Survivors
by Sarge Lacuesta

They all thought Fishman had gills. He always wore a black rubber swimming cap, tight against his skull, over the tops of his ears. He had the gills there, they said, right behind his ears.He’d stay down more than anyone ever could. Someone said he once stayed down for ten minutes, fixing a tangled net.

Everyone wanted him. The boat captains would call out to him when they saw him, hiring him for the next ride out. Sometimes he’d say yes, and show up right before the boat pushed from dock. Sometimes he’d say no, because he’d been booked a full month. Sometimes he’d be booked for a full month.

I dunked the plastic pitcher into the saltwater and poured it out into the glass. In the moonlight it looked just as cloudy as the gin mix anyway. They’d wake up the next morning shitting out their guts and wondering why they had a salty taste in their mouth. I’d never had the nerve to tell them why, but once or twice I almost did. What stopped me was Fishman, who I’m sure knew it as soon as he brought the thick glass to his mouth, the taste of seawater, clear and undiluted to his lips even after whole bottles of gin. And he drank it anyway, like it was the best gin-pomelo he’d ever tasted. If it were gin he’d probably be out cold, anyway. But the next morning he’d be up way before anybody else was, checking the lines, cleaning the nets.

He’d just look at me, smirking. The seawater was nothing to him. The sea was nothing to him, either.

The fish-whore noticed it, too. His smell, like oily fish, like the seawater at low tide close to the shore, strewn with garbage. She recognized it instantly, I think, the smell of Fishman. After all, she’d probably been around here longer than any of us. I was the newest one here, a mechanic who was more used to V8 and V10 truck engines, then on a lark tried my hand at the recycled, reconditioned Mitsubishis and Fusos they had in fishing boats. The other guys, they were deadbeats, bums who had picked up the simple trade and learned it along the way. The captain, he was probably a deadbeat, too. It was morning of our second week. The ice had almost melted out down in the hold. It was just mostly cold water keeping the catch fresh—or mostly fresh. I doubted they’d pass off as fresh, even if the wholesalers saw us coming to dock and unloading them. They’d probably smell a bit off by then, too.

All we had was a lucky bounty from the third day of our trip, our only luck ever since. There was a good mound of them in the hold, squid and mackerel, half-covered in water.

She sat beside Fishman quietly while she waited for the captain, not looking at him. She had some beauty under her dry, brown skin, though I was far from an authority on that, especially then. I hadn’t fucked a woman for a long time. Her husband waited in their pumpboat, its outrigger moored to our boat.

The captain had Tambo fill two pails with the fish. Mostly dead, except for a few twitching mackerel, wriggling their tails and gasping in the dirty water. They’d probably get a good profit from it at the market, considering it would be still relatively fresh. It was money without much hard work, too. Unless you counted her work—which was probably not much.

Two pails were worth one fuck for the captain. Probably thirty, forty-five minutes’ worth. While they were at it in his quarters the husband waited in his boat, like it was safer there, like it was a security measure. He unloaded the fish into baskets, ready for the market. He read a comic book while he waited. The pumpboat bobbed up and down, knocking the outrigger against our hull, making it difficult to read.

"Know how to read?" I asked Fishman. He was looking at him, too, studying what he was doing. There was nothing else to look at.

"No," he said. They told me he’d been swimming as soon as he was born. That his mother ate nothing but tuna during her pregnancy. Maybe she was a fish-whore, too. I could believe that one.

You couldn’t get hungry out here. But it’s not just the sea. Everywhere. I told Fishman once about an uncle of mine. When I was a child he took me up the mountains near our town—I didn’t even know what those mountains were called. It didn’t make a difference, anyway. To me every forest, every mountain looked the same from the ground.

I never knew we were expecting to spend the night there until he took out a small plastic bag of rice for dinner. It was going to get dark soon and I realized we were staying here, in the middle of the mountain forest.

My uncle cut a two-foot segment from a bamboo stalk, with nodes on both ends so it formed a hollow container. It was thick around as his thigh. Then he used the pointed end of his itak to bore a small hole on the side. He formed a funnel out of banana leaf and poured the rice into it. Then he took water from a stream and funneled that in, too.

Over one shoulder he carried an air-rifle that he had fitted out so it would take .22 bullets. He fired at a couple of forest lizards and both turned belly up as soon as they were hit. I hadn’t even seen the lizards until he shot them. When we went over to get them I couldn’t even see where the bullets hit their thick hide. They weren’t even wounded. My uncle told me that the shock of getting hit was enough to startle them, render them inert and unconscious.

He taught me how to skin and clean them. He chopped up the lizards and put them in a milk can he had brought along. There was stuff in it already, whole garlic and chopped onions. I also smelled pepper. He buried the milk can in the soil, gathered some sticks on it, and started a fire. Then, a bamboo tripod over the fire. He placed the rice cooker on the tripod.

While it was cooking he made a makeshift shelter with the rest of the bamboo stalks and with the largest leaves we could find. And then we sat and we waited.

"Reading must be a lot of fun," Fishman said, smirking.

A gust of wind blew fresh salt into the air. Fishman seemed to luxuriate in it. I saw his eyes close and his brow crumple, as though he was trying hard not to show me how good it felt to him. That oily smell again now, a bit darker and bolder than the smell of the fish that had spent a week in cold, dirty water, earlier passed to the fish-whore’s husband.

Maybe he just didn’t take baths. People have a smell, a unique, unmistakable smell. I know this. I’d been living and sleeping among people since I can’t remember. I’d never thought about how true that was until now. It was always among people, a common mattress on the floor with my parents, a bunk bed in a barracks, a rundown dormitory.

The man’s wife had the smell of baby cologne and powder. It made me dizzy to think about where she had applied either. But now it was Fishman’s smell again, as it inevitably became Fishman’s smell everywhere: in the holds, in the containers, on the ropes. Even the fish smelled more of him than just fish. It was the smell of fish-man, a mix of maleness and supple oil, and like the sea, a faint odor of decay. He had a small, uncommonly sharp nose and small, swept-back eyes, and his rubber swimming cap was stretched and furrowed enough to resemble part of his skin, his head.

I suppose this made him good-looking, too, and gave him a kind of sharpness of look and a temperamental, introspective frown. But while the fish-whores tried to work their charms on the rest of us—for a hundred bucks each instead of baskets of fish—they all seemed to pay special attention to him. Though I’d never seen him really interested in them. He preferred to stay downstairs in the hold, or, overboard on the other side of the boat, inside the sea, head piercing the surface from time to time.

The thing was, none of us had enough pesos to enjoy her more than once in a couple of months. She was walking out on the deck now, her appearance carefully restored, some of the scent of powder replaced by sweat.

"Salamat, Manong," she said, to no one in particular. Her step was a little looser now, her balance a bit off. She brushed against Fishman as she passed. She turned to look at him—was it the smell?—looked right at his face and smiled. She knew him.

Then it struck me that I would have been surprised if they didn’t know each other; everyone knew the fish-whore was much, much older than she said she was; and simply everyone—in the boat business, in the town—knew Fishman. How many times could they have met? On this boat or any of the others that plied these parts?

He might have fucked her a couple of times, too.

"It’s done."

I didn’t know how my uncle knew things like that. I had known him enough at the time to know that it really was done, and that it was time to retrieve the bamboo rice cooker and to stamp out the fire and unearth the milk can. When both were opened, the bamboo split open, the milk can cover pried off, the smell caused a kind of triumphant pleasure between us.

Lizard tastes better than chicken. It’s lean, dark and delicate so that eating the bones clean makes the flavor all the better. It’s easy to capture and found in great numbers, so that people like my uncle and I could find ourselves complete and satisfied in the middle of the jungle.

He had told me he often found the urge to walk up the mountain like this and spend some nights alone. I shuddered at this, hating myself for being such a coward. He had told me our jungles had few predators and he had an anting-anting that protected him from common jungle animals and evil spirits. Besides, he understood its ways and knew how to handle its creatures.

He had told me once about the time he slept on a bed of banana leaves in the open. It was summer and there was no chance it would rain. He had been awakened, in the middle of the night, the full moon already high, by a strange breathing sound at his ear.

"O—take it easy, boss," he had said, half asleep. "I’m just passing through. I mean you no harm. Just a few lizards."

And he had drifted back to sleep afterward.

"So how many times have you fucked her?"

"Once or twice. Maybe more," he said, the answer quick and easy.

"I haven’t even."

"Nothing to worry about."

Fishman was in charge of making sure the nets were OK down there. He could stitch the nets, make knots and unravel them under there, as fast and as sure as anyone could on land. He dislodged them from rocks and unruly corals. We were sure he could catch two pails of fish faster than the net could, considering it took some waiting and some luck.

It was just me and Fishman now, the last bottle of gin between us, with no more lime juice, not even a single calamansi.

The rest of the crew had passed out drunk at an earlier hour. It was the captain’s guilt at work. He knew he had deprived us of some earnings, considering we took a cut out of every load we brought in. To add to that, he also knew he had fucked a woman and none of us could afford to. He had the right to the catch. It was always thanks to the captain’s luck and skill that led a boat to its quota. Everyone thought it was dignified enough of him, even in some small way.

They were all old hands of his, old friends. He was godfather to many of their children, and once or twice he would reward one or two of them with a round with one of the fish-whores, after him, of course.

But Fishman and I were outside this circle; he was a freelancer, and made too much money that way, and maybe because of that, had very few friends. I was a truck mechanic on his first month at this job. And as with all my previous trades, I knew this one wouldn’t last.

"It’s because of you, of course." I told him.

He saw me looking at the boat’s rear, where the dark hold heaped with quiet, silver fish, the once-iridescent lines on their sides faded away. Hanging above the hold, I could barely make out the dark, linked-diamond shapes of more fish, split, salted and hung from fishing lines to dry. The moon was not out yet.

Fishman merely grinned. He had heard this before, of course, just as I had: he had a smell for the sea, a sense of where to go; or, he was a lucky talisman to have on board, so that every boat that got him would be back at the dock earlier than scheduled, heavy with catch, and the captains would be standing there, waiting, because they all knew he was done and he would be looking for a new job.

I asked Fishman why he bothered to live this way. How much would it take to buy you a boat, second- or third-hand, with a good V10 engine. I could even help you get a cheap one and make sure you don’t get cheated. I knew a little bit about construction and wood. I certainly knew my way with engines. It’s the Fusos you want. Don’t bother with the Mitsubishis or the Isuzus, no matter what they tell you. It’s the salt water, you see. Fusos are built to last—the rest will die out on you. At least I’ve never had a Fuso give out on me.

And then a few thousand more to get you started out. A good brand new net, a good supply of ice in the hold, plus the little extras: a kerosene lamp, a kerosene cooker. A couple cases of gin. That would be a good month’s worth.

"I don’t have that kind of money," Fishman said, half listening. He was looking at the drying fish, glistening brighter now.

I didn’t have to tell him that all the boats he worked on for two months would make more than that kind of money; they were making money off him, off his luck, his skill—I almost mentioned his gills. But I told him anyway. Fishman looked young, but I was quite sure it was the sea that had smoothed out his skin and stretched it taut against his shark-like face.

"We’re getting old, Fishman."

He stood up, bounded across the deck, his feet making two wet slaps against the boards, and disappeared soundlessly into the water. Before he got back on board I drifted into a sitting sleep. When we ran out of rice, my uncle and I fell to scrounging for sweet potatoes. It was no difficult sacrifice. The lizards were always there, flashing their scales dimly at us as we sat in the twilight, and we had enough bullets in our pockets to keep us hunting for days.

My uncle died when he was in his early fifties. They found him in the forest, up a tree. It was the smell that led them there. He was lodged in a crotch of thick branches, as though he had perched his body there to make sure he wouldn’t slip down to the ground even if he had fallen asleep.

They also saw fierce scratch-marks on the bark. Might have been warthogs or wild dogs. Some people suggested it was supernatural creatures. Prayers were offered and a chicken was slaughtered and offered to the jungle before they took him down. He’d been there days, probably.But he had tried his best. The tree had edible fruit, even if it was almost unbearably bitter and tough. He had his milk can with him, rattling as his corpse trundled to the ground. When they opened it they found lizard bones, eaten clean. But it still smelled of fresh garlic, onion and ginger.

"He was a survivor," they told me. A part of me knew he was, and I even clearly remember crying at the thought of him crouching in that tree. But a part of me knew he wasn’t really a survivor. For one thing, if he were, he’d still be alive now.

We were on our way back now. There was a new mood in the air. The men began talking about what they were going to spend their pay on.

"Straight to Aling Taring, that bitch. That bitch has got a damn keen sense of smell. She knows whenever I’ve just come in."

"Well my bitch is named Alex. Alexandra. At the Catwalk Club. She probably got that name from an American movie. Her cunt’s got that same sense of smell. She knows when I’m loaded and milks me dry."

When it was still freshly caught, we liked to eat it raw and squirming. But now it was dried fish for breakfast, dried fish for lunch and dried fish for dinner. Still, it tasted different here, the salt-taste cleaner and the flesh more tender. Fishman had taught us to like it half-broiled, still pink and bloody inside. Then he caught a basketful of squid and we rinsed the small slippery bodies in water, took a long knife and split them down the middle to take out the soft bone.Then we swirled them in vinegar before swallowing them, sticky and squirming.

There was no more gin, but captain took heart enough to bring out a bottle of brandy from his personal stash. He poured a bit into the vinegar and when we dipped the squid heads into it we had never tasted it this good. Then he poured some into the empty Nescafe diamond glass and passed it around.

My uncle always told me that brandy should be drunk slow and steady. Which was why it was for old people, rich people, people with experience, because they knew how to take pleasure from a long, slow session.

My boatmates, though, knocked each glass back. Either they didn’t know how to drink it or they just missed the gin so much. It was a session even the captain couldn’t last. I knew he didn’t want to look weak to his men, that he could knock it back as fast as they could. Whenever my turn came I’d make sure my hand covered the glass so they couldn’t see how little I’d poured.

Fishman drank like a fish. His red face stood out in stark contrast from his flesh-colored swim cap. He had a full glass, the last of the brandy, in his hand. I’d poured out the bottle until it was empty.

"Drink up, Fishman. There’s nobody here left. Even your captain is down." Fishman raised the glass to me and bottomed it out, the muscles on his neck flattening and thickening.

"Puta!" he said, slamming down the thick tumbler.

I asked him how he was going to spend his money.

"My wife."

"Never knew you had a wife. Got kids?"

"Two. Not from the same wife," he added, grinning.

I laughed. I imagined that this was how the captain would do it, laughing out loud at jokes that weren’t really that funny. It was his way of keeping his men tight and keeping them together.

"My wife is not here, actually," he said. I looked at him, wanting to show him I was listening. I knew the setup: wife working as a domestic helper in Singapore or Hong Kong or Saudi, the husband underqualified for any opening. Men would take the skilled jobs, the foremen jobs, the engineer jobs. They couldn’t be maids. Nobody needed fishermen. Nobody needed mechanics either, unless they had college degrees and could pass those exams in English.

"If you had your own boat, you wouldn’t need to pay to fuck. Think of how many pails of fish you’d be able to get. You could live forever out here. You wouldn’t even have to go back to land." Fishman was too drunk to dive by now. I could smell the smell of alcohol mixing with his oily smell. There was also the smell of fragrant smoke, of broiled fish, now reduced to a heap of white bones and fish-skulls on the plate between us. It reminded me of the smell of uncle’s milk can.

"Look at them," I grunted, dipping my eyes half-closed the way men do when they are drunk. The men lay snoring on the deck, limbs askew, bellies exposed.

The moon had given us enough light. We worked in a kind of underwater silence. We tied them up tight with fishing line and stuffed their mouths with rags. Then we slit their throats with clean, sure strokes. We counted them all to make sure we had them all, and unloaded them one by one off the deck.

He covered his nose and mouth, like he was going to throw up. I imagined he could smell the blood from their bodies and on the deck. I told him to relax on the reardeck, by the hold, near the fish, while I filled a bucket with seawater so I could clean up.

"We’re survivors," I told him.

A small wind picked up the smell of their blood, greasy and salt, with a sharp alcohol tinge. In the moonlight it looked like a fresh coating of black paint.


27 November 2005