By 3:00 in the afternoon Team Eagle was scorched. It was 95-degrees F most of the day, and placing cold water bottles under their armpits along with ice chips from the cooler on the backs of their necks was no longer working.
Ron Heimburg’s core temp was about a thousand, based on his appearance. Sally had never seen that shade of red on a human being, let alone any mammal that currently came to mind. To top it off—the bite was slowwwwww—as in non-existent. Other than the miscellaneous body part they had snagged earlier, they had boated a rather large stick, a rock the size of a bowling ball (super impossible to hook or get to the surface), and two individual sneakers. One was an Air Jordan throwback, and the other was a vintage Converse. It was unsettling to catch a shoe in one-hundred-plus feet of water, but it did provide some action.
“Hey, troops, I think we need to call it, or at least get Ron back to shore,” suggested Sally. They had fished exactly five spots in the past 2 ½ hours, and the results continued to be the same: slowwwwww…
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” replied Win. “For some reason I’ve got a serious case of The Can’t Get ‘Ems.”
“Well, not totally your fault,” quipped Hazel, who was trying to remain positive while throwing a dagger at Jackie. “We didn’t exactly get an early start on the day.”
“Hazel, you’re right,” agreed Sally. “We need to get it together—as a team. Now let’s get Ron back to shore where he can cool off.”
“Yeah, maybe we should all just call it,” added Jackie, the redness on his neck matching the color of Ron’s face. “Look, it’s probably a morning bite anyway.”
“Suggestion,” interjected Win. “Why don’t we make the run back to the boat landing—we’re about forty-five-minutes out—Hazel, you and Jackie take Ron back to the Kariba Paramount Lodge—I bring Sally back out for the early evening bite. Prove to her that I’m worth my salt.”
“What time does it get dark?” asked Sally.
“About 6:30 is sunset, but twilight on the lake will give us another thirty to forty-five-minutes.”
“That sounds good,” agreed Sally, not willing to give up on a bite-less day, “I like the plan, Win—let’s go,” ordered Sally.
The public landing was a veritable who’s who with the stifling heat chasing most of the pre-fishing tournament teams off the water at the same time as Team Eagle. Between Sally’s modeling career and outdoor traveling experience, she immediately recognized the SABC (South African Broadcasting Corporation), which had multiple reporters chasing world-famous wealth-moguls from their boats to their vehicles.
Ron Heimburg, who knew little about fishing, recognized money when he saw it. “Wow, it’s like Murderers Row with the Yankees, but with high finance,” he beamed. “There’s Matthew “Huey” Winthrop the Third—old British money—big time energy entrepreneur. And hey, that’s Clarise Keller—American tech—fourth gen. Wait—no way—Ingrid Von Dipple—are you kidding me—she’s an heiress who owns half of Switzerland—her friends call her Grid.”
“Damn, Ron—I wish you knew fishing like you understand money,” quipped Sally. “Maybe you can go rub elbows with your peers and get some catching intel for us.”
Speaking of catching, our main man Rusty Flathers was currently scrambling to get gear organized for a day on Lac des Bois. Tawny Bishop had a golfing fundraiser to attend near Jackfish, and he offered to cover her guide space while she was gone. Catching shore lunch this morning would be his priority one.
“Just breathe—you’re gonna be fine,” encouraged Ellie. “You’ll catch fish, don’t worry.”
“Yeah—and if you don’t catch anything—I stuck a can of Klik and some Coffee Crisp bars in your shore lunch tote,” added Celine, while the three of them sat at the employee breakfast nook slamming copious amounts of Timmie’s.
“Here, have yourself another blast, Rustopher Columbus,” she said while reaching to pour in his tumbler. Ultimately, her plan was to get Rusty jacked on coffee—enough that his hand would automatically jig based on caffeine blood level content. It seemed to be working.
“No—that’s eno—OUCH!” Rusty screamed. Then he stood to run for cold water under the kitchen faucet, but could not remember if he was supposed to stop drop and roll first, and then ended up tripping over a pair of leopard-print stilettos lying on the floor as he made his way through the pantry.
What the hell, he thought, is there a costume party scheduled at the camp, or is Celine wearing these when she runs the Canadian flag up the pole every morning?
Celine had been off the mark with the carafe and emptied most of the liquid onto Rusty’s wrist and hand. Then she hollered, “What the hell, Rust-a-Palooza, problems holding your cup still—you know my Auntie Marie-Claire had a bit of a quick hand—used to fleece the sailors—among other things—when they harbored in the Saint Lawrence—I wonder if Nev’s coming up for Timmie’s—he could use a boost after last night, if you know what I mean—so are you two getting married or what—you know I could dump some coffee on Ellie as well—you two could spit on each other’s wrists and rub the puss to bond you—I could spit on each of you as well—maybe we all do a thing with Nev…”
“Celine, stop,” pleaded Rusty while splayed out on the floor like a tuna that had just been hauled over the gunnel of a charter boat. “I need some burn salve, please.”
Also on the floor was the first tiger fish to hit the deck on the Alu-Freedom 23-foot center console. Sally and Hazel gave each other high-fives as the buck-toothed twelve-pounder with the razor-teeth flopped around, its tail kicking and jaw snapping as it moved toward their ankles.
“Alright!” Sally shouted. “Now we go!” And they did—repeatedly—for almost two hours. Their fishing hole near Bumi Hills was a veritable banger—right until the sun set on their success.
“We’re well over an hour out, Sal,” stated Win. “We should call it a day—safe to say we’ve found an active pod—what’s that—our thirteenth fish?”
“Yep, let’s call it,” replied Sally. “I’m guessing things will get dark before we get back.”
For you—black—out—dark, Winifred Dixie thought to herself. Then she turned the key, giving life to the Yamaha 200hp SHO, but not her fishing mate.
–To Be Continued—
