"Fiiiiish
sauce…"
"Fiiiisssh sauce…"
"FIIIISSHH SAUCE!"
I can hear the bone chilling wails echoing through
the foggy darkness as if they are real. I shudder,
convincing myself that it's simply a combination of
the melancholy lowing of the foghorns, the boats groaning
against their moorings, and the shrill cry of the
gulls.
It was 50 years to this day since those disturbing
words were last heard aloud; so painfully disquieting
the thought alone sends shivers up my spine like hearing
fingernails run across a blackboard or…
"Fiiiissssssssshhhhsauce….."
the waves whispered as they washed up onto the rocky
shore. The spray tickled my face and ears and again
I shook as I pictured her cold clammy tongue rolling
over her dark, pitted teeth as sticky, stench filled
spittle coated my face. "Fiiiissssssssssssshhsauce…."
In truth her voice did sound a lot like the sounds
of the sea and these docks from where these words
were first and last spluttered. It was as if she was
once conjured up from these very elements and now
her spirit lurks in the salty haze; a bug eyed, flab-filled
sack of hirsute, leathery skin with massive hands
capable of crushing whole lobsters, or even, once,
a mans neck. A frightening, unholy beast of a woman,
known to most folks in these parts as Big Bertha.
She wasn't originally from Maine, far as I know, and
I'm one of the last ones around who knew her in more
than just passing. I don't rightly know where she
was from; she didn't offer too much and you didn't
ask either if you had even half a head on your shoulders,
or wanted to keep it. She'd knock yer block off for
lookin' at her funny, sometimes for not lookin' at
her at all.
She was the first woman to ever work on board one
of the fishin' boats. When the men first heard there
was a woman comin' on board they sure didn't approve.
They were salty, old curmudgeons; traditionalists,
you could say, and they caused quite a ruckus about
it; complaining about having to keep the toilets clean,
or worse, their mouths.
But ol' Bertha wasn't much of lady. She swore like
a sailor; claimed she was once married to one ("good
for nothin' scumbag" was all she ever said about him)
and she smelled a might worse than any man who spent
his life knee deep in fish guts. She pulled her weight
too, and at 300+ pounds that sure ain't nothin' to
sneeze at. Once she even single handedly wrestled
a hammerhead shark onto the boat! When she finally
snapped ol' Billybob's neck the men finally shut their
holes.
Most folks don't know too much about that stuff neither;
it was the fish sauce that they remember her by.
During the great depression none of the boats could
afford fuel to go to sea. Although few people had
much money, they still needed to eat. Bertha herself
had lost near 50 pounds; "damn near have to run around
in the shower to get wet!" she cackled.
One-day
Bertha invited me to her house and told me she had
an idea. She led me towards the cellar, down deeply
bowed steps that cringed and wept beneath her elephantine
feet. I followed her into the dank, noisome, caliginous
cellar. A trickle of water dripped down the back of
my neck just as Bertha hit the lights and I nearly
shit myself at the sight; a giant hammerhead shark
lunging out of the darkness, its razorblade smile
agape before my eyes.
