Javier Ruiz, 59, builds custom fishing rods for a living out of a cinder block workshop behind his tiny coastal Florida home. He’s got a scar across his left forearm from a 40-pound king mackerel that bit him mid-release in 2017, and a bad habit of holding grudges so long they’ve started growing roots in his chest. For 12 years, he’s skipped the county’s annual Seafood & Mullet Toss Festival, ever since his ex-wife left him for a commercial real estate broker she met at the 2011 event, and he refused to be anywhere she could gloat about her new pool and country club membership. His 22-year-old niece, in town from Chicago for spring break, had begged for three straight days to go, saying she’d never seen anyone throw a dead fish for a cash prize, so he caved, wearing the same faded Gatorade fishing hat he’s had since 2008 and steel-toe boots caked with workshop epoxy.
The air hits him first when they walk through the gate: thick with fried grouper grease, salt off the Gulf, and the sharp, sweet tang of key lime pie being sold out of a neon-painted food truck. Steel drums play off to the left, a group of drunk college kids scream as someone hurls a mullet 37 feet into a sand pit, and his niece takes off running toward the conch fritter stand before he can even remind her not to eat anything that looks like it’s been sitting in the sun too long. He leans against a splintered picnic table sticky with old beer, sipping a cold Bud Light, when he sees her.
Clara Mendez is 54, his ex-wife’s youngest cousin, a massage therapist who splits her time between Tampa and a small beach cottage 20 minutes south of his house. He’d only met her a handful of times when he was married, but he’d never forgotten the way she laughed so hard she snort-laughed when he told the story about the time he accidentally hooked a pelican off the pier. She’s standing 10 feet away, holding a paper plate stacked with fritters, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a white linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sun catching the silver streaks in her dark hair. She meets his eye, smirks, and walks over, her flip-flops kicking up small puffs of sand as she moves.
“Thought you banned this festival for life,” she says, stopping so close he can smell coconut sunscreen and the lime seltzer she’s sipping out of a plastic cup. He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and when she holds out a fritter for him to take, their fingers brush. His hands are calloused, rough from wrapping guide thread on rod blanks and sanding cork handles, hers are soft, warm, and he feels a jolt run up his arm that has nothing to do with the cheap beer. He knows this is a bad idea. His ex would raise hell if she saw them talking, half the small town would be gossiping by sundown, he’s spent 12 years avoiding exactly this kind of drama, but when Clara tilts her head and teases him that he looks like he’s scared to be seen with her, he snorts and tells her to shut up.
They talk for 45 minutes, standing so close their shoulders brush every time one of them shifts their weight. She tells him she just got out of a 6-year relationship with a lawyer who forgot her birthday three years in a row, he tells her about the custom rod he’s building for a kid with cerebral palsy who’s competing in his first redfish tournament this summer. When the announcer yells that sign-ups for the couples mullet toss are closing in five minutes, Clara grabs his wrist and yells that they should enter. He resists at first, says he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, but she grins and says she knows he won three years in a row before he stopped coming, and she’s always wanted to win the $500 cash prize.
They sign up, and on his first throw, he hurls the mullet 42 feet, the farthest of any team in the first round. Clara’s throw is shorter, only 23 feet, but their combined total beats the second place team by six inches. When the announcer hands them the cheap plastic trophy and the envelope of cash, she leans in to kiss his cheek, and he turns his head without thinking, their mouths meeting for half a second, warm and sweet, before he pulls back. He glances over to the taco truck, sees his ex standing there, holding a margarita, her mouth hanging open, and he laughs out loud, the weight of 12 years of grudges melting off his shoulders so fast he almost feels lightheaded.
They don’t stick around for the rest of the awards. Clara grabs his hand, pulls him through the crowd, and they drive back to his workshop, the trophy rolling around in the cup holder of his beat-up Ford F-150. He flips on the lights when they walk in, shows her the half-finished rod for the kid, the spools of neon thread lined up on the shelf, the old fishing photos taped to the cinder block walls. She runs her finger along the smooth graphite blank, turns to him, and asks if he’d teach her to cast off his private pier at sunrise the next morning.
He reaches for his truck keys off the workbench, already mentally clearing his calendar for the next three days.
