ANGEL IN THE STREAM

Angel prayed for a miracle. Lapsed Catholic he may have been, but .
. .

During his prayer, he kept still. He knew movement might attract the
unwelcome attention of whatever had taken his father. Most likely it
had been a shark, a Great White, the species known to attack humans.
Professionals like himself - Cuban 'neumaticos' - were at high risk
because of what they did for a living. They fished from an inflated
inner tube. It sounded unlikely, but it was true. It was understood
they should never fish alone, and Angel never had. He had always fished
with his father.

Sometimes they fished the shallows for crustaceans and flat fish,
others the deeps for bonito and tuna. Where they fished depended on
weather. In calm periods they paddled out into the Gulf Stream, and
with a net stretched over the tube to sit in, fished long and hard.
When they needed to move they slid over the side and used swim fins on
their feet to push the tube to a new location.

They fished with long pre-baited lines. It was not unknown for a
fisherman to hook into a sports fish - swordfish and marlin - and be
towed along until the fish tired, or the unfortunate fisherman drowned.
Bodies were seldom recovered. Gulf Stream predators acted life refuse
trucks.

A Great White was the ultimate Gulf Stream predator. Few were seen but
fishermen always knew they were there beneath them, swimming in
darkness. Attacks were rare. Angel could only remember one other in his
lifetime.

He shivered, more from the shock of loss than any chill in the
air.

Earlier, feeling the presence of the shark as a sixth sense, he knew
his father must be feeling it in exactly the same way. He may have
wondered which of them would be the target of its icy malevolence - a
matter resolved in such a savagely abrupt way.

Suddenly the devil had been there, a massive presence surging clear of
the water. Falling back into the sea, it had taken his father with it -
and most of the silvery bonito, the bulk of the catch. Well worth
something at auction, enough for a family to survive for another week,
a month . . .

It didn't do to dwell on the occasional tragedy. Fishermen worked
because of necessity. Lives depended on their activity.

It was time to think on other things . . .

In the Stream, it was never really dark. Abundant marine life provided
luminescence. Aided by light from a weak moon, Angel could see the
swell of his inner tube and the calm sea beyond it.

Close to, a plopping sound caught his attention. It might have been a
flying fish breaking the surface of the sea. Then he saw his father's
inner tube, partly inflated, the navigation light still attached and
working, so close to hand on the starboard side its nearness amazed
him. On it, as far as he could see, there were no indications of a
shark attack.

He paddled towards it, dreading what he might find.

Nearing it, he thought how flimsy it looked, how ridiculous the idea
seemed of it supporting life, yet night after night his father took it
out on to a great ocean and fished from it.

He remembered things about his father he had not thought about in
years. How he broke silence only when he had something important to
say; his rare but encompassing humour; his work ethic; and his ability
to survive whatever curved ball the game of life threw at him.

A second sound from somewhere close was as insubstantial as the first.
It was a hissing, as though a snake had been disturbed from
slumber.

He pulled the tube to him, lifting it up on to the hammock of net. He
found a minute hole, and blocked it with his finger. Every 'neumatico'
carried a tube repair kit, courtesy of Dunlop or Michelin, battered and
much-used tins pushed into a shirt pocket. He opened his and repaired
the tube. He held the rubber close to his lips - there was no seepage
of air.

Below him, he sensed movement. There was no other way of describing
it. Simply, he was aware of it. The hairs on the back of his neck, arms
and legs stood proud. In his mouth, he tasted a metallic and corrosive
fear. A deadly languor crept through him. Aware of what was about to
take place, he felt powerless to stop it.

The devil came quickly, rising in an envelope of pressure. When it
struck, it was not so much with a bite as a blow.

Angel felt no pain, only the belief that he might be swallowed whole,
like Jonah. His world started to implode. A smothering and overwhelming
presence absorbed him.

Then words were whispered urgently in his ear.

'Keep still!'

The voice of his father! Immediately, he relaxed.

'Good.'

He felt huge joy and an incredible wonder. In his mind, question piled
on question, but they could wait.

He was released, and watched as the shadowy form of his father began
to push them towards the distant and twinkling lights of Havana.
Without a second thought, Angel slipped over the side to join
him.

End