Season Four—Episode 10 (UNHINGED)
The windows of the main lodge shook with each crack of lightning. Sunset was 9:37pm, but the spring thunderstorm called it quits on daylight hours about an hour and change earlier. The winds in the natural harbor at the camp were gamey. The strong So’easter pushed rolling wave after rolling wave into the floating docks that strained boat lines that were attached to cleats. Every fourth current would crest and send a powerful spray into the rental boats testing the security of the skiffs tied up at FSFO.
From the confines of the lodge Celine watched in darkness as the storm continued to build steam. The camp generator had sputtered out about the same time the first bolt of lightning touched a two-hundred-year-old Norway Pine on a nearby island. Our anxiety-riddled chef stood statue still gripping the window’s ledge as if it were the countertop at a bank with a snooty teller refusing to give her owed monies. There were a half dozen candles lit like sickly fireflies dimly lighting her background in the lounging room. Intermittently she squeezed her eyes tight and prayed that one or both search party boats would return.
The next CRACK of lightning hit closer to home and Celine reached out to white-knuckle the portable marine band radio mounted near the exit door of the lodge. The stress of the storm combined with her hunger had her on the verge of unhinged.
“If Mr. Rusty and Professor Cos don’t come back soon, I’m going to house those elk medallions.” She whispered through pursed lips. “And that sanitation man…. If he shows up again, I’ll throw him into the onion soup.”
There was a beat of silence—another blast of thunder—and then an unsettled voice crackled in on Channel 16 responding to Celine’s mumblings. “Uh, this is field officer Marlin Salty with the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources. Did the person on this marine line just say you were going to throw someone into a pot of soup?” Instantly, Celine dropped her ladle and the microphone of the marine band radio.
“Celine… Is that you?! Switch over to Channel 01. That’s zero-one,” instructed Sally from her handheld unit.
“I tried but it’s stuck. Where are you? Is this Sally calling? Where is everyone? Supper is ready. Aren’t you hungry?” pleaded Celine followed by radio silence.
“Celine, do you copy? Celine, take your thumb off the transmitter button. Celine…” And then nothing but static.
Sally sat mid-boat with her back to straight line winds and pounding sheets of rain… And tucked the handheld back into her waterproof slicker. The poor radio reception only made for unnecessary drama and Celine was obviously struggling to hold it together.
She then returned to securing Link by grasping him tightly to ensure his safety and watching the relentless rains wash down his coat. The sky would momentarily be lit with a bizarre and dangerous flash. It was during these moments that she could also see Rusty grasping the tiller handle of the 50hp outboard motor with one hand and using his free arm to hold a hand in front of his eyes to shield the sand blasting pellets of rain.
“Rain jacket”, was Rusty’s continuous thought. “The next time I get into a boat, rain or shine, I bring rain gear. Or a wetsuit. Or a submarine.”
Second most important thought… “Pay attention to the approach on these waves.” Which was no small task seeing how he was being pushed from the rear by winds that would qualify for small craft warnings, and the rain made it almost impossible to ride a wave and not crash bow first as you came downhill into the next roller. It would have been nice to be able to practice these maneuvers on a sunnier summer day.
Camp partner Cosmoid Scale was the first to return to the safe haven of the camp. Albeit safe, it was far from what it appeared. Two camp boats had broken loose from the floating dock. The bow and stern ropes had snapped… Setting one of the skiffs loose. The second appeared to have both cleats demolished by the force of the waves playing against the docks.
Thankfully the winds and rolling waters had pushed both boats ashore in the harbor, versus outbound to areas unknown. The sour surveillance of Cos was a telltale that there would be lots of bailing to do, and hopefully no motor damage as each skiff sank on the beach below their respective water lines.
Next came the association of no camp lights on, equating to what’s wrong with the generator. This is an ill feeling begotten by many a camp owner. One who returns to his property sensing no welcome back greeting with the subtle hum provided by a Cummins diesel genset—This in turn equates to the realization that everything requiring electricity to operate a remote fish camp is NOT running.
If it weren’t for all the downed trees… Cos’s trip up the hill toward the generator shed would have been remarkably easier. As it stood… He ambled, crawled, stretched, and hurtled his way over no less than a dozen tree falls to reach his destination.
Once inside the generator shed his shone flashlight quickly produced the culprit. The limb of a Poplar tree that had gone through the roof line of the building, had effectively destroyed the fuel line that was connected to the injection pump. One plus one equals chaos.
Cos stood over the genset—hands shaking—more troubles on his shoulders than what he had signed up for. “At least it’s not raining,” he spoke out loud in an attempt to humor himself as the downpour continued through busted roof beams and ran down the collar of his jacket.
Unaware that anyone had returned to the island… Celine clutched the marine band mic again, “Minister man… Are you there? Marlin Salty… My people? They are missing… Am I alone?”
Then another KERR-BOOM sounded off—igniting the sky—and she jumped—dropping the mic that was connected by cord to its receiver. Peering out into the rain-soaked night she had thought she had seen a ghost. Or was it a boat? Was it Rusty’s boat?
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 