the Flying Fish. His 38-foot charter boat was the first to leave South Marina most mornings, often a full hour before the rest of the fleet. Early departures attracted serious fishermen, the customers he enjoyed serving most.

As he eased the boat from its slip, the day’s clients huddled in the cabin beneath him, sipping wake-up caffeine. The three Amazon Corporation executives had packed their own coffee beans, Seattle’s Best, for their trip across the continent. The rest of the company’s top management team would be trying their luck aboard six additional boats.

Some of the managers had objected to holding their annual retreat so far from the home office in the Pacific Northwest. Then it was pointed out that Key West was no further away than Hawaii, where they normally convened. Beyond that, the fishing was a hell of a lot better at the southern tip of Florida.

Hawaii offered nothing like the Rusty Hook tavern either. Where else could one walk through a door on a Friday night and be treated to the best grilled fish anywhere – fresh-caught king mackerel, tuna, cobia, wahoo, mahi, and even shark steaks – all for free? Where else could they rub shoulders and swap tales with Slacker Mills, reputedly the world’s top fisherman? Mills himself had recommended the Flying Fish for their charter.

On the back deck, lanky crewman Conch Edwards prepared lines for a day of blue marlin fishing. Always vigilant of the water around him, he saw what appeared to be a manatee lounging on the surface and pointed it out to his captain. Sightings of sea cows were rare so far south and merited special notice.

On closer inspection, the floating mammal proved to be more unusual than first imagined, not a manatee at all. Naked and lifeless, it was the body of a man.

While news of such a discovery in a New York City or Miami harbor might not bounce pulse rates, it stopped hearts in laid-back Key West, where violent deaths were almost as rare as freezing temperatures. Ironically, the town’s search for answers would become a media sensation and make hearts race throughout the nation.

I’m Slacker Mills. The name of the deceased was Jerry Porter, one of the best known and least known residents of Key West. He was also my dear friend. Our stories are inseparable because our lives were inseparable, at least for the time I was lucky enough to know him.

Jerry once described Key West as the greatest manmade paradise in North America. At first, I assumed he referred to the engineering marvel of the 130-mile Overseas Highway that connected it to the mainland, a feat that required construction of eighteen bridges. Or maybe he alluded to the equally long pipeline that delivered fresh water to islands once reliant on sporadic rainfall alone. But no, Jerry called it a manmade paradise because of the collective attitude of the residents. Like nowhere else, a diverse group of neighbors seemed to accept one another for who they were or who they aspired to be. He further suggested that people came there to be themselves, find themselves, or re-invent themselves. I viewed myself as a no doubt, clear-cut representative of the first category; I came to fish and that’s it. Why Jerry Porter came to Key West, I’ll never know.

Although most residents recognized that Jerry and I were close, many probably questioned why, at least from his perspective. I wondered about that myself. He was worldly, well-schooled, and seemingly polished in all matters of life. I had a tenth-grade education and a world view that extended no further than the tip of a fishing rod. Still, the gentleman welcomed me aboard his yacht day after day, year after year, allowing me to fish alone while he sat at the helm and watched.

Adding to the lopsided nature of our bromance, I knew nothing about Jerry’s life prior to his arrival in Key West - not until after his death. He, on the other hand, familiarized himself with every detail of my 37-year life history. The simple truth was that Jerry asked lots of questions and answered few. He preferred to keep his own story to himself.

I arrived here five years ago, several months before Jerry appeared. I’d been chasing game fish off Florida’s east coast for fifteen years at that point, mostly as a charter captain or guide. Having never been further south than Marathon, I was excited as hell to explore somewhere different, experience something new.

My grand arrival was memorable. The sun had been low in the western sky when I steered Wave Crest, a 44-foot Hatteras, into South Marina. I was anxious to wet some lines, but had to wait until morning. Because it was late May, only two thirds of a hundred slips were filled. In winter, finding any spot to tie up would be next to impossible.

With the boat secured in a transient slip, my passenger, Conch Edwards, headed off to talk to the handful of fishermen that were hanging out, fussing with their boats or shooting the shit. He was anxious to score a job because he was high and dry, pretty much broke.

My immediate needs were different. I went searching for cold beer, a warm female, and a fresh start. I found them all at the Rusty Hook, a fishy-looking tavern half a block away.

The heavy entry door was crafted from planks off an old Spanish galleon. A huge rusted shark hook served as a handle, leaving dirty residue on every hand that grasped it. The interior walls were decorated with a dozen mounted fish, antique rods and reels, and other marine relics. I’d been in countless taverns like it; the only difference was the name - that and one of the fish. The 200-pound tarpon took a grip on my eyes and wouldn’t let go. If there was a soft spot on my resume, catching a truly massive tarpon was it. I planned to remedy that soon.

Because it was early, only a few of sixteen tables were occupied. All but one of the barstools stood empty. I sat at the bar and asked for whatever was coldest. Mr. Rusty Hook himself brought a Bud longneck and no offer of a glass.

Rusty was big, burly, and bearded, with eyebrows like untrimmed hedges. Most of the red in his whiskers had gone gray and I put his age at sixty. Judging by his pale complexion, he wasn’t enjoying the outdoors as much as a Florida person should. After scooping up my three bucks, he yelled toward a woman at the other end of the bar. “Honey, the tables need worshed.”

Damn, I thought, did people talk differently in Key West? Or was the bartender from a foreign country? When he looked back, I asked, “What country you from?”

He laughed like hell and hollered to the woman again. “Honey, this guy wants to know what country we’re from!”

The other patrons heard him and laughed along. The woman kept flipping pages of a magazine, didn’t even look up. Her beauty-shop-blonde hair didn’t hide an age close to Rusty’s. I figured she was his wife.

“I’m from the faraway land of the Pirates,” Rusty said. “You never been there? It’s called Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We have our own way of talking up there.”

I shrugged an apology and drained my bottle.

Rusty quickly brought another. “So, who the hell are you? Haven’t seen your ass in here before.”

His language was rough but the intent was friendly. I’d been around lots of good-hearted tough-talkers on the waterfront. “Got to town a few minutes ago. Name is Slacker.”

“Slacker?” he barked. “What kind of name is that? What country are you from?”

A customer spoke up. “Only Slacker I ever heard of is Slacker Mills, the boat captain that wins most of the billfish tournaments up and down the coast.”

I looked at the guy and nodded. I saw myself as the best saltwater fisherman in Florida. It never bothered me when others acknowledged it. “I’m guessing you run a charter boat,” I said. “You know of any openings for a deckhand?”

The man shook his head. “The Slacker Mills I heard about is no deckhand. What kind of bullshit is this?”

“You’re right. The job isn’t for me. I’m helping out a friend, a kid that came down from Lauderdale with me. He’s a first-rate hand. I’ll vouch for him.” I further explained that I had piloted the Hatteras to Key West as a favor and might hang around for a while.

The next two hours were eventful. First I landed a job for Conch on the Flying Fish, starting right away. Secondly, Rusty talked me into taking a position as resident manager of a place called the End of the Road Motel, my first land job ever.

Only extraordinary circumstances could have pushed me in such an odd direction, but the stars were aligned. I had come to Key West to fish myself, not guide others. The manager job provided freedom to do that. A mere seven rooms rented by the month, not the day, so I wouldn’t have to do shit. I’d have a free place to stay and there was an open room for Conch to rent on the cheap. The motel was also close to both South Marina and the Rusty Hook - location, location, location. Still, none of that would have mattered without Rusty’s additional offer. He granted me unlimited use of his 19-foot Boston Whaler if I fixed the 115 h.p. Mercury outboard and guided him on Sunday mornings, the only time he took off work.

Upon hearing all the news the next morning, Conch had been astonished. It was nothing to me, not really. That’s how I’ve always rolled. It’s like that old expression: Good things happen to good fishermen. Hell, I usually didn’t have to take on a motor repair to get the use of a boat, but I loved that model of Whaler. It was an ideal combo boat for the flats and offshore. Beyond that, the Rusty Hook felt right and it never hurt to be tight with a bar owner.

The owner’s given name was Russell Hook, but he’d been Rusty all his life. The Rusty Hook establishment, however, had been a Key West fixture for years before the arrival of the real Hooks. Rusty and Honey used to run a tavern in Pittsburgh called the Honeybee or Honey Bucket. One day a friend returned from vacation in Key West wearing a Rusty Hook t-shirt. The Hooks found that hilarious and decided they had to own the bar. They acquired the place in 1998 and made Key West home.

At one end of the bar the couple marketed Rusty Hook t-shirts, mugs, beer and shot glasses, and a variety of hats. I checked out only the hats because t-shirts don’t cut it in the heat; they hold sweat and stick to the skin. I owned eight white cotton dress shirts with short sleeves and button-down collars – that was it. I addressed changes in temperature with the number of buttons I fastened. For pants, I had eight matching pairs of khaki cargo shorts in which I free-balled. Underwear’s too damn hot. A pair of Rockport deck shoes, three hats, and a couple pairs of Polaroid sunglasses completed my entire wardrobe. I changed shirts and pants nightly, before heading out to socialize. I washed the whole shiterie by hand on Sunday evenings and hung it to dry.

When it came to hats, I was more flexible about color and design, but preferred something tannish. The Hooks had great caps: beige with an oversized bill for extra shade, plus a Velcro strap to hold sunglasses. I bought one, which meant I’d have to get rid of one of my others. I was no damn collector. The exception to that was fishing gear. I invested in lures the way divas invest in jewelry, and they cost almost as much. My two tackle boxes weighed forty pounds each and I referred to the contents as my crown jewels.

As that first night progressed, I met a dozen charter captains and didn’t pay for another beer. I’d learned an important lesson over the years: Tell great fish stories and others will like you; listen to theirs and they’ll love you.

Around ten, as bedtime neared, a few ladies started wandering into the tavern. Just to be clear, I’d never suggest that even the best fishermen attract women like rock stars or pro athletes – no way. However, we do have a following sort of similar to rodeo cowboys in Texas. Most refer to such ladies as groupies. At the Rusty Hook, the regulars called them groupers, after the fish.

In the sport of night fishing, though, referring to ladies as fish is all wrong. If the Rusty Hook was viewed as an ocean, the regular male inhabitants would be the ones doing the swimming. The rods were in the hands of trolling ladies. Most were on vacation and had the same to-do list: get a tan; sample the key lime pie; drink lots of margaritas; and screw a fisherman. They weren’t looking for love; it was all catch and release.

I always welcomed the role reversal. Being on the water all day, bouncing on the waves, fighting mahi and sails, was exhausting work. My tank was generally empty by late evening. If getting laid required energy, I’d still be a virgin.

The Rusty Hook had a reputation as a night fishing hot spot. There were always male fish and they were always biting. That notoriety only grew after my arrival. Celebrated as the top fisherman, I was a king mackerel among a school of mullet.

The trolling ladies had a million ways to lure their prey, full tackle boxes so to speak. Some did nothing more than show off legs or cleavage to attract a school. Others hypnotized by fluffing their hair or rubbing their arms. Still others were more direct and launched a waitress at their target with a shot of tequila. Jerry Porter later described them as sirens on barstools, a great description.

I’d always been a fussy feeder, mostly drawn to the flashiest presentation. That meant lots of makeup and jewelry, elegant clothes, and the tall-heeled shoes that made calves pop and holler: “Come and get it!” I figured the most colorful groupers should be rewarded for going to all the trouble. Most importantly, the flash signaled that they were from out of town. What local woman would get fancy for a visit to a fishermen’s bar?

Night fishing was all about one-night stands, fleeting moments. Vacationing women had real lives elsewhere, maybe even boyfriends or husbands. They seemed harmless that way. Allowing myself to be caught more than once by the same rod would constitute a relationship, a commitment. There was room in my life for only one real commitment. Day fishing was it.

The most effective technique for snagging me was to strut right over and sit on my lap. The real pros knew the right three words to whisper: I’m leaving tomorrow. In my experience, those women were aggressive enough to satisfy themselves in battle, a requirement with me on the line.

When it came to sex, my Slacker handle was no misnomer; it was a fair description of performance. I was no acrobat or contortionist, no porn star by a longshot. Normally I lied about having a bad back, a perfect excuse to be passive while the grouper provided energy enough for both of us. I wasn’t big on hugging, kissing, or cuddling either, not with a total stranger. Things could only get slimy that way.

A final requirement for successful night fishing was the availability of a boat to host the adventure. A rocking boat was an integral part of a grouper’s fantasy. Fortunately, I always seemed to have access to one. On that first night in Key West, I led a raven-haired realtor from North Carolina down to the Hatteras, where I hoped Conch was sleeping soundly.