The Restless Wave, page 2
When Rear Admiral Fiske walked onto the bridge of the destroyer, the destroyer’s captain bragged to Rear Admiral Fiske about his young quartermaster, Robert James. He said no one had Robert’s skill with a stadimeter, the handheld device used to accurately measure the distance between ships. Fiske had invented it. Fiske looked thoughtfully at Robert James, unblinkingly examining the young sailor, and asked him a few questions about himself. The official party then moved on to tour the engine room; quartermaster Robert James stood at attention as the admiral departed the bridge.
At the end of the ship visit an hour later, Fiske asked to see the quartermaster again, and handed him a small book, Reef Points, about the Naval Academy. He told him to study it hard and think about becoming an officer someday. The young quartermaster took the book, black bound like a Bible, and saluted the admiral as he walked down the brow.
For the rest of his life, Robert wondered what might have happened had he followed the course suggested by Fiske. But the pull of his native Florida won out, and he fell in love with a beautiful Italian girl from Florence who sailed into his life with a trunk of books. In the end, he ended up a fisherman in the Keys, and a very happy one, who spent as much time on the ocean as any Navy officer.
So when it came time to name a son, Robert told his wife he admired the grit of Scott and the vision of Fiske. “I just hope the boy learns something more profitable than fishing,” she said, and laughed.
The Jameses were never wealthy, but business was good enough that Robert bought the cottage in town and then a small plot of land on what many Floridians thought was the most beautiful of all the Keys in the chain of islands connecting southern Miami to Key West: Dark Forest Key, where the miniature deer unique to the Keys were abundant. Robert built the small fishing camp, and when time permitted during the week, the trio would make their way by car and ferry to be by the ocean, fish for red drum and bonefish on the flats, and unwind from the red-faced clients and the bar scene of Key West.
Scott grew up on boats and learned from his father every aspect of the water world that surrounded them in Key West and Dark Forest Key. Up at Dark Forest, Scott’s dad kept a small sailboat, a couple of kayaks, and a putt-putt flats boat with a simple gas engine. They spent most weekends fishing, feeding the miniature deer, tending his mother’s beehives, and enjoying the immense quiet of the sea around them. Often squalls and thunderstorms would blow through the Keys, and Bella would soothe the little boy, telling him that after the storm the sun comes out, and the sea gets calm again, and we can go and see the bees.
By the time Scott turned ten, in 1930, the Great Depression had South Florida in a stranglehold, along with the rest of the nation. Even as a boy, Scott could feel his parents’ tension and unease. But his mother would say that all storms pass, and Robert could always turn to commercial fishing to help make ends meet. Scott too: he had become a saltwater cowboy who could fish and hunt anything in southern Florida.
By the time he was sixteen, Scott had added gambling and drinking to his repertoire and discovered he had a talent for both. His father had a relaxed attitude toward such things, so long as nothing got out of hand and the local authorities were not involved. His mother worried more, but Scott knew roughly where the boundaries were and sailed along smoothly enough. His father looked at him one day and said, “I’ll be damned, but I think you’re taller than your dad.” Robert punched Scott on his shoulder and said, “You’re going to be a middleweight or even more.” Scott laughed and said, “As long as the girls like me well enough, Dad.”
Around the time Scott turned seventeen, his father began to take an active role in teaching him the finer points of cards, especially five- and seven-card stud. “Especially if you end up in the Navy, it’s a required skill on a ship, whether you’re belowdecks or in the wardroom,” he said. Robert coached Scott through plenty of practice hands and taught him how to count cards, when to bluff, how to hold his cards, and when to take a sip or two of whiskey while looking over the rim of the glass at an opponent. Robert also encouraged Scott to learn bridge: “There’s more of that topside than belowdecks, and if you go the officer route, that might come in handy too.” Scott liked gambling, the small victories and risks. He used it to his advantage on the docks, and his school friends learned not to play with him.
When his father would talk about his days in the Navy, Scott would ask, again and again, for more stories, greater details about ports visited and storms at sea and, increasingly, when he could enlist. On his sixteenth birthday, his father handed him the small black book he had received from Rear Admiral Fiske, the words Reef Points emblazoned across the front. The book was the primer for a midshipman, first published in 1903 by a Navy chaplain, and was required study for those headed to the U.S. Naval Academy. “This might come in handy,” his father said, secretly hoping his boy might steer a course that he had let pass by. “Maybe get you ahead of some of the others if you sail that way.” His father held the book hard in his hand, and Scott almost had to tug it away from him. For Scott Bradley James, it felt like the key to Poseidon’s kingdom, and he set out to memorize it.
The first thing he learned was the answer to the question “How long have you been in the Navy?” The reply was a response every midshipman had to spout from memory when challenged by an upperclassman:
All me bloomin’ life, sir! Me mother was a mermaid, me father was King Neptune. I was born on the crest of a wave and rocked in the cradle of the deep. Seaweed and barnacles are me clothes. Every tooth in me head is a marlinspike; the hair on me head is hemp. Every bone in me body is a spar, and when I spits, I spits tar! I’se hard, I is, I am, I are!
That night he fell asleep saying the words to himself, over and over.
And he loved to fight. He learned from the local Navy recruiter that midshipmen at the academy had to take boxing classes, and he went looking for a coach. He learned to box early and well, taught by both his father and a local trainer who put on exhibitions and was known to have gone six rounds with Ernest Hemingway, despite giving away twenty pounds to the author. Scott often would go to the small wooden gym after school, just a boxing ring, some heavy bags, and a row of light leather speed bags by the doorway. He’d loosen up with light weights, then spend an hour or two sparring, hitting the bags, anything to burn the energy that was surging through his growing frame. As he hit the bags, he’d think to himself, Sooner or later I will be someone who can punch my way through anything—from a drunk in the bar to a roaring squall at sea. And I will get to the other side, where the sea is calm again.
3
Bella, Not Pilar
Gulf Stream, Key West, Florida
Ernest Hemingway lived in Key West, he loved fishing, and he could box. Scott knew these three things. He would hear about him at the gym, where his coach talked about the big man’s right hand with near awe. The writer was a presence around town, from the docks to Sloppy Joe’s bar. Robert James was often moored near Pilar, Hemingway’s fishing boat. Hemingway ran the board hard and banged it alongside the pier often enough that other boats tried to avoid being tied up alongside her. In the spring of 1937, he ran Pilar aground on the flats off the mouth of Key West hard enough to crack the propeller, crush the rudder, and bend the shaft. Pilar had to be ignominiously towed back into harbor, and its famous owner slunk off to Sloppy Joe’s, loudly blaming his long-suffering deckhand for not warning him of the approaching shallows.
When he heard Pilar had to be pulled out of the water to be repaired, Scott’s father let Hemingway’s deckhand know that his boat was available for a reasonable charter. Robert heard from the bartender at Sloppy Joe’s that a group of men in Papa’s gang were down from New York for a week of fishing and drinking, followed by more fishing and even more drinking. Robert knew they would need a boat of reasonable size, along the lines of Pilar, that could accommodate a few day trips out deep on the Gulf Stream. Scott was pressed into service with his dad and one other sailor who normally ran the family boat with the senior James.
On a bright, hot Tuesday around noon, a hungover-looking Hemingway led his crew of four friends up the small gangplank onto Bella, the James family boat. Hemingway asked about the origin of the name, and laughed when Robert told him the boat was named after his wife. “Maybe I should try that. Pauline isn’t too happy about how much time I spend on a boat named after a heroine in one of my books. I keep telling her it’s actually a nice nickname for her, but she always says, ‘Why not Pauline?’ ” Robert laughed, the cronies all chuckled, and Scott let out a breath.
“Where’s the beer?” the writer barked. Scott popped open the big ice chest, which he’d filled with Hatuey, a local Cuban beer that Hemingway liked. “Hey, youngster, good choice,” he barked again. “This is named after an Indian the Spanish burned at the stake. When they were about to light him up, he was given a choice of heaven if he converted on the stake, or hell if he didn’t.” Hemingway took a swig of beer. “Damn if he didn’t ask the priest where all the Christians went, and when they told him heaven, he said, ‘I’d rather go to hell.’ True story. Early fifteen hundreds. A toast, gentlemen, to Chief Hatuey, who ended up getting toasted himself, come to think of it.” More laughter from the gang, and a polite smile from Scott.
After everyone had an ice-cold beer in hand, Hemingway got down to business, addressing Scott’s father. “Cap’n Robert, I’m sure you know these waters as well as I do, and we’re happy to be in your hands, at least to start. Let’s get underway for the best fishing spot you know for big-game fish. How’s the bait situation?” Scott opened another big ice chest, this one full of a choice of bait from small gulf shrimp to bigger bait fish glistening in the afternoon sun. Hemingway nodded his approval and held out his empty bottle of Hatuey. “And I’ll take another one of these. What’s your name, youngster?”
Scott neatly popped the cap on another beer and handed it across. “Scott, Mr. Hemingway.”
Hemingway sized Scott up—strong and husky, almost as tall as Hemingway, with an open, smiling face. “Call me Papa,” said Hemingway. “Everyone else does. As long as your actual dad over there doesn’t mind.” Scott smiled, nodded, and handed around another round of beers to the gang. “Grab one for yourself, youngster,” said Hemingway, and ambled toward the flying bridge to confer with Scott’s dad. It was clear Hemingway saw everyone on board as a drinking partner and a member of the audience.
They stayed on the water through a blistering afternoon, and the fishing was exceptional. After Hemingway landed the first big tuna, he spent most of the time coaching his New York friends, trying to duplicate his success for each of them. As the afternoon wore on, one by one, they all managed to bring something up and over the rail. Scott kept moving between them, backing up Hemingway’s coaching with fresh bait, repair of the fishing lines, and cold beer. By the time the New Yorkers had each landed something respectable, they were deep on the Gulf Stream, and cracking open the big bottles of Bacardi Carta de Oro rum Scott had brought out. Scott looked out at the turquoise-blue waters, seeing them merging with the darker waters just at the western edge of the stream. There was a small pod of dolphins playing right on the edge of the warmer Gulf Stream and the cooler Atlantic waters. Whenever Scott saw dolphins, he knew the fishing would be good. And their playful, athletic jumps, sleek and wet, made his own heart jump pleasurably in time with their leaps. God, he thought, I love being at sea. I could live forever out here.
It was a nearly religious experience for Scott being on the deep ocean, far out of sight of land, the sea and sky everywhere around him. He stood on the flying bridge with his dad, neither speaking. The sounds of the fishing party faded from Scott’s hearing, and all he felt and sensed and heard was the rush of the blue ocean running under the keel, the steady hum of the diesel engine, and the humid, tropical air going by. His father had a hand loosely on the wheel, steering by sight on the sun’s position and the color of the Gulf Stream. He looked over at Scott, their eyes met, and both smiled.
“Hey, youngster, look alive,” shouted Ernest Hemingway from the bottom of the ladder headed up to the open bridge. He asked if Scott had any limes on board, and when Scott showed him a large basket full of limes and lemons, the big man’s eyes lit up. “Now, for extra credit, youngster, any sugar?” Scott nodded and pulled a paper bag of sugar out of the cupboard in the tiny galley. With ingredients in hand, Hemingway started chopping and squeezing limes by the handful, pulsing the fresh juice into a couple of big pitchers Scott filled with chipped ice. Then a big handful of sugar and a bottle or so of rum in each of the pitchers. Hemingway grabbed the handle of a gaff hook and stirred the daiquiris vigorously, creating a light froth on the top. Then he took one of the pitchers by the handle and raised it to his lips, drinking deeply. “One for me and one for the rest of you,” he said, wiping the foam out of his beard. Scott handed around coffee mugs and soon both pitchers were emptied. As Bella turned west into a setting sun, the gang settled into a couple of deck chairs, the two fishing chairs, and impromptu seating along the rails of the small fantail.
The talk was mostly about the fishing, and the fresh daiquiris, and what they would do that night. Hemingway had asked Pauline to find some friends of hers to join his running mates on an excursion to Sloppy Joe’s down near Duval Street, over on Greene. In a lull in the conversation, Hemingway looked over at Scott, nursing one of the last beers from the ice chest. “Hey, youngster, ever done any boxing?”
Scott nodded. “Sure, my dad taught me some when I was first starting, and I’ve been working a bit with Spider Lockheart, an old prizefighter and now a coach who runs a little gym down here. I like it pretty well. I’m thinking about trying to get into Annapolis, and they teach it there too.”
Hemingway smiled. “Hey, that’s great, youngster. I know Spider, and he’s a good coach for a lefty. You’re a southpaw, right? Been watching the way you handle the rods and the beers. Spider teaches everyone the same, whether they are heavyweights like me, middleweights like you, or flyweights like Bill here.” He nodded over at one of the New York guys, who might have weighed 125 pounds soaking wet. “It’s a sweet science, youngster. Come on down to Sloppy Joe’s tonight and I’ll show you a couple of things I’ve picked up along the way.”
He turned back to his mates, and soon they were discussing the war in Spain. Hemingway looked out to sea, to the east, and said, “Spain’s out there, few thousand miles. The Spanish ruled these waters for hundreds of years, and fought wars with the Portuguese, the Dutch, the English, then with us. Galleons sailed, full of silver. It fueled the Hapsburg empire. But now war has come home to them, and the civil war there is getting worse and worse. Anybody can see it’s just a warm-up for a bigger one coming. I’m going to go and cover it in person soon.” He idly threw an empty bottle of Hatuey over the transom and watched it float for a moment before sinking in the blue-green water. He turned and faced his gang. “The Spanish Republicans are holding their own, but the Germans and Italian Fascists are flying in to help Franco and the bastard Nationalists. Good people all around the world are heading over to help in the fight against the Fascists. I want to go and see it and bring it home to people here—maybe it can help stir up some support.” Scott had no interest in the war talk and couldn’t really follow the conversation about Republicans and Nationalists. I wonder if their Republicans are like ours here, he thought, and who the hell are Nationalists?
He went up to the flying bridge and asked his father about going to Sloppy Joe’s. “For a boxing lesson with Papa Hemingway? Hard to turn that one down, I guess. But watch yourself—the drinking he’s been doing out here is just a warm-up for him, and believe it or not, he takes the fishing seriously enough to stay more or less sober on the water. But ashore, I’ve seen him in the bars when he’s tanked up, and it’s not always a calm stretch of water. Maybe go early, before he’s head down and fired up on drink, Scott.”
At eight o’clock, Scott walked into Sloppy Joe’s and saw the large gaggle of family, friends, and fans that always surrounded Hemingway in Key West. As he approached, Scott noticed a tall, striking woman with platinum-blond hair standing at one end of the group nearest the bar, who was better dressed by a damn sight than the rest of the Key West crowd. She was dressed in a tight pair of slacks that emphasized the length of her legs. A martini in a cocktail goblet was perched on the bar in front of her. I wonder where a dump like Sloppy Joe’s got a glass like that, he thought. She leaned against the bar and swept the crowd with a bored and mildly disdainful gaze. Scott saw that Hemingway was playing to her, smiling and nodding at his own witticisms and looking for her reaction. A small woman with dark hair stood next to Papa. Scott guessed she might be Mrs. Hemingway, based on descriptions he’d heard of her as kind of mousy. He’d also heard she was where the bucks came from to finance Hemingway’s big lifestyle in Key West. She was turned away from the blond woman, standing close to the author. Maybe those two can have the boxing match, thought Scott. I’d put my money on the tall one.
One of the New York crew saw Scott and sang out to Hemingway, “Hey, look, Papa, the kid from Bella is here. By himself and looking like he needs a beer.” Hemingway swung around, and even from twenty feet away, Scott saw he was well into a big night on the town. Scott began to wonder if coming to Sloppy Joe’s had really been such a good idea. But before he could change his mind, the author pushed through his crowd and approached him, throwing a big arm around his shoulder. “Come on over and meet Pauline and the crowd,” he said, slurring his words slightly but moving lightly on his feet. “And I’ll get you a drink, a real drink.”
