"Walking On Water; The Best Of Steve Kantner"

Steve with an ocean jack [Caranx hippos] fly fishing with Andy Mill. It is believed to be a Mill photo.

Sample chapter – J. Benthos’s Living on, Near, and Beneath the Bottom

Fiction by Steve Kantner

Too often, true miscreants—Hell-bent on re-establishing life’s “Peter Principle“–surpass mere mediocrity. One such individual was Jeremy Benthos.

Jeremy—the progeny of privilege with a talent for writing, sprang from the loins of a lawyer. Benthos, Jr. minored in political muck-raking, with credits in “suction.” He could well have supported more wholesome causes. Yet–despite his frequent denials—he gladly chose the “low road.” For which he possessed the perfect credentials.

He’d champion anything—be it a product or process–for the highest bidder. His reputation—as you might expect–preceded him throughout life. And, as you’re about to learn, beyond it.

Not surprisingly, he found work with the state’s Water Management District. Although his knowledge of moving water was confined to restrooms. And, lest I fail to mention, surfing.

He was a natural-born champ at the latter. So much so that he was granted space in a State-owned office building next to the ocean. The recruiters who hired him sought prospects with “outside interests.” In which respect, he was made to order.

As far as surfing, Jeremy had ridden longboards, belly-boards-anything he could get his toes around, ever since he applied his first coat of Sex Wax. Now, he’d surf the groundswell of prevailing ineptitude that characterized the management of Florida’s aquatic resources. In short, he’d become a “master of run-off.”

Surfing and water management share a commonality: He’d surfed in college because he had time to do it. Here, where the boredom was all-pervasive, handing down senseless orders quickly became his mantra. Whenever a call came from on high to open a spillway, file an inaccurate press release, or make lame excuses for his superiors’ bad decisions, he’s oblige without question.

Quite the power trip. Each time he pushed a button, he’d send untold gallons of polluted swill out some distant inlet. Jeremy the Omnipotent? For now, he held—re-word that—“embraced” the power.

Entire fisheries disappeared on a whim. Yet whenever his—or his superiors’ –bad judgment created negative publicity, and the phones lit-up like Christmas trees, it was Jeremy who put out fires, while feigning heart-felt concern.

“No more bass, you say? Adjustments were needed to prevent further saltwater intrusion.” Or some such garbage.

He’d become a master of subterfuge; a consummate liar–a shameless popinjay when it came to begging favors.

As such, he’d gladly compromise any remaining scruples—those he still laid claim to—at the expense of ecological havoc. Mostly, he followed blindly: another reason his superiors liked him. Other positives? He’d write flowery endorsements that propelled his cohorts to higher positions.

Steve Kantner, the Landcaptain, grew up in South Florida and has been up close and personal with its outdoor abundance and environmental tragedies from a young age. His reminiscences as a commercial fisherman, fly casting instructor, fishing guide, interaction with angling legends and corporate clowns, and the fictional Jeremy Benthos make his writing unparalleled. Kantner is a must-read.

His ultimate exit? That, too, he’d planned. Water Management supervisors frequently retired to top positions in what’s now referred to as “Big Sugar.” Who knew more about cutting corners? He’d already developed a taste for sugar? Wasn’t he stirring the coffee?

As far as Jeremy’s schedule? He surfed daily, while his disinterest in ecology took a backseat to political expediency. No wonder he admired politics more than science.

And, as previously mentioned, he loved the coffee.

Then one day the unthinkable happened: Jeremy failed to catch an overhead swell while surfing—and was conked on his noggin by a massive coconut.

Unfortunately, this “nut” wasn’t your typical ripe “floater.” Rather, he’d collided with a water-soaked green bombshell—the type that takes months to mature, but that also works its way out inlets in plumes of run-off.

When the offending fruit made contact, it squished poor Jeremy’s brain box. So, in Machiavellian terms, Jeremy’s head proved the vessel of its own destruction. Yet there’s more to the story.

When Jeremy “awakened,” he found himself in a 13th floor office. This one faced a picture window, which, in turn, looked down on what appeared to be a limitless ocean.

He definitely saw a beach—upon which, while staring in awe, five-foot swells crashed ashore in endless progression. All were breaking left. For the slightest moment, he felt a sense of deja’ vu. Still, his immediate surroundings seemed unfamiliar.

He felt no pain, no disorientation, but rather a feeling of vague forgetfulness. Yet, in spite of his quandary, he seemed more alert than ever.

His reverie was interrupted when a man opened the door behind him. When he turned in his chair, he saw a man of African descent dressed in khaki slacks, an ill-fitting but expensive cotton pullover and crepe-soled shoes, standing behind him. Now that reminded him of his former office.

“Welcome, Mr. Benthos,” said the man, with no trace of an accent. “How do you like your new surroundings?”

Jeremy was temporarily at a loss. “What am I doing here?”

“Why, it’s just like before. You’ll get orders and, when you do, you’ll put them in motion. Afterwards, sleep all day if you want.”

“Sleep?” Jeremy didn’t think he’d heard correctly.

“Yessir. Or you can go down to the beach. There’s a bathhouse to change in. We keep a full line of surfboards for the use of our (ahem)…employees.”

Jeremy couldn’t believe it. Surely this must be Heaven.

As Jeremy looked back towards the window, the man departed. At which time he took him up on his offer. A few minutes later, he was racing towards the breakers with a board tucked under his arm.

In Jeremy’s vernacular, this was “awesome.” The swells broke like clock-work, while the wind continuously puffed from behind the building. This would be his “endless summer,” if he could only get used to the smell. And the smell was pervasive.

Several weeks went by before he had a chance to reflect on his fortune. During that time, certain things remained unclear, like where he spent his evenings or, for that matter, where he ate his meals.

“Inconsequential stuff,” he surmised. “I probably eat at some burger or chicken joint.”

“Steve Kantner, the Land Captain, hefts grass carp for satisfied customer.” Maria Luisa Valle photo.

What he did remember was that every day, he’d wake-up early and turn-on his computer. After clicking his mouse and tapping his keyboard, he’d change his clothes and head for the surf. Not a day went by that he didn’t ride the swells that inevitably broke to the left.

Plus, he couldn’t help noticing that the wind always blew from behind the building, and that the waves always measured exactly five feet from trough to crest, regardless of the tidal stage. Something else that didn’t escape his notice was how the seawater was always dank and slimy. Plus, it—regrettably– was redolent of sewage–just like the coffee.

After a month or two, Jeremy was bored with the all-pervasive sameness. No pun intended, but the monotony was killing him. Six months later, he finally reached the flash point. The next time he saw his “assistant,” he grabbed that worthy by the collar.

“I can’t stand this. Nothing ever changes here. There’s nothing new for me–ever. My orders never differ; the waves are always the same. And the coffee invariably smells like a cesspool. You’ve got to get me out of here.”

The man pushed Jeremy away.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benthos, but I have my orders.”

Jeremy was shocked by the man’s impertinence. It was unlike anything he’d been prepared for. By the time he managed to compose himself, spittle framed his lips.

“You can’t talk to me like that; I’m the boss here!”

The man remained calm.

“But that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Benthos.”

By now, Jeremy’s voice had risen.

“What do you mean, wrong? I’m a Water Management big wig, so I get what I want here. This is Heaven, right?”

That’s when his assistant’s demeanor changed.

The latter’s eyes took on a fiendish—almost fiery glint– as his voice dropped several octaves. Next, he asked the inevitable:

“So, Benthos, what makes you think this is heaven?”

Contact:

Email~landcaptain@comcast.net