Rescue

loose.
    Doris said, “Usually they just fly off the branches and shit in the boats.“
    The water was muddy, small stands of trees trailing into the water along the few stretches of shoreline without walls. Many of the houses had large metal crutches and slings bolted into the concrete at the water’s edge.
    I motioned at the slings. “What are they for?“
    Howard said, “Boats. Keeps them cleaner if you can sling them up like... that one.“
    I followed his index finger to a twenty-eight-footer slung fore and aft about three feet over the water. The name stenciled on the bow was NAFKA.
    Doris said, “In Yiddish, that means ‘prostitute.’“
    “That boat would cost a lot more than a prostitute, sweetheart.“
    “Like you’d know.“
    Howard gave her the warm smile. Near the left shore, a broad, scarred back rolled slowly at the surface.
    I said, “What was that?“
    Doris said, “Manatee. Sea cows.“
    It looked like it’d been flogged.
    “Propellers,“ she said. “The boats are fast, the manatee
    aren’t.“
    “You’d think they’d learn to avoid them.“
    Doris shook her head. “The manatee have small brains and less sense.“
    “I meant the boaters.“
    She looked at me. “Same difference.“ Then to Howard, “Shouldn’t we check the marine forecast?“
    “Good idea, sweetheart.“
    Doris flipped a switch on the dashboard, and the staticky voice of someone used to reading reports out loud came over a small speaker. Almost immediately he mentioned Florida Bay, predicting clear skies all day, with winds from the northeast and a light chop in the morning, calming down to flat by early afternoon.
    “Good day for fishing,“ said Doris.
    “Among other things,“ said Howard.
    At the mouth of the canal, we entered the bay itself, the Water getting cleaner almost immediately. When the color reached a deep aquamarine, Howard goosed the engine, the hull starting to bounce over the surface the way we had coming in the night before.
    I didn’t see any other boats. “We have the place to ourselves.“
    Doris said, “Lots of people prefer to fish the patches or out front.“
    “The patches are out to the reef?“
    “Right. On the ocean side, the patches of sand or sea grass between the key and the reef, which is about three miles offshore.“
    “You can get there from the bay side?“
    “Yes, by going through one of the creeks that separate the main Keys.“
    “You ever fish ‘out front,’ Doris?“
    “Beyond the reef? Not usually. Big-game water for marlin, sailfish, that kind of thing.“
    “What are we after?“
    Howard said, “Speckled trout, we can find any.“
    “The kind I saw you cleaning last week?“
    “Right.“ He banked us north.
    I said, “Isn’t Little Mercy south of here?“
    Howard nodded. “Better chance of a mullet mud off Little Mercy in the afternoon. Be more boats then, too, so we won’t stand out as much, somebody’s looking from the Key.“
    “What’s a ‘mullet mud’?“
    Doris said, “When the mullet—the bait fish—feed on the bottom, they stir it up. The water gets milky-looking. That attracts the bigger fish, and the fishermen.“
    We rode for five minutes or so, still no other boats in sight. Then I noticed the water going from aquamarine toward white toward brownish dead ahead. As we got closer to the brownish, I thought I could see what looked like a dozen or so egrets walking, the water no more than three or four inches up their legs.
    I said, “How much of a draft does this boat have?“
    Howard noticed where I was looking. “About ten inches if I tilt the motor, but do you see those flags?“
    Maybe a hundred yards in front of the bow was a line of what looked like flags for golf holes. “Yes.“
    “Well, that’s what’s called a ‘cut.’“
    “Those channels through the real shallow places you told me about at the marina.“
    “The same.“
    “How deep is the channel?“
    Doris said, “Not very. The rangers used to blast through them a couple times a day to blow the encroaching sand back with their props, but the budget problems mean fewer patrols and narrower cuts. We have a depth-finder, but you’re better off going by the poem.“
    “The poem?“
    She said, “The conchs use it—’conch’ is the slang for a native-born Keys-person. It used to be derogatory, I think, but now they seem to take pride in it.“
    “What’s their poem say?“
    “It uses water color to tell you depth. ‘Brown, run aground; white, you