Page 135 of Tito

Epilogue

Reggie

Twenty miles off the shore of the San Diego Bay, the water was unbelievably calm. So far, our morning on the forty-two-foot boat—which my father had dubbed Reel Therapy—was gorgeous.

My father cut the engines to an idle. He glanced over his shoulder, making eye contact with Cash. He gestured to the left side of the boat. “Did you see the Blue Fin break the surface on the port side?”

Gazing toward the watery horizon, Cash nodded excitedly. “Two of ‘em.”

“Probably an entire school over there,” my father said. “Let’s give it a try.”

He stepped from beneath the canopy of the massive boat and flipped open the live well. “Get ‘em baited, boys!”

The boat’s deck was bigger than my living room. The $750,000 Freeman 42LR was much more boat than my father ever expected to own, that was for sure. After a Twitter post about his GoFundMe miraculously went viral, his account peaked at well over a million dollars.

According to my father, the participation of the primarily anonymous contributors was driven by his selfless service to the community. I couldn’t help but wonder if Tito played a part in the Twitter post going viral, but I didn’t embarrass him by asking. Either way, my father now had his dream boat.

I was pleased that all the former Devil’s Disciples and their female counterparts agreed to attend the massive vessel’s maiden voyage. Dressed in our swimsuits and covered in sunscreen, the five women watched from a seated position while the men baited their hooks and cast their lines.

I nudged Kimberly and gestured toward Cash. “Cash is having a blast.”

“You should hear the stories he tells about fishing,” she said, letting out a sigh. “He tells the same stories over and over, and they’re all about when he was a kid in Montana.”

“Maybe he’ll have some new ones to tell before long.”

She laughed. “I sure hope so.”

The men, situated on both sides of the boat, exchanges curious glances with one another, each apparently worried that one was going to catch a fish before the other. Tales of remember when began, most of which ended with a story of Cash being the luckiest fisherman of them all.

Although Tito seemed to often butt heads with Cash while in the motorcycle club, they were nothing but friendly with one another now. Personally, I liked Cash. He was polite, had a fantastic sense of humor, and was very protective of those he loved.

“If you catch the first fish,” I’m going to whip your ass,” Tito said, directing his comment toward Cash.

“There’ll be no fighting on this boat,” my father declared. He glanced at each of the men. “Anyone breaks that rule they’ll be cast overboard.”

Reno secured his pole in one of the many holders positioned along the side of the boat and faced my father. “Aye aye, Sir!” he said with a salute of his right hand.

My father chuckled. “I can’t decide whether to make you guys call me captain, or not.”

“Holy shit,” Cash bellowed, arching his back. “I’ve got one.”

“You better not,” Baker seethed. “I swear. If you do—”

“Ted!” Cash shouted. “I need some help. It’s—”

Cash’s pole was bent at a ninety-degree angle. Every muscle in his body was tensed as he attempted to crank the reel.

My father scrambled to his side. “Keep the tip up, Son. Reduce the drag and let him take what he wants. When he’s tired, get back what you can. You’re not fishing in a Montana creek. This is the Pacific Ocean.”

The level of excitement heightened amongst us all. The other five men continued their efforts to catch a fish, but it seemed they were more concerned with Cash’s status than their own.

Inch by inch, Cash fought against whatever he had hooked, taking what little line he could when the fish became too exhausted to fight.

Fifteen exhausting minutes later, Cash was obviously worn out. Drenched in sweat and visibly shaking, he continued the fight against the aggressive fish.

Seeing the exhaustion on Cash’s face, my father reached for the pole. “Let me help you.”

Cash resisted. “I’ve got it. It’s…he’s…” He cranked the reel a few turns. “He’s a fighter.”