“Thirty-seven feet, drop the anchor,” Tawny shouted as she clicked the save button to lock their coordinates on the Lowrance GPS unit. She had done her magnificent best at stopping the boat on a dime—pinpointing the nearest location to where she felt the plane was last afloat—ramming the Yamaha into reverse—holding steady for a rescue attempt.
Tawny Bishop and Sam Doright were the first at the scene as Sally and Link disappeared below the surface of Lac des Bois. Staring into coffee-stained water, their naked eyes saw little besides bubbles rising to the surface. The bomber plane had literally gone under, a brief five count, before these two potential saviors arrived.
“Thirty-seven feet… Gives us roughly forty-eight seconds before she hits bottom,” Sam stated, peeling off his Gore-Tex jacket and Helly sailing bibs. “I’m going down!”
“Bullshit,” replied Tawny. “I’m too sexy for my shirt.” She was already stripped down to her sports bra and a pair of athletic boys shorts, diving over the gunnel with a red, five-pound, B-I type U.S. Coast Guard approved fire extinguisher held high above her head.
“Can’t imagine there’s much fire danger below,” thought Sam. “But DAMN that woman’s hot!” Then, as instructed, he sat tight with the proverbial ship, and clicked the timer on his Rolex Sea-Dweller marine wristwatch. Clearly, this was a government issued apparatus. Sam Doright was too frugal to spend that sort of jack.
“I’ll give her a full 90-seconds,” he murmured under his breath. “Based on the stripped-down version of what I just witnessed—she’s impressively fit. At the buzzer—if she’s not back—I’ll hit the water for backup assistance.”
Inside the cockpit of the water bomber conditions were less than ideal. Weight forward, the nose of the plane was going down first, and through the windshield Sally may as well have been inside the belly of a cow. The water was dark, which messed up her equilibrium as they descended.
Instinctively she counted in her head—calculating a one-foot drop per two seconds—while swirling in circles in the ever-growing darkness—searching for something to bash through the windscreen of the plane.
At this point… She was upside down… Feeling for what she hoped would be a fire extinguisher located near the lower sidewall. Her left knee would have practically been rubbing against it before getting thrown during the barrel roll.
“No… That’s not it. GOD… Was that Link?!” She pulled back after feeling something that felt fleshy. It certainly was no metal canister.
Then suddenly, near the front of the plane, a noise that sounded like direct impact, CRUNCH. A fraction of a faction later, another disturbance, but this time from the tail, BOOM.
“This can’t be right,” Sally thought. “Two sounds almost simultaneously, one from the fore and one from the aft.”
“What the?” questioned Tawny. “I can’t be more than six feet below the surface.”
“That first noise… That’s IT,” Sally connected the dots. “Get yourself to the front of the plane and find that extinguisher!”
“She must have crashed over a mid-lake reef,” reasoned Tawny. “That’s the only way I’m bashing into the rear of the plane with this extinguisher, this close to the surface.”
“There it is! Dammit, wait, is that Link again?! Wait—no—that’s it I’ve got it,” Sally confirmed.
“Nice park job, Squatsndoesit. Now let me work my way along the fuselage and get to your bow.”
“She’s been down… Thirteen seconds,” counted Sam, taking his eyes off his wristwatch only long enough to greet Marlin Salty and Nev Thorne with a nod, as they pulled alongside his skiff.
“Where’s Tawny?” shouted Nev.
“Down below with the fish. I’m giving her a 90-count before I hop over myself,” replied Sam.
“Should one of us go in, right now?” offered a less than enthusiastic Salty, slowly bending over with a hesitant attempt to remove his boots, per chance he would get the nod.
“No, but look to the northeast,” countered Sam. “You guys see that boat racing in a thousand circles? I’d bet the farm it’s Biggy Pescatore!”
“Biggy Pesca-who?” replied Nev.
“Mobster! Dude that’s been making people disappear around here… I was trying to get a lock on his facial ID through my binocs earlier, but between the waves and the distractions caused by Sally divebombing his boat, I couldn’t get firm visual confirmation.”
“Hang on, Nev,” Marlin Salty hollered. He was putting two and two together to make five.
Relax… Remember that Salty is an MNR officer who deals in wildlife enforcement. He’s no mathematician. Specifically, one who may or may not specialize in factor problemization. But all things considered… Sam’s words were enough for him to turn the boat about, crack the throttle, and chase off to the northeast. Nice hustle, Salty.
“Great,” Sam thought. “One guy can check his fishing license, and the other can give him a blessing.”
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM. Sally swung full-send with the barrel of the fire extinguisher glancing off the acrylic pane. She needed to bust through half an inch of polycarbonate. Certainly not impossible, but it would take a perfect swing.
THUD—THUD—THUD. Tawny had quickly made it to the bow of the aircraft and was instantly countering this effort. Even though—in her competitive mindset—Sally’s hits were not useless—just ultimately and exponentially less impactful.
“Someone’s out there!” Sally swung harder. BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.
THUD—THUD—THUD came the response.
“If this is Rusty, I’ll tear his clothes off when we get back to the island!” BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.
THUD—THUD—THUD. “What the hell does this musky want? Get out of my face!”
BOOM—get—BOOM—me—BOOM—outta here!
THUD—she—THUD—has—THUD—always been a pain in my ass!
Both strikers skipped for a two count. Both thought of Albie Einstein: Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
In the next instant, Sally and Tawny swung their respective fire extinguishers simultaneously. Sally from the port corner—down low on the windshield, and Tawny from the starboard side—up high near the corner.
BOOM/THUD—BOOM/THUD—BOOM/THUDDDD!! And then the window popped… Just as though they were both employees of Speedy Glass.
Too dark to see anything, Sally pulled herself through the space of where the window had been and then stopped to at least go through the act of looking behind for Link. It was no use; with the smudgy water clarity it would be easier to find a needle in a haystack.
Tawny froze once the window had been removed. She was listening—like a fish with its lateral line—listening for movement.
At first, she sensed it… Then she heard it… Then felt it. “Yep, that was Sally’s flutter kick,” she confirmed, “kicking me right in the side of my face.”
“You can instantly lose your breath when you panic toward the top,” Tawny thought, while grabbing Sally’s pantleg just before it was out of reach.
This was a reactionary attempt to slow down Sally’s momentum. “Shallow water blackout is a deadly sort of seriousness, Squatsndork,” Tawny murmured while holding tight.
Then Tawny clasped one of Sally’s flailing hands… Pulled herself up to where they were face to face… Gripped the back of her neck with her free hand, and the thrashing stopped.
For the briefest of moments, they clung together, and then Tawny put her mouth over Sally’s and gave her a five-second burst of scuba buddy breathing. It was enough to give Eagle-One an additional fifteen seconds to safely reach the surface.
Sally was the first to pop, she rose like a bobber—when a fish spit the hook—then she gathered herself. A cold blast of air charged into her lungs, boosting her wits. Tawny was a beat behind… Getting to the surface right on her tail kick.
The air never tasted so good. And the flavor lasted for a whopping five count, before both knuckleheads (Eagle One vs Eagle Four) started arguing over the rescue.
“Bishop! You crazy person. You could have drowned me down there!” claimed Sally.
“Me? What! Are you high right now? Is there no oxygen, getting to that fashion model—pea sized brain of yours?!” coughed Tawny as she spewed the remainder of Lac des Bois from her lungs. “I’m the ONE that saved YOU!”
“You call stopping me mid-stroke, and trying to gag me with your bait-breath, a technique for survival?”
“Ladies… LadIES… LADIES!” shouted Sam, while extending an oar for either of them to grasp a safer option near the boat.
Nothing doing… It was too late. Tawny had already dolphin kicked herself halfway out of the lake and landed with hands on top of Sally’s head. In a fit of rage, she attempted to push her back down to where she had come from.
And then there was Sally. Former water polo defenseman. Keen to the art of counter dunking.
Sally used Tawny’s momentum in her favor—executed an eggbeater kick—pushed down on the aggressor’s shoulders—grabbed her wrists—and spun away from the attack.
“You ungrateful…” Tawny growled and then beat her arms on the surface of the water preparing for round two.
“Me? I never…” And then there was total silence.
The two combatants, these overly competitive, water treading, mental wack-a-doodles, each closed their proverbial traps. Link the British Labrador puppy had surfaced. He was belly up—tail down—and his aviator cap was missing.
Meanwhile, Rusty Flathers and his top-gun fishing sniper (Clarence Bishop) also stood speechless, mouths draping wide, at the edge of the beach on the south side of Moose Island. Earlier… That obvious roaming clap, of what sounded like approaching thunder? It was a Cessna A185F Skywagon. An airplane that sports a hopped-up 300 horsepower Continental engine. And yes, be damned, because it was screaming across the lake—bearing down on their location.
Speaking of locations? Marlin Salty and his preaching padre pal Minister Neville Thorne had also just arrived on site of the circling boat festival. Although festive it was not. Or maybe it was.
Their first attempt to pull alongside the vessel—Nev quickly ducked his head. Someone lying on the deck of the opposite watercraft had stirred long enough to get their wits—pull a gun—and shoot a hole through his well-worn bucket hat that had been through a thousand Sunday morning fire and brimstone sermons.
Everyone was holding their breath. Except for Link.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 