Season Four—Episode 8 (MISSING)
2:42PM “We have a situation,” were Clarence’s first words when he pulled into the harbor at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters, with sir Rusty Flathers being the first person on site to meet his fishing guide at the dock. “Our guests,” he continued… “Have vanished.”
“Vanished? Our guests? What?” wretched Rusty.
“Yah… You know… Gone. Disappeared. Absent. Missing. Departed. Lost. Vamoosed.” replied Clarence in an excessively calm tone.
“I know what VANISHED means! (Rusty’s eyes were doing that pop-out of the sockets, alternating Slinky thing—again) I’m talking about the details of VANISHED. As in, give me SPECIFICS Clarence.”
“I’m talking gone. As in one second I’m getting ready to cook shore lunch on Moose Island—sent them to collect wood for a fire—next thing I know the wind cranks up and they’re gone. Gone as in gone fishing. But I’m pretty sure they are no longer fishing. At least not with me.”
This bit of unappealing news did NOT sit well on Rusty’s palate. His next move was to roll with the gag reflux—bend at the waist—hurl what remained of Celine’s lunch—projectile vomit off the dock—feel the burn from his toes to his mouth.
Not even the three eagles perched across the harbor could stand to watch. Their wings were colliding as they launched from their roosts, in an attempt to escape the gut-wrenching scene. Then, somewhere in the trees a raven squawked “GROSS”, and even the two welcoming loons near the natural harbor of FSFO went silent.
“Boss… Are you… OK?” offered Clarence. “Looks like you had some tomatoes for lunch. Sure you don’t need a ginger ale?”
Wiping both sides of his mouth, Rusty exploded, “OK?!?! HELL NO, I am NOT… OK. WE—ARE—NOT—OK. Our guests are gone! Our first and only visitors to this island ARE GONE. Not a good track record Clarence. NOT good!”
Rusty then rubbed his temples and then the lids over his eyes. “Yep,” he muttered, “not good. Maybe I should go to the ditch.”
“Um… Mr. Rusty, Boss, we’re on an island,” countered Clarence.
“A ditch—filled with coffee, and full moons, and friends, rainbows, unicorns, never ending adventures—I’ll build one.” He had momentarily snapped.
“Reality is THINK,” imagined Rusty. “Calmly think,” he told himself. “Like when you were a kid, living along the water filled trench that local folks referred to as Rapid Ditch.”
During the 1930’s there had been much drainage work done by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in regions that supported boggy tamarack swamps. Such was the case in the area in which Rusty had grown up. And said place near his home is often where cousins Skip and Scoop would find him sitting in a makeshift boat he’d put together with parts and pieces from his Uncle Charles junk yard.
And there he’d just hang out—in the ditch—for whatever reason—quiet—reflective—calming. Even if nothing is everything.
Because for Rusty Flathers… This was his escape. His place. Need time to think? Go to the ditch. Wish you were someone else? Go to the ditch. Crush on a girl but afraid to ask her out? Go to the ditch. Get yourself in trouble? Go to the ditch!
Panic mode had now passed. “I’m going to get Cos and Sally. You get your boat gassed up and grab the skiff out of slip #2 and do the same,” instructed Rusty to Clarence. “We’ll get out a map and get two boats going for an area search around Moose Island.”
“Do you think we should maybe give the local authorities a quick shout on the mainland?” replied Clarence.
“No. Not yet. For one… It generally takes 24 hours before any sort of search and rescue team would act. And the other thing… I really don’t want Stash McGivern back out here, telling me about how bodies continue to pile up around Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.”
4:02PM. “I’m telling you Rusty… I believe this SAM dude has something to do with the disappearance of your guests.” This judgement came from Sally as she and Rusty captained a boat out of the harbor following in the wake of Clarence and Cosmoid who’d teamed up for this search mission.
Rusty remained hesitant. “Maybe they just wandered off.”
“How do you wonder off, on a twenty-acre island?” was Sally’s response. “Clarence has already told us he spent an hour covering every square inch of Moose Island.
“OK—OK—Let’s just get out there and see what we can find.”
Even Link seemed opinionated about the possibility of finding the Williams brothers on Moose Island. He stood at the bow of the boat shaking his floppy, puppy, Labrador ears from side to side as if to say, “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. If those fellas are not on Moose Island—that leaves us with one million acres and fourteen thousand islands to cover.”
Link’s final resolve from the bow was a long guttural growl. Basically, a sigh—saying “If we do somehow manage to find these two jokers, I’m going to bite the tall one first.”
Sally glanced down, patted his head and rubbed his flippy-flop ears. “I know buddy, I know.”
The only person remaining at camp was Celine. Her instructions were to “man the marine radio” perchance news would come to “notify the proper authorities.” And she was told to prepare a meal for their hopefully returning dinner guests Oscar and Grover.
She would start with some campfire caramelized onion soup with aged cheddar croutons. Then for the main course she would offer a “Back from the Bush” theme combining surf and turf. Thus, a hearty symbolic plate uniting land and water.
“Hmmmm… I believe pan-seared walleye and herb crusted elk medallions are appropriate.” She thought to herself. “Seeing how they missed and then went missing at shore lunch.”
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 