Dark clouds smothered the harbor at FSFO… Rusty lay awake in his bunkhouse with the company of one lone bullfrog, outside his window, mesmerizing him with its monotone droning. His thoughts were on tomorrow—guiding—actual clients.
Anglers who travel to Northwest Ontario expect an abundance of success measured by steady action and impressive weights. He would be pressured to produce limits of fresh wild walleye and then prepare them a Catch of the Day over an open fire with embers cracking, beans heating in a can, and potatoes frying in a shore lunch skillet.
“Where do I find the fish?” he asked Tawny earlier, just before sunset. This was an honest attempt at seeking advice after being told that he would be the one to take the Pikeannoli brothers fishing in the morning.
Her response was blunt, “Under the boat.” Then she walked away.
He retreated to his bunkhouse seeking sanctuary—wondering where he would start his morning, what presentation he would use to catch fish. It was the bullfrog and the tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc of his alarm clock that kept him from sleeping. Along with the memory of her kiss.
Then there was a flash of light. A ray cast across the bay from the end of the floating dock. Rusty lay silent under the warmth of the Hudson Bay blanket peering out from his waterfront window. The light blinked three short flashes, followed by three long flashes, and then three short flashes again.
It was the universally recognized distress signal for YOU—ARE—IN—DANGER. But with his face pressed against the pane of glass he could not recognize the figure in the distance emitting this wave.
Link was now out of his bunk, pacing by the door, scratching the floor with his paws. The hair stood tall on his shoulders, and he produced a guttural growl, though not totally convincing due to his puppy age.
Another light… From the boathouse. More flashes… Two short flickers, one long cast of light, and three short blinks.
“Huh?” he thought to himself, “Who am I, Sam Morse?” having no idea what was just coded.
Rusty swung his feet to the floor, tiptoed through the darkness of the room, and made his way toward the door. Reaching out he turned the knob ever so slightly, cracking the door open and immediately Link bolted.
“Link, get back here,” he called in a voice barely above a whisper. But there was no response. Even the bullfrog had gone silent.
“Who’s out there!” he now commanded with a more authoritative voice. But stillness remained. No light from the end of the dock and no glow from the dock house.
Rusty made his way to the beach and followed the shoreline to the last area he saw a flash. Link had joined him, nose to the ground, winding his way toward the entrance of the building.
“I should have brought a flashlight,” he thought as he followed the path of the dog. And then he stumbled near one of the skiffs pulled up on shore—an oar lying in the sand—bent at the waist he grasped it with both hands like a martial arts weapon—even though watching a Bruce Lee movie was the extent of his combat training.
Continuing toward the boat house, the only sound he heard was the pounding of his heart in his throat. Then he reached for the knob, turning ever so slowly with Link’s nose peeled to the floor, snuffleupagusing the gap between the base and the door.
The building was darker than the inside of a clam. “Should I go and turn the generator on?” he thought momentarily as a mad rush of footsteps sounded on the walkway by the far exit of the building.
“Hello!” he sounded off. And then thought how odd it would sound if he were attempting to scare off this impending perpetrator.
He could not identify the shape as it ran behind the building and appeared to scamper toward the woods. Then he glanced across the harbor and witnessed the first flash of light he had seen earlier—coming to life—striding their way down the floating dock heading toward the main lodge.
“You! On the dock, who’s there!” Rusty called out.
The response was nil, and by the time whomever had reached shore, they killed the light and disappeared into the darkness. Two mysterious shapes—now gone.
A daring person would give chase toward the lodge, and thus Rusty retreated to the confines of his bunkhouse. Link tagged behind, nipping at his heels, doing little to challenge the course of his master’s path.
Behind the locked door of his shelter, he caught his breath—considering all options. Living to fish another day immediately came to mind. And not knowing who or what was out there, it seemed to be the most sensible choice.
The single croak of the bullfrog returned. Rusty and Link reclaimed their spaces under the warmth of the wool blanket. Tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc the alarm clock beat its drum.
The ceiling beams cast dark shadows like pine trees bent during a storm. Whatever or whoever had been out there—on the dock—near the boathouse—had not come for him. Not yet.
Tomorrow morning would start sooner than later as he continued to fight off sleep. His new guests, the Pikeannolis, would be anxious for adventure. Ultimately, he would have to play guide, husband, and chief bottle washer for everything all consuming at FSFO. The role of playing captain of the ship was a boat he was not sure he could float.
More clouds pushed their way into the harbor—he felt the lake shifting its momentum—just enough to fuel his insomnia.
Tic-toc. Tic-Toc. Morning was coming… And Rusty Flathers was already hooked… Catch of the Day.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 