Rods, reels, bait, tackle, gas, ice, beverages, shore lunch kit… Rusty Flathers checklist was complete as he waited in the 20ft Lund Alaskan for his guests to arrive at the dock. If one of the Pikeannoli brothers shows up with a six-cell-Mag-Lite, this day trip will go sideways before the first cast is made.
Here they come… Rusty could see Alvin exiting the lodge, holding the door for Cy and Ted, motioning for them to head in the direction of the pier. Cy was wearing a tan L.L. Bean fishing vest. Vintage style—but hard to tell if the sales tag was still hanging from one of the three button holes.
Ted came next… More of a skip to his hop. He seemed jittery, almost nervous—like he had guzzled too much of Celine’s freshly brewed Timmy’s at breakfast. Or he was possibly anxious to get off the island. Because short of running, he was basically boatside on the dock in two shakes of a Fenwick fishing rod.
Finally, and rather cautiously, Alvin made his way down the steps of the lodge, stopped short at the storage container on the floating dock, and pulled out a floatation jacket. Eying the size of the safety vest he then placed it under his arm and continued toward Rusty’s boat.
“I have life jackets, to wear, here in the boat—if you’d like,” offered Rusty.
“No, this one’s fine,” replied Alvin, and then proceeded to step into the jacket with both feet, pulling it up around his crotchal region as if it were an adult diaper, and zip up the flap securing a Pamper style fit.
“At least there’s no flashlight,” thought Rusty. And then offered, “You guys ready to rock? Let’s go pound on ‘em!” Super enthusiastic for a camp owner whose plan for the day was Of Mice And Men.
On the down-low, Rusty had been given orders by Tawny: A) spend the morning catching shore lunch. B) take them to MOOSE ISLAND at high noon. C) keep your head on a swivel—the rest of the crew will be running reconnaissance. D) do NOT do anything stupid.
“Quite the motivator,” he thought—slipping the boat into reverse—revving the throttle on the tiller handle. But the boat failed to move.
“What the…” went through Rusty’s mind. “More throttle? Is the prop slipping?”
“Um… Mr. Flathers,” said Ted. “Would you like me to untie the bow of the boat from the cleat on the dock?”
“Yeah… Go ahead… That’d be great…” replied Rusty. And “Way to look professional,” he thought.
Then a door slammed at the lodge, and he looked up to see Celine exiting the side entrance of the kitchen, making her way toward the employee bunkhouse. She paused just long enough to stop and wave a shiny 6D-cell flashlight, approximately 20-inches in length, basically a baton.
“Good luck fishing today, guys!” she shouted from shore, and then continued on her merry way.
Backing out of the harbor it was time to regroup. “Focus on the fish,” Rusty was telling himself. Then he cranked the shift bar forward, aimed the bow of the boat toward open water, and raced off into the lapping waves.
His first stop was a bust—Flapjack Point. And it was flatter than a pancake. A warm-up he told himself. Anyone can catch fish—you just have to go to where the fish want to be.
Second stop…Hunter’s Point. Seemed fitting—he was most certainly on the hunt for walleye.
More of the same. Collectively they fired four shiner minnows (tipped on jigs) to the bottom and were shooting blanks (not a sniff). Tawny had told him the fish would be under the boat, but such was not the case at this location.
If they’re not deep, they’re shallow. Or vice versa. He thought he received this piece of advice from his father Doobie, during his teen years, growing up in lake country.
Rusty’s first two attempts were deep points… Thirty to thirty-five feet of water. After two unsuccessful stops his three guests were looking at him like there were snakes coming out of his head. Time to go shallow.
“Find your groove and figure out a pattern,” Rusty told himself as they boated around the corner of Hunter’s Point and headed further north toward Four Blocks and Pelican Bay.
He wanted to try a shallow springtime shoreline. The sun was gaining strength, and the south side of Pelican Bay would have warmer water temperatures in 6-8 feet. His problem? There was already a boat working the shoreline.
From his location Rusty could make out the mostly silver AlumaCraft with the black stripe running down the length of the gunnel. He could also identify the man wearing the bright red cap that he had seen twice at his camp, a third time when he and Sally were almost T-boned, and the most recent—at Raker’s Marine.
The Lund Alaskan gained speed… Throttle cracked wide open… “Full speed ahead,” Rusty mouthed under the bill of his cinched down ballcap. “Let’s see what this joker is up to.”
All three passengers tensed as their captain took direct aim and raced toward the boat fishing the shoreline. Hands were clenched under their seats—heads swiveling—bow to stern—bow to stern.
“Do you know this guy?” hollered Alvin, who was seated closest to Rusty.
“Kinda, I’m gonna see if he’s got a bite going,” answered Rusty untruthfully.
Then, at the last possible moment, he cut the throttle on the Yamaha, pushed the tiller arm away from his torso and slid the boat in perfectly next to SAM.
“Well good morning Mr. Flathers,” said the man wearing the Storm Sanitation logoed cap. “How are you gentlemen today?”
Rusty had no recollection of ever sharing his name with this man. Four encounters and he swore he had never ever officially introduced himself.
“We got the can’t get ‘ems, SAM. How are you doing here?” asked Rusty.
“Hello Sam,” offered Cy, too quickly.
“You guys know each other?” countered Rusty, without missing a beat.
An awkward silence overtook the crowd. Heads were moving—no one was making eye contact.
“Ummmmm. No,” Cy finally responded. “I just heard you say his name?” he murmured quietly.
“There’s fish here in 6-8 feet of water,” Sam quickly changed the subject and restarted the conversation. “You guys are more than welcome to share this shoreline bite with me. Nothing huge, but good numbers of walleyes.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the offer,” replied Rusty. His mind was also racing with thoughts as to whether Sam was going to make mention of his alleged friends Oscar and Grover. But this did not seem to be the case.
“We just need to pick up enough fish for lunch,” he continued. “I’m supposed to be on the beach at Moose Island by noon.”
“UGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH,” Rusty screamed inside his own head. “Stop freaking talking! Why did I just tell this man what my double-top-secret-Tawny-plan is for today?”
“Well, you guys should be able to catch ‘em here. I think I’m going to move on. Good luck,” finished Sam. And just like that he was around the corner and out of sight.
“Tawny’s gonna kill me,” thought Rusty. “And possibly Sam too?” Then to the three Pikeannolis, “Ok guys, let’s drop a line and see if the walleyes have disappeared.” He glanced back toward where Sam had vanished. Gone. Just like Grover, Oscar, and Clarence.
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 