The Naked Bull

And day and night will chase themselves

Around again the ring

And God may be, or maybe not

It would not change a thing

For if we die, yes, you and I

With still our work to do,

We’ll finish it another day

for nothings ever through

The year was 1492. The Catholic Queen Isabel of Castile and King Ferdinand of Aragon had conquered Granada, the last Muslim stronghold of Spain, ending the 700 years of Moorish rule. Boabdil, the last Sultan of Spain, went to exile, where he buried his wife, Morayma, and his youngest son Yusuf. Shattered and miserable, he bid farewell to the Iberian Peninsula to spend the rest of his days in Morocco. It was said his tears rose the tide.

It was there at Tarifa, the southernmost tip of Spain, centuries later, a young man strode out of the saltwater of the strait of Gibraltar. His name was Vashon; his long shadow never strayed. It was early yet as he remembered how he had forever promised his father he would never dive alone; it was the rule of the day, after all: The law that was a lie, a false sense of security.

“We go down together,” he defended his reckless style “We come up alone,” and then the words that soured with age “I am not my brother’s keeper.”

His father persisted, “And who keeps you, then?”

He glanced over his left shoulder toward the Atlantic and his home beyond. To the right, the Mediterranean, and adventure, flesh, drink. He reached his van and, swinging an empty tank off his back, pounded on the back door once, twice, three times, eliciting muffled Spanish obscenities from within that brought a devious grin. The door swung wide, revealing a face of daggers and dry lips, dark eyes blinking at the morning sun.

Elliott pulled his long black hair from his eyes, then bitched a storm.

“What the hell, cabron? You said you was swimmin’ to Tangiers first dive.”

Vashon kicked his tank, producing a hollow ring.

“Ran out of air.”

Elliott reached for an itch on his back that had pestered him all morning, sleeping between air cylinders that were empty, save one. He slapped it with a palm then fell back to his nest, covering his face with a shirt he had worn the day before and the day before that. Vashon saw the tattoos of his faith on his chest and arms: The Virgin De Guadalupe, the Christ wriggling on his cross whenever Elliott flexed his muscles. He called himself Catholic, though he knew nothing of the Bible or the history therein. Blind faith, false security. Vashon shrugged.

He talked for the noise as he grabbed the tank and sat it beside the other, unfastening his buoyancy compensator.

“Hey, Elly, you wanna remind me why you never go down anymore?”

Elliott threw aside his covering with a growl: There would be no more peace. Crawling to his knees, he dug through the cooler for a beer, then perched himself at the back of the van, thankful for the shade. It was already getting hot.

“Mermaids, cabron,” he said and took a long, cool drink.

“Why you hate seagulls?”

“You mean those fucking shit hawks? Serious? Those shit slinging rats? Makin hell ‘a noise, dropping their fucking shells on the roof when I’m tryin’ to sleep?” Vashon turned his head as Elliott preened his morning nostrils.

“Ah…serious? Did the little birdies wake up little white boy?” drink, swallow, “Shit, ese. Seagulls are good luck, man.” Elliott watched Vashon exchange tanks.

“You got one full, ese, then you free dive.”

Vashon shook his head.

“You’re a certified diver, Elly. Ain’t there some rule about never holding your breath?”

Elliott choked on his laugh.

“Yeah, I remember. Comes right after ‘never dive alone.’” Vashon shook his head “We’ll fill up after San Fermin’s. Won’t need them ’til then anyway.”

“If we have any money left, cabron,” said the broken record.

Vashon stood gazing across the Straights of Gibraltar toward Africa beyond. Boabdil must have had this same view, he mused, his tears must have mixed in these same waves. He pulled off his wayfarers to wipe the crud from them, taking note of the saltwater specks on the inside of the lenses.

The tears of Boabdil.

He walked to the van and slid the side door open for a cold beer, a blessing after an hour underwater breathing dry steel and salt air. Elliott checked his gear. He watched out for the man, though he would never admit it and would punch anyone who suggested so. He also kept track of the community purse, which at that point, weighed shy.

“Hey Vaz,” he said, “What about the other empty tank, tu sabe cabron? The one that makes the wheels go ’round?” said the broken record to no one again. They had been traveling since last they had worked months before, and would need to find work again soon. Vashon ran his fingers through his gritty, dirty blond hair, which he did whenever in a fix. It did not part easily; saltwater had been his only bath in weeks. His skin tanned from constantly chasing the sun and living on beaches.

His tall frame supported his gear as though it weighed nothing; in the crowded streets and bazaars, his face and shoulders could be seen above all as he walked with a straight and confident spine. He let his facial hair grow when he worked for traveling cash. He called this ‘harvest growth’ referring to the migrant workers he spent much time whenever farm work was at hand. When diving, he kept his face shaven, mostly, for a tight seal on his face mask.

Another seagull flew close between him and the water that awaited his return.

“Lucky my ass,” he sucked at his tasty beer, “What did any mermaid ever do to you?”

Elliott tested the straps on the tank then laid it on its side “Well, not me so much, but I have this amigo, see, real nice guy,” pushing the purge button on the regulator to test “You’d laugh your ass off to see him, ese. Head the size of a grapefruit! Funniest damn thing you ever seen” and then tested the backup air.

“Great story, Elly” he hadn’t expected an answer. Just wanted him to know, without getting all sloppy, that he was always welcome back in the water.

“What’s it got to do with mermaids?” he asked. Elliott grabbed another beer, the last.

“Well, like I say, nice guy, but a bit…how you say…gullible? I mean, he was out diving once, and this mermaid popped up out of nowhere all of a sudden like, see, and this friend of mine...”

“The nice guy?” said Vashon “yeah, roger that” picking up a rock and hurling it at the bird.

“Yeah, that’s him. So, this mermaid offers him a wish, like, anything he wants.”

“A wish, huh?” picking up another rock, “Nice.”

“Yeah, so what’s my friend wish for?”

“I give up. Maybe the end of the story?”

“Easy, cabron. Check your gear, lazy bitch,” he said just loud enough to hear.

Vashon frowned at the bother.

“You just did that”

“You trust me, ese?”

“Any reason I shouldn’t?”

“Your ass, cabron,” and walked away from the gear.

Time passed. Vashon wanted to get back out before the water got busy with dive boats and ferries.

“So, about your friend, the nice guy with the small head.”

Elliott shook it off. One day, ese, you go out and don’t come back.

“So, my friend decides he wants to fuck her. Says it just like that.”

“Yeah? Sounds like a good plan. Chubby in a wet suit is hell’a painful.”

“Yeah, well, no. I mean...not exactly,” said Elliott. Vashon let out a heavy sigh. He was getting hot in his quarter-inch neoprene that was beginning to smell of sweat. And urine.

“See, this mermaid says she would be more than happy to do it with him, except...” Elliott paused, the water waiting. He was enjoying his friend’s discomfort, payback’s for waken’ me up, cabron.

“Yeah? Don’t make me wait for it, Elly.”

“Well, you know, she’s like...fish from the waist down, tu sabe?”

“Never gave it a think, but whatever, and?”

“Well, she explains this to my friend.”

“…the nice guy.”

“That’s him,” short pause for theatrics

“So, guess what he wishes for?”

“I give up Elly…really.”

“A little head,” said Elliott.

Silence.

“Damn Elly...serious? You had to make me sit through all that shit?”

Elliott slapped his legs, laughing. He had always liked that joke, pointing toward the sky with a devious grin. A seagull was hovering there on the warm, rising currents.

“Better watch out, cabron,” he said and laughed again.

“May need to head in for more beer while you’re down.”

Vashon hefted his tank and grabbed his fins.

“You just do that, amigo. Don’t forget the tequila, tu sabe? I’m gonna go get ahead of the current.”

Elliott watched as the solo diver left footprints across the ancient sand toward the water.

“Hey Vaz,” he called after, “How far out you goin’ this time?”

Vashon replied out the side of his face.

“Pick me up in Marrakesh.”

Elliott was puro Mexicano, a child of Culiacan, Sinaloa. His father had left Mexico for work in South Cali, but he had stayed, being the eldest, taking care of his mother and younger brothers and sisters until they were older, and he was able to follow. He had a strong back and prized on the job sites where they worked, all sweat, little talk.

He didn’t much care for gabachos, never much trusted them. He had always found his relationship with Vashon ironic, and it was a fact that when Elliott had first met the man years earlier, he had not taken a shine to him at all. To Elliott, he epitomized everything that left a bad taste in his mouth about white folk: Arrogant, condescending, moody on good days, a genuine asshole on others. The list went on. He wouldn’t have wasted his breath on the man if it weren’t for one redeeming factor: Vashon had saved his life.

Or at the very least, from an extremely long swim.

Elliott had taken up diving once he had some money under his belt. He was spending more and more time at the beach and had noticed how the south Cali babes seemed to admire surfers and men in suits. He had given surfing a go but decided it wasn’t for him (English was hard enough. Surfer English was an entirely vague dialect). He and a dive buddy (both new to the sport) had been diving north of Malibu at a cove called Point Dume. They had concluded, after many beers and a couple of joints, that it would be a most excellent adventure to circumvent the cliffs between there and Zuma beach further north. A swim of perhaps a couple hundred yards, they figured.

It was actually more like two miles.

But then, who’s counting?

They had not checked the maps, nor the tide or current charts. Just parked one car at Dume, drove north to Zuma in the other, jumped in the water, baked to the bejesus, and headed south. By the time they had sobered up from the exertion of fighting a current, which was, unfortunately, pushing north, they both realized they had made a serious error in judgment.

They were about halfway between the two points when they surfaced with the idea of aborting the dive and swimming to shore, but there was nowhere to get out. The giant breakers that brought the surfers to Zuma and Leo Carrillo crashed against the sheer face of the cliffs. Convinced their destination was just around the next corner they had no choice but to go back down and use their knives to pull themselves along the bottom until they reached the open beach. That worked for a time until their breathing, labored for too long, their tanks on empty, and ultimately, they were forced to surface.

At this point, they realized yet another blunder: they had been heading diagonally away from land and were now about a half-mile out, with no air, exhausted and moving at the whim of the ocean, which was, much to their dismay, out to sea.

Elliott’s younger dive buddy at that moment opted to give his opinion of their predicament

“This was a fucking stupid idea.”

Elliott had not the spit to reply.

Hell, no arguing the truth.

They blew more air in their buoyancy compensators, rolled over on their backs, and started kicking toward land, though both knew they were fighting a worse than a losing battle. The sun would be going down soon, they had not told anyone of their enlightened plan, and they were without a doubt in serious shark land. Elliott concentrated on each lunge of his flippers and realized his legs were beginning to cramp. He accepted then that it had indeed been a stupid plan for which he would no doubt pay the ultimate price. He began to envision the death of a shark attack and just how that might feel. Would they take him first or his buddy?

He watched the sky as it dimmed. There were no clouds, only blue slowly turning to magenta. He rolled his head to the left to see the other moving steadily away from him and corrected his course.

“Hey!” he called out, “we need to stay together!” he looked again. A winded “fuck you, asshole!” the other sobbed. Crying? Damn! Why didn’t he think of that? He rolled over to get his bearings. Land was not getting any closer. He rolled back over and began slowly kicking again, knowing it was a waste of time and energy, but what else to do, this was the end. Unless some craft came cruising by, or they made it to one of the Channel Islands, Catalina or Santa Cruz (he actually laughed just then at this gallows humor).

Elliott began to watch the sky again. He no longer paid any attention to the other, for it was now every man for himself. The sky was deep maroon when a seagull flew over eyeing him. If only he could fly. A moment of calm, then it hit. He froze in terror as something grabbed him from behind and below by the back of his neck. A scream escaped from his throat as he waited for the pain of what would surely come next. Then he heard a voice, loud and sure, a man’s voice

“Not sure where you’re headin’ pal, but you can’t get there from here.”

Elliott tried to turn over, but a strong arm stayed his rolling intent. He tried to swallow and reply, but his throat was dry as a dead sea scroll.

“Can’t…seem..to…get..anywhere…” he managed with monumental effort.

Then the voice again.

“Sure, you can. Just relax and keep kicking, strong and slow.”

The hand had a hold of the handle on his tank. He felt himself beginning to be propelled, slowly yes, but moving in the right direction at least. They made it to the beach at Point Dume, and, after catching his breath, he got a good look at the two men that had just saved them. He reluctantly extended his hand, half expecting to be ridiculed for being an idiot. Instead, he was offered a beer and a handshake.

“Vashon,” he said, and motioned away “My brother, Poulsbo” They were silent for a time. Then Poulsbo spoke, “If you don’t mind me askin’, what were you guys doing so far out?” Elliott had no good answer. His dive buddy (who he would never see again) wasn’t talking, so he said the first nonsensical thing that came to mind “Catalina Island, ’migo. Never been there” there were small laughs and shaking heads at the deathbed humor, then he added

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what were you guys doin’ way out there?”

Vashon didn’t miss a beat.

“Huntin’ mermaids,” he said in that matter of fact way he had of bullshitting. No sideways glance, no cheesy grin, just bullshit served up like it was the God’s honest truth.

From that point on, the three became the ‘mermaid hunters’ and traveled far and wide, chasing the endless summer.

Elliott had to drive all the way to Gibraltar for supplies for a price that didn’t break them. By the time he returned, Vashon was back, had his suit peeled down to his waist, exposing his bare skin to a couple of females who were now wide-eyed and smiling, swallowing every drop from his arousing tongue. Their names were unimportant, not even registering to Elliott’s ears as they were given. They were both attractive, however, with firm bodies and inviting smiles, in short, entirely fuckable. Elliott knew they were both dripping for his mate which was common. He knew Vashon would have already made his choice, which would become obvious as soon as he joined the party.

After the sun went down and they had run out of wood for the fire, they all climbed into to van, shoved the dive gear aside, and did what they could with the remaining space. Elliott was a noisy lover, at times ridiculously so. Vashon wondered at it. Seriously, just get on with it, man! We don’t need the play by play. And yet there it was.

Vashon preferred quiet and slow.

Shhhhh. Kiss me. Here I am, kiss me again. She liked his touch and his tongue. Yes, touch me there, and there. Her fur was soft and tasted of home. Vashon looked into her eyes in the dark. Her eyes asking questions he had no answers for.

At some point in the dark, Vashon’s lover woke and, noticing Vashon was gone and having a serious urge to pee, slid the door open as quietly as the old van would allow. She slid out and, after taking care of business, looked towards the coals of the fire for the man who was not there. She stuck her head back inside the van

“Elliott…hey Elliott” she whispered.

“Si, mija,”

“Where’s Vashon?”

A sleepy voice, “Most likely diving, mija.”

She was confused.

“Out there, in the dark?”

“He’s got a flashlight. Go to sleep, mija.”

This confused her more. She could not imagine anyone being out in the sea, underwater, at night

“What’s he doing out there?”

“Jus’ thinkin.”

“Thinking?”

Heavy sigh.

“Lost his little brother about a year ago. Good kid. Poulsbo. He’s just workin’ it out in his head. Go to sleep, mija.”

The other girl groaned as she got up, now awake

“Go to sleep, girl. Where did you pee?”

“What?”

“Don’t want to step in it.”

Elliott sat up, “Seriously?”

“Sorry” they chorused.

Vashon’s lover took one last look out across the dark water toward the far lights of Africa. It was an abyss filled with monsters she couldn’t imagine. She would remember this for the rest of her life. But she would never understand. Her friend nudged her, then they both climbed back in the van.

The next morning the girls were hungry. Vashon and Elliott were eager to hit the road.

“So you guys are heading north?” one said.

“Yeah. Up the coast to Barcelona, then over to Pamplona. Got a date with some bulls.”

“Oh, cool. Wish we could tag along,” she smiled all sunshine. Vashon played the bringer of clouds.

“Doubt we’ll be headin’ back this way anytime soon.”

“Oh, well…can you drop us off in Marbella?” her smile now behind a cloud.

“Sure. Got any gas money?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Elliott shook his head.

“Spoken like a true pirate, cabron.”

Vashon grinned, “Yo ho amigo. A pirate’s life for me!”