Grasshopper Bridge, Chapter 1: Exuma Sound

Chapter 1 of Lani Waller's final and unpublished manuscript of fishing stories, guaranteed to stir the souls of fly anglers worldwide.

January 08, 2025 By Lani Waller

On February 4, 1989, Thomas Jones Sinclair arose from his bed and walked silently toward an old wooden table that sat beneath the west window of his small home on the Bahamian Island of Exuma. His lunch sat ready on the table, wrapped carefully in a paper bag. He picked it up, turned briefly back toward the breathing of his wife and two children still asleep, smiled at them, and walked out on the porch to a new day and to learn what the day’s weather would be. A glass jar was hanging from an overhead rafter of his porch on a loop line. Thomas could see the light of dawn illuminated in the glass. Two weeks earlier, he had filled the jar with the fresh oil from the liver of a lemon shark, and it turned cloudy overnight. That always meant bad weather. The storm hit the next morning and stayed for eight days.

Today, the oil was clear and quiet in the early morning light. That meant the weather and water conditions would be good for a while, at least until the oil turned cloudy again. Then the winds would come again, and the dark rain and rolling thunder. The oil is never wrong, Thomas thought. Never. “It always knows,” he said this out loud as if the oil were somehow still alive and had some kind of awareness. He believed it did.

As he stepped down from his porch, he could see the water line in front of his house. The tide was rising, and the mangroves at the water’s edge stood rooted in the moving currents like immense spiders. Thomas could see the water swirled around their spiny legs. He muttered out loud and to no one in particular at that, “Today will be a strong tide with many fish.” That would be good, and he thought the American might already be waiting for him at the dock, and it was time to go. He must keep the appointment. That was his responsibility and his covenant.

When he picked up his bicycle, he began talking again to a passing gull. “The water on the eastern bight will be best,” he told the bird. “I will start there and fish my way back as the tide falls. We can finish on Turtle Grass Cay just at the edge of Exuma Sound and we should have to go no farther than that.”

The gull turned slightly to the west and Thomas heard its reply, “Yes, Thomas, you’re right. You go on ahead. I’ll follow.”

It was an hour ride to the harbor on Thomas’s bicycle, and as he pulled up to the wooden dock, he heard the cry of another bird, a tern. The tern was riding on the back of a large pelican and was screaming and flapping its wings for balance as the pelican paddled and searched for minnows, drifting shrimp, or crab. It was an old game. As the pelican fished, the passenger tern would try to steal the pelican’s catch. An interesting arrangement, Thomas thought. Not unlike some people I’ve known.

By then, it was almost seven o’clock and Thomas was ready. His shirt was clean and pressed. He had his best shorts on that his wife had made from an old long pair of green pants. He had no shoes. None would be needed. He turned to the sound of an approaching vehicle as the taxi from Georgetown pulled up to the dock. The car door opened as a large man emerged and paid the driver. He approached Thomas. His shirt was starched and the fabric strained under the bulk of his physique. Sweat already stung his eyes and gathered in the pink wrinkles of flesh under his chin. A diamond watch sparkled on his wrist. He had gold around his throat in a heavy chain of solid links.

“You, Thomas?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Thomas, I see you got here before I did. That’s good. I like that in my guides. How long you been guiding?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“Well, I guess that will do. You got a tide chart?”

The angler came closer. “I’m sure you do, Thomas. But I always like a chart, understand? They probably got them over there.” He wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief as he pointed to a small bait shop. “You go over there and get one. I’ll wait here. You and I are going to have a great day, aren’t we, Thomas?”

“Yes sir, but we got no tide charts down here,” Thomas replied. “We don’t need them.” Thomas couldn’t imagine not knowing what the tides were. They came and left every day, week after week, month by month, and year in and year out as regular as anything and everyone knew them.

The large man touched him on the chest with one finger, pressing hard.

“Thomas, you just go see. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir. OK, I’ll go and see if they got one.”

When Thomas came back to the dock, the large man was still looking at his pile of baggage. That’s his job, the fisherman was thinking. He can put my goddamn bags in the skiff. That’s what I’m paying him for, and besides, I have to be careful. If anything happened down here, where the hell would I be? I’d be nowhere, that’s where I’d be, he thought as he wiped his forehead. As Thomas returned, the large man asked, “Well, you got the chart?”

“No, sir. They didn’t have any.” The angler said something under his breath, but Thomas ignored it and simply picked up the man’s bags. When the fishermen stepped into the boat, he looked at Thomas and the breeze thickened. For some strange reason, the sight of a black man so close to him brought back an old memory, almost like a dream into the fisherman’s mind. The angler could see the rope again coiling around the limb of a tree, then around a man’s neck. The angler could see the hanging man spinning like a top, choking, and swimming in the air as he died. The fisherman was just a boy then, and he thought the hanging black man had looked like a puppet, the way he was jumping around on the rope, and it looked like his eyes would just pop out any second.

“I’ll tell you what, do that enough times and they’ll learn one of these days. Won’t they, son?”

“Yes sir,” he had told his father, not knowing what else to say. “Yes, sir, they sure will.”

Thomas loosened the rigging from the dock to pull away as the large man continued to look up at the blue Bahamian sky. The man couldn’t understand why that memory had suddenly come back to him. That was a long time ago, but why did it come back at a time like this?

Thomas started the engine and cruised out slowly to deeper water. Once past the yellow buoy marking the harbor entrance, he increased speed until the skiff was riding high in the water. Turning east, he headed toward a small island that had a pair of trees growing up in the air in a large “V,” like the wings of an albatross.

Thomas smiled to himself as he thought of the possibility that someday, in the wind of a big storm, the small island would use the two trees as wings and would lift up and simply fly away. Wouldn’t that be something? A flying Island. But not today. The weather was perfect. And it would stay that way. When he looked up, the gull was where it should be, flying above them, pointing the way with its long neck and silent wings.

When the left-wing of the albatross island was just off starboard, and about 300 yards away, Thomas stopped the engine as the skiff floated into position. Just ahead, he could see a small group of bonefish rooting in the sand. The fish were excited and Thomas could see the long fluorescent stripes of bright green pulsing along their silver sides.

Thomas could also hear them talking to one another in a soft, clicking sound. He knew without a doubt that they were excited and he clicked back at them, telling them to stay where they were and to keep feeding because he wanted to catch one of them. Thomas looked at the fisherman. “Do you see them, sir?”

“No, I don’t. Where are they?”

“They are straight ahead of us, about 50 feet away,” Thomas replied. “There are four of them. They are coming right at us. Quick now, pretend we are standing on the face of a clock,” Thomas whispered. “Twelve o’clock is straight ahead of us. Nine o’clock would be directly to your left, and three o’clock would be directly to your right. So eleven o’clock is just to the left of straight in front of you.” The large man turned quickly to his right, squinting from the reflected light, desperately straining to see. Thomas whispered, “Sir, I’m so sorry, but you were looking in the wrong direction. Look more to your left. Look quickly.”

The man spun rapidly to his left, still trying to cast, as he lost his balance. He staggered uncontrollably, and Thomas leapt down from the tower and quickly grabbed him. “Are you OK?” he asked.

The fisherman seemed dizzy and was breathing hard. He looked at Thomas’s dark hand and pulled away. “I’m all right,” he said, taking his handkerchief out. “Where are the fish?”

“Well, they’re gone now,” Thomas replied.

“What do you mean, they’re gone now?” The large man growled. “Where in the hell did they go?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I had to take my eyes off them when I came to help you. I thought you might fall. You were dancing around pretty good,” and he smiled, hoping his expression and the lightness of his words would ease the large man’s seriousness. There would be more fish. There always were.

For a moment, the fisherman said nothing. He had not seen the fish and would have fallen overboard if Thomas hadn’t helped him, and as the guide returned to his post, the angler’s embarrassment turned to anger. “Were you making fun of me, boy?” he asked, suddenly gripping his rod tightly as he looked at Thomas.

“No, sir, I was not. That was not my intention.”

“Well, let’s get on with it then,” the large man grunted, pleased by Thomas’s soft voice.

“You see, Thomas? I hope you understand the deal here,” the angler continued. “I came down here to catch fish and bigger ones than those goddamn things. I didn’t come all this way for fish like that. I could do better than that by myself in lots of places.” Thomas nodded and started the engine.

The water was dancing as the skiff moved on and Thomas watched a small blacktip shark swim away from the boat. The shark’s eyes were bright yellow with ebony pupils and the shark descended silently away into deeper water steering precisely with its long rudder tail. Moments later, a spotted stingray cruised by the boat, and for a while, Thomas and his fisherman and the ray all glided together, floating over the sandy craters spotted with dark fumaroles, shadowed ridges, and sloping valleys of white sand.

The view was splendid and Thomas smiled to himself, then looked down into the water as he steered his skiff across an ocean of time and space. I am an astronaut, he thought to himself, looking down into the water. And I can see things, but I cannot change them. He exhaled softly and looked at the angler.

Then, without warning, three large fish suddenly appeared. Thomas looked carefully at them. They were so close that he could see drops of water blowing from their shaking tails in a spray of silver light that shimmered like diamonds.

“Look,” Thomas said. “Can you see them? They are feeding on the other side of that light spot at 2 o’clock, about 40 feet away. You should cast now because they’ll see us and they will spook if you wait much longer.”

“I know, I know, Goddamnit,” the man replied sharply, lying to Thomas. “You think I’m blind? Anyone could see them. But I’m not close enough. They’re too far away. Get me closer!” he demanded.

Thomas started to argue because he knew the fish would see the boat, but he thought better of it. He pushed the skiff quietly toward the three fish until he could see the small holes of their nostrils and their red gill plates open and close as they sifted the currents for the scent of something to eat.

Thomas could hear the fish clicking. They were nervous and knew something was wrong. The large man’s rod arced in the sun and Thomas instantly knew the cast would be no good. The three fish could see the boat and the angler’s flashing rod and white shirt. All three shapes bolted and turned right, passing the boat only 20 feet away. The fisherman’s line splashed on the water behind them and Thomas shook his head. “That’s too bad, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry they saw us, but we’ll get the next ones,” he offered. But there was more to it than this and Thomas knew it. It was getting more apparent with each passing moment.

The fisherman turned to Thomas. “You know something? I don’t think we are communicating, Thomas. Your name is Thomas, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should know better, Thomas. You scared them with the boat.”

Thomas said nothing, and in the silence of the moment, he looked at the man across an enormous distance of time, and their respective worlds.

The large man looked back at Thomas. “Jesus Christ, they’re all alike. I bet he prays to snakes,” the fisherman said to himself. “Or dead chickens.”

Thomas broke the reverie and spoke first. “I have an idea, sir,” he said to the fisherman.

“Well, I hope so,” the large man shot back. “That’s what I’m paying for. So what’s the idea?”

Thomas steadied himself. He had to do this in exactly the right way. There would be no second chance. “Well,” he began, “I think we should run for about an hour to a place I know that has some really big bonefish. We’ll fish it from the west side for about an hour and a half, and then we’ll pick up and finish at Turtle Grass Cay, not far from The Sound. The tide will be at its best for the last part of our day. It’s a long way to go, but we can do it if we leave now. We can eat our lunches as we go,” Thomas added, looking carefully into the eyes of the large man. Thomas could see that the large man didn’t know yet, or if he did, it was somewhere still deep inside him in a place he could not feel.

The fisherman, too, thought he saw something in Thomas’s eyes. I’ve got him, the man said to himself. My daddy was right. All you have to do is push a little and they fold. He smiled as he looked at Thomas and his worn-out shirt, homemade shorts, and bare feet. They are all like children, he thought. Every one of them.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Thomas,” the fisherman continued as he reached for his wallet. “Let’s make you a deal, you and me, what do you say Thomas?”

Thomas took a deep breath, inhaling the clean air. “Yes, sir,” he said. “What kind of deal do you mean?”

“Well, do you see what I am holding?”

“No, I can’t quite see what it is,” he told the man, although he knew the man was holding some money.

“It’s a little incentive, Thomas, that’s all. It’s a $20 bill,” the fishermen replied as he tore it in half and placed one half on the seat, using an empty bottle as a paperweight. “We’ll just leave that half there, and I’ll keep the other half. What do you say, Thomas? Then, when you show me a big fish, and if I catch it, you can have the other half. How does that sound?”

Thomas did not look at the torn bill on the seat. It didn’t matter. What could he do differently? Thomas knew the man had no room in him for such a fish. What changes that? Money? How could it? And what did it mean, given the circumstances they both faced? Thomas looked at the man. His mouth showed very slight traces of phlegm in both corners, and as Thomas looked, he could see a large and dark shadow gathering around the boat and the fisherman.

Thomas inhaled silently and answered, “Yes sir, I think we can do it. Let’s go.” The angler smiled, folded his half of the bill back in his wallet, and settled down on the seat for a long ride to the place where they would fish.

“I’ll have my lunch now,” the fishermen said, pointing toward the ice chest as a solitary gull suddenly appeared overhead, keeping an even pace as it looked down at the two men in the white boat. The man looked up at the bird and gripped his sandwich tightly. “You’ll get nothing from me,” he said silently. “Nothing.”

For the next half hour neither of the two men said anything, and Thomas withdrew into his own mind to gather strength and to prepare for the work at hand, alone inside the drone of the motor.

Once past the old wooden lighthouse in the tidal flats of William’s Cay, Thomas could see Cape Santa Maria, barely visible some ten miles away. To his west were the bright flats of Hawk’s Point, New Bight, and Fernandez Bay. Still ten miles north, the currents of Rolleville and Baraterre beckoned, only minutes from one another absolutely due east laid the deep waters of Exuma Sound.

After 30 minutes of steady running, the fishermen went to sleep as Thomas began to assemble himself for the work ahead. As he watched his ocean landscape change, he could see that it was no longer monochromatic or lunar; it had become something quite different. The water was electrified and carried schools of tropical fish that assembled themselves and pulsing lights of green, violet, blue, and bright pink.

Circular clusters of brain coral now appeared in the cerebral globes of red and orange. Purple fan coral grew like trees along the edges of incredible underwater caves and yawning canyons. When Thomas looked down into them, he could see the tarpon there as they had been forever, drifting with the tide in 50 feet of water along an ancient wall of lava.

They looked up at him. Their eyes were shining. “You can make it,” the tarpon told Thomas, “But you must hurry. The tide will soon be falling. Everything is coming together.”

Thomas nodded. “I know,” he answered. “I understand.”

Thomas looked up. The tarpon were right. There was no boundary, no hard line. Not now. Water and sky became one. Reflected clouds drifted like puffs of whipped cream beneath the boat and simultaneously far above it, a blue ocean moved across the windy sky.

Thomas looked at the sleeping man. How should such a man be judged? He remembered something his father had said when Thomas was just a boy. “Once beneath the skin, all people are the same color, and the color is red.”

“Perhaps no one should judge,” Thomas said to himself, looking at the sleeping man in his boat. “Not even me. Especially now.” He took a deep breath as the shadow of the gull crossed overhead.

“Yes, Thomas,” it said, flapping its wings, “You are right, but you must pay attention. Especially now. The time has come. It is here.”

Thomas did not actually see the man die. Not many can see that exact moment, for it does not exist in ordinary time or ordinary human consciousness. It is possible to see the events leading up to that moment, but the act of death itself is a transformation that few ever recognize until it’s over.

And so, the man himself could not know. He had been dreaming, and for a moment, he simply thought that one dream had turned into another. He could see the Lilacs, the red bouquets of garden roses around his home as they suddenly appeared alongside the boat, growing in ten feet of water, somehow mixed in among the antlered fans of submerged purple coral.

The tarpon came next, obediently, in single file, out of the deep canyons and walls of lava, but to the large man, it looked like they were coming from the forest behind the house where he had grown up. He watched as they began swimming up to his front porch with their eyes wide open, looking at him. The afternoon light was shining on their silver backs, and just behind them, the man could see his long fields of rich green tobacco and seeded cotton growing all the way to the horizon. How could that be? He wondered. Where am I? What is happening?

And when the man looked for the last time with his human eyes, he and his sister were children again, riding in the horses and playing in fields of summer grass. Then everything seemed to drop off into some dark ocean he did not recognize. He asked his sister what was happening and if she could help him, but when he tried to put his arms around her, she disappeared.

Thomas could do nothing, only watch and hold the fisherman’s hand as it happened. Thomas wondered if the man could feel his hand and hoped he could, but he couldn’t be sure. The large man simply sighed softly as his life slipped away and he collapsed onto the bottom of the boat. It was over.

Thomas laid the fisherman on his side. Nothing much showed, just a trace of blood from the man’s mouth, and when he touched the dead man’s forehead, it felt like soft leather. He made the sign of the cross and then looked at the bonefish as they gathered like a choir all around his boat.

“Yes, Thomas,” the bonefish said, looking up at him, “You must take him back now. It is over.”

Thomas nodded, then paused, and pulled the torn half of the $20 bill from beneath the bottle on the wooden seat, and slid it inside the man’s shirt pocket. The gold chain necklace was twisted from the fall and it pressed against the veins of the man’s soft throat. Thomas straightened it, relaxing the pressure, and looked down at the fish still gathered around his boat. They looked like a silver cloud floating in the water.

Thomas grabbed the rope and began to pull the anchor back up to the surface as a school of fish turned and swam away. He looked at the dead man in his boat. His red and swollen hand still gripped the edge of the white boat. Thomas put his hands over the man’s eyes and closed them.

Thomas looked at his watch and the hard rising of the afternoon incoming tide. It was right on time. Now he would be able to turn around and go back through the shallow and dangerous waters and return to Georgetown before the mortuary closed.

Thomas looked at the man and made the sign of the cross once more. “We have to go now,” he said as he pulled the starting cord and the engine roared to life. “The tide was right on time, and we can make it now.”

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