One Fin Florida Day

Zach snarled and hopped across the warm, sugar-white sand to sit on a low post. He tossed his backpack toward one of the Adirondack chairs he had dragged out to what he considered his own private section of beach. Then he plucked gingerly at the sandspurs embedded in the ball of his foot before glaring back along his trail to locate their source. He would find the demon weed before dusk, and it would meet its well-deserved end in flames. Cabbage palms rustled in the breeze as he transported the prickly grass seeds, loosely cupped in his hand, and dumped them on the growing pile of fallen twigs and driftwood within the wide stone circle. He then grabbed the iron poker that lived next to the fire pit and retraced his steps to find the cursed plant.

With the uprooted weed in hand, he surveyed the immediate area to make sure it wasn't accompanied by friends. He had never invited anyone to his semi-private retreat, and it wouldn't do for Beth to get a spur in her foot on her first visit. She probably would eventually, but not this time.

"Wither and die, you spawn of hell," Zach sneered as he dropped the clump of grass on top of a dry palm fan in the fire pit. He smirked at his own animosity toward the plant. It just didn't seem right that such a thing should exist, especially not lying in wait to ambush those who came to find peace along the shore. "I just want to live my life, not deal with thorns like you."

He took a swig of store-brand water and consulted his watch, breathing in the salt air and contemplating what to do next. Bringing the cooler from the truck could wait until closer to when Beth would arrive. In the interim, he could collect more fallen branches from beneath the live oaks. He watched the waves lick the beach and finished his drink.

A louder rattling of palm fans drew Zach's attention upward. A pair of dark eyes peered at him from behind a furry mask. He wagged his finger at the ring-tailed bandit in the tree.

"You may as well stay up there, you thief. I didn't bring a lunch bag you can rip open. I learned my lesson."

Zach settled on the front edge of one of the Adirondack chairs, digging his toes into the loose sand. Two athletic men in colorful surfer shorts padded along the water line, looking out across the low rollers. Each carried a rod and bucket.

The stockier of the two finally noticed Zach where he sat at the edge of the shade on the upper beach. "Hey, are you local?" he called out. "Is this a good spot to catch a shark?"

"No, man," Zach said, grinning. "This is the one stretch of beach along the entire Gulf Coast where there are zero sharks. To find a shark, you have to go two miles that way or three miles down that way."

The lanky man gave his friend a good-natured shove with his rod hand. "I told you, Dude—it's all saltwater. You throw in a bloody chunk of beef, you'll pull out a shark."

"Don't hook me with that," Stocky said.

"Don't worry. It's fastened down here," Lanky replied.

Zach angled down the beach toward them. "What you want with a shark?"

Stocky took his hook in hand and pulled a dripping fist-sized hunk of meat out of his bucket. "I just want to be able to say I've caught one. I've always wanted to go shark fishing, and today's our last day before we have to go back north, so I won't have another opportunity."

"We're not going to kill it," Lanky added. "He just wants a couple pictures, then we'll put it back in the water."

"So this is you guys' version of the mako wish foundation, is it?"

Lanky snorted, but Stocky only gave Zach the side-eye.

"Stand clear, or you'll get spattered with blood." Stocky's reel buzzed until his bait plopped into a low, sun-sparkled swell thirty yards out.

"I hope you're not using sirloin. The sharks around here really prefer filet mignon," said Zach.

Lanky guffawed. "They'll have to be satisfied with rump roast."

"I wonder how we could get more chum out there," said Stocky.

"You could wade out about chest deep and dump your bucket," offered Zach. "I wouldn't, but you could."

"Yeah, no. You're just full of helpful suggestions, aren't you." The fisherman reeled his line in slowly and dipped the meat in his bucket before casting again. Dark crimson droplets arced after the baited hook. "I wonder how long—whoa!"

Almost pulled off balance, Stocky stepped forward before fixing himself in a strong stance. His back and shoulder muscles knotted as he pulled the rod back, flexing it until it looked like it would snap. He bent the rod repeatedly, in between extending it and reeling furiously to keep the line taut.

"I see him!" Lanky said, pointing to a dark shadow beneath the surface.

"He's powerful!" said Stocky. "Where's my shirt? Can you wipe the sweat out of my eyes?"

Zach yanked the yellow T-shirt that dangled from the fighting fisherman's beltline and wiped his brow.

The shark thrashed, sending spray left and right as Stocky dragged it into shallower and shallower water.

"He's five feet long if he's an inch," declared Lanky.

Bellowing with exertion, Stocky skidded the large, gray fish up the sandy bottom to the edge of the beach. The shark lay still on the wet sand with insufficient water lapping around its pectoral fins. The man bent over, hands on knees, and stared into the animal's deep black eyes.

"Get your camera out, Steve," Stocky panted. "We have to get a couple pictures, then I have to wrestle him back into the water so he can breathe."

"And not get bit in the process," Lanky added.

"Right. And not get bit."

The shark twisted, trying to keep its eye on the fisherman as Stocky circled behind him to pose for a picture with the Gulf in the background.

"Squat down a bit, and give me the thumbs up," Lanky said. "One more. Okay, got it!"

Stocky pulled out a pair of long-nose pliers and flipped the shark to its side long enough to remove his hook.

"So you've done this before," said Zach.

"With big catfish—never with a shark." Stocky cracked his first smile. "And, you're right. This trip was kind of my Make-A-Wish." He took a deep breath and removed his cap, revealing an angry red scar above his ear. "They got it all out, but it came back in a place too risky to operate again."

Zach licked his lips, shaking his head somberly. "Well, in that case, I'm glad you got your shark. Need help getting him back in the water?"

"I've got this." Stocky grabbed the shark's tail and dragged it a half step at a time back into shallow water, where it started writhing to break free. "Don't fight me, buddy, you're not deep enough yet."

"Look this way," said Lanky. "I'll get a couple more with you and him in the water. Okay, good."

Stocky walked the shark out to where the swells rose above his knees, keeping it pointed toward the open water and preventing it from turning back toward the shallows. With one final push, they parted ways. The muscular fisherman watched the dorsal fin slowly disappear before returning to the beach.

Zach extended his right hand. "Best of luck to you, shark man."

"Shark man. I like that. Some say that if we ever get a cure for the big C it may come from shark research. Or it may not. Wherever it comes from, if it comes in the next three months, I'll be back. If it doesn't —" Stocky gestured toward Lanky. "—he'll be back. At any rate, today was a good day. Hold onto the good days, bud—they're the only ones that really matter."

Zach's feet sank into the wet sand as he waited for the two to retrieve their gear. With a nod, they set out the way they had come. Zach slowly returned to his Adirondack chair.

"Hey, you." A slender brunette in a turquoise maillot one-piece stood by a clump of sea oats at the end of the trail. She fiddled with the knot of the white lacy cover up draped around her hips. "I thought you were going to meet me back by your truck."

"I'm sorry, Beth, I meant to."

"It's okay, I found you. Who are those guys? You said we were going to have the beach to ourselves."

Zach glanced at the weed in the fire pit. "We do now. It's just you and me and some sandspurs. And today is a very good day."