Tyrone the evader

Leonard squinted at the clouds and sniffed as a few light drops spattered his ruddy nose. Brooding — but he reckoned he still had a few good hours yet. Behind him, the winch groaned as it lowered the pitted, sun-bleached dinghy into the sea.

The shallows licked at his ankles. A lone strand of seaweed drifted past and caught his eye. He followed its slow spin, digesting his thoughts, then glanced back at the empty boat-launch car park. Peters By The Sea — “Serving the best snapper in the west, all year” — was even closed. Not a soul.

He turned back to the water.

“Hear me, Tyrone! I’ve still got a few good hours!” he shouted into the swirling black abyss.

The dinghy dropped the last few inches and bumped against the rollers with a dull, familiar thud. Leonard unclipped the hook, let the cable rattle home. No kids yelling. No four-wheel drives backing trailers. No radio crackling from the café. Just the clink of metal and the small, impatient slap of waves.

He drew a long breath — salt, old oil, the faint tang of fish that clung to him no matter how he scrubbed. The air had weight, a pressure behind the eyes.

He moved through his setup with the rehearsed rhythm of a man who’d launched boats more times than he cared to count. Bucket. Tackle box. Three rods: the two battered graphite sticks he trusted and the newer 24-kilo overhead rig, the only thing still close to factory condition. Then the esky: sardines in butcher’s paper, water, a hip flask of cheap scotch he pretended wasn’t his favourite.

Bait. Line. Knife. Flask.

His knees cracked as he stepped aboard. The dinghy rocked like an old dog rising stiffly to greet him. He planted his boots wide, feeling the timber flex.

He pushed off. The hull slid away from the concrete ramp and into deeper colour. The ramp shrank. Then the shuttered café. Then the faded snapper on the sign.

“There you go, Pete,” he muttered. “Another idiot out in the weather.”

The oars found their rhythm. The dinghy’s nose lifted and dipped through the chop. The sky thickened, clouds piling slowly like men gathering before a fight they already knew the ending of.

He rested the oars across his knees.

Creak of rowlocks.

Slap of water.

A far-off rumble — thunder or a truck inland.

Then the feeling — the tight, crawling intuition only fishermen who had lost enough battles ever earned. The one that whispered: something bigger is coming.

His breath thinned. He bent forward, shut his eyes, counted slowly until the shaking eased.

Plenty of time.

He reached for the custom runner rig he’d perfected through years of trial, error and bloodied knuckles. A gang of hooks made for one predator only — Tyrone the evader.

Maybe we’re all dumb animals with checklists, he chuckled, though it came out thin.

A shiver crawled up his spine. He took a pull from the flask, feeling warmth steady his fingers. He resumed tying knots — locked blood knot, snug uni knot — small familiar work that calmed the mind.

He’d just dipped the first hook when something sliced the surface ahead. A clean, blade-like shear. No splash.

He froze.

The water didn’t slump back into its lazy rhythm. It held itself taut.

A deeper shift followed — a dense, heavy presence passing beneath the dinghy, rolling the hull gently. No ray. No harmless drift of swell. This was muscle and intent.

Tyrone.

Less curse than prayer.

He cast in one clean motion.

The sardine hit the water with a soft plip.

Rings widened, warped — tugged sideways by something already circling below.

The clouds stacked higher. The world held its breath.

Then:

A slow, testing draw on the line. Not a bite. A judgment. A kingfish gauging tension, reading the fool on the other end.

His pulse kicked. Shoulders squared.

Two of them now. Man and fish.

Old ghosts falling away.

Game on.

—

The line didn’t pull — it exploded.

The rod holder snapped forward. The 24-kilo rod bowed violently. The reel screamed as braid tore away in burning metres. Leonard lunged, snatching the rod just before it vanished overboard. The dinghy spun sideways.

This wasn’t luck. Wasn’t a misCast.

It was a full-blooded kingfish strike — a freight-train surge followed by a deep dive.

This has to be Tyrone.

Water hissed off the line as the fish tore seaward, dragging the dinghy nose-down. Leonard braced, boots wedged hard. He feathered the drag — tight enough to slow the fish, loose enough to spare the braid from snapping like a whip.

“Come on, you mongrel,” he gasped.

He pumped the rod, winning inches only to lose metres in the next bone-rattling run. Shoulders burned. Forearms screamed. Every mistake he’d ever made seemed to gather behind the strain of this one fight.

Then the rhythm shifted.

Slightly.

But enough.

Runs shortened.

Pressure dulled.

The pull sagged.

He reeled until a heavy shape churned below. His stomach dropped.

A Sampson fish.

A stubborn, directionless lump famous for exhausting men for no reason at all.

Disappointment struck harder than the hit.

All grunt, no glory.

Just wasted time.

A metaphor, too clean to ignore.

All the wrong battles he’d fought.

All the energy he’d burned on things that never mattered.

All the hours wasted in anger and pride.

He sagged. Vision blurred. Pain tightened across his chest, creeping into his arm. His breath fractured.

He leaned over the gunwale, torn between cutting the line — or cutting the night short.

Then the sea darkened again.

A huge shadow glided beneath the dinghy. Slow. Deliberate. Certain.

Tyrone.

Before he even saw the broad back, the assured glide, he knew. The old bastard had come to watch.

A spark kicked deep in Leonard — fierce, small, refusing to die.

He gripped the rod. Straightened. Set his feet.

“Not yet,” he growled. “Not done.”

Tyrone had first struck the year after Leonard got out. He’d been thinner then, hair clipped harsh from prison, skin yellowed by bad food and bad lighting. Two bags at the gate: clothes and silence. No one waiting.

He’d gone straight to the sea.

That first run had almost ripped the rod from his hands. When the line finally snapped, whipping back at him, he’d named the fish Tyrone — half a joke in a pub, half something else.

Now here he was.

Close.

Watching.

Leonard re-baited, lowered the sardine, cast again.

The bait sank.

The line straightened.

The ocean breathed.

A faint tap.

Then a heavier lean.

Then that unmistakable intent.

He struck.

The rod buckled.

The reel screamed.

The dinghy yanked hard starboard.

It wasn’t a fight so much as survival — Leonard grinding through pure instinct, letting the fish run, stealing back line in inches. Rain sheeted down. Lightning stitched the sky. The chop sharpened, turning the sea into teeth.

He ignored everything.

Man and fish.

Two creatures too stubborn to quit.

But the pain in his chest sharpened. His heart lurched, stuttered, then hammered erratically. His hands numbed. Edges of the world greyed.

Still he held.

Minutes — or years — passed.

The fish’s circles tightened.

Its power waned.

So did his.

Lightning cracked.

The sea surged.

A pale flash rolled beneath.

Got you, he tried to say, but the words jammed.

The world tilted.

The rod slid.

Everything went dark.

—

He woke wrong. Sound was thick. Distant.

He lay curled in the bottom of the dinghy, cheek pressed to wet boards, breath coming in ragged slivers. Each one hurt. Each one surprised him.

The storm had moved on. Swells rolled lazily. Mist hung low.

Tap.

A soft knock against the hull.

He forced himself upright. Pain ripped across his chest, but he stayed conscious long enough to see the shape sliding along the dinghy’s side.

Tyrone.

The kingfish glided back and forth, keeping the line clear, as if aware of every corner of the boat.

“You’re still here,” Leonard rasped.

The fish didn’t bolt. Didn’t startle. Just waited.

It took three tries for Leonard to reach his knees. His body felt loaded with sandbags. Sweat chilled his spine. He gripped the thwart, breathing like a man approaching a summit.

Tyrone stopped pacing.

Leonard reached for the rod. Its handle felt impossibly heavy. He wound slowly. The fish rose — not resisting, but attending.

When Tyrone finally broke the surface, Leonard’s breath caught.

Bigger than he’d imagined.

Bars shimmering faintly.

Flanks scarred from battles not his.

He guided the kingfish alongside and hauled it aboard with a groan. It lay still, gills pulsing, eye bright and steady.

Leonard set a hand on its flank. Life trembled beneath.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “A bloody monster.”

Memories unspooled — his boy holding a flathead, his wife giving a half-hearted wave on the beach, the letter he’d mailed from prison that came back unopened.

Chances taken.

Chances missed.

He swallowed.

Sorry.

He freed the hook, slow and careful, and let it clatter to the floor.

He knew what came next.

Arms sliding beneath the fish.

A lift that nearly folded him.

A stagger to the gunwale.

He lowered Tyrone into the sea. Water took the weight. The kingfish hovered, then flicked its tail and moved off — not fleeing, just reclaiming his territory.

Leonard watched until the shadow faded.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

He slumped. Pain crawled into his jaw, down his arm. His breath shortened. Limbs grew heavy.

Clouds parted in weak patches. The world lightened.

A shadow surfaced briefly — Tyrone again — tracing a slow circle around the dinghy.

Leonard’s vision blurred. He let it.

He considered calling someone. Telling them where he was. Saying sorry properly. His hand drifted to his pocket, then fell away. Too hard. Too late.

He leaned back.

“You win, old boy,” he whispered.

His final breath left him as a soft, tired sigh that vanished into the cooling air.

The dinghy rocked once, then settled.

If anyone had been there — anyone foolish enough to be out on that quiet sea — they might have sworn the kingfish circled once more before turning into deeper water, where storms, regrets and the hearts of old men meant nothing at all.

The coast waited.

The café would open in the morning.

The sea, patient as ever, closed over its secrets.