When the rescue regatta pulled into the southeast harbor of Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters… Celine was anxiously awaiting their arrival. A nautical sunset captured her silhouette as she pranced down the dock, skipping at times, with a hundred questions racing through her mind.
First and foremost, “You guys are late, so I pitched the squirrel stew into the bush. Anyone want some day-old poutine? I bet Cracker Jack would have liked my poutine.”
“It’ll be soggy, because it’s impossible to plan a mealtime around you people. Did you skip lunch? I thought we had a meal plan on this island. I already ate. I think…”
And then before anyone could answer… She performed a triple jump and landed with her legs wrapped around Minister Nev Thorne’s waist, “Marry me you blessed man of the cloth. Or do the seeds we sow, only reap in the fall?”
“Hello Celine,” offered Rusty… Sliding past the couple and heading down the dock, up toward the lodge, dragging his injured left wheel along the way.
“Celine, get ahold of yourself!” barked Tawny. To this… Celine promptly responded by flipping her the Canadian bird.
Speaking of Canadian birds… The Cessna A185F Skywagon with its 300 horsepower Continental IO-550 engine was well on its way to Winnipeg. Prior to its departure Ellie Waylayer and Rusty Flathers had done some considerable damage—to Biggy Pescatore.
Pulling up on the yoke after missing Biggy’s boat by a mere inch… Ellie quickly banked hard left to come around counterclockwise on the escaping boat and prepare for another dive bomb.
But this time was different. This time she made eye contact with Rusty Flathers who was still positioned outside the starboard side of the plane, standing on the float and hugging the strut. Their eyes met—jet blue locked onto musky brown—and she immediately knew.
From Applesauce to the Gold Rope Ranch, to where they were at this very second… She knew what she needed Rusty to do. And then she acted by pushing forward on the yoke and pitching the nose of the plane down toward the basin of the lake.
Rusty’s stomach went into his throat, because he had received her visual message—game on Flathers. This included a dangerous acrobatic plan for himself—as well as grabbing the 6-foot-long fishing gaff—the one with the stainless-steel hook that was lying in the rear of the aircraft.
This was a weapon of choice for a Canadian camp owner—albeit Rusty was from the US—but willing to learn Canadian. The hook would potentially make things quite bloody for Mr. Biggy. The aluminum handle was also capable of doing some hard-knocking damage.
“Flip a coin,” thought Rusty… And then as the plane leveled out, fifteen feet above the water line, he let himself freefall. The dock rope—accidentally wrapped in a cleat hitch around his left leg during their takeoff—was cutting circulation but holding tight.
“Good god I’m going to be,” he said to himself. But it was too late. Spinning like a top, upside down, the watery bile emptied from his stomach and sprayed out in an ash-colored stream. “Sick,” he finished.
Clarence—still riding shotgun in the co-pilot’s seat—upon orders from Ellie—stuck his head out the window of the float plane and yelled, “Stop screwing around Feathers!”
“Ugggggghhhhhh,” thought Rusty. “I’m gonna… Mmm…” Mission accomplished—per Clarence snapping Rusty out of his tailspin and refocusing on the job at hand.
Biggy’s boat was one hundred yards to the north, throttle punched, attempting to escape with its roaring outboard engine. Ellie was closing their distance at 138mph, and Rusty was swinging his weapon without knowing he had 1.3 seconds to make contact. The gaff was moving forward before his brain could catch up.
“Which end am I holding? I can’t remember?” panicked Rusty.
Then, in a blink of a blink… Rusty saw Cos, Stash, and Rod Gills bound together in a cluster… And then the aluminum frame of the gaff was contacting the back of Biggy THE BOAT Pescatore’s noggin. “Drive with your hips and roll your wrists!” he thought. Muscle memory from his Legion baseball days.
And OH—–MY—–BACK—BACK—BACK—BACK—BACK did it hit the sweet spot! Home run. Touch ‘em all and then some! This was the cut you take… The one where you swing out of your shoes… And you never feel the ball (Biggy’s head) going off the barrel of the bat. But when it does—you absolutely know that you just knocked that melon out of the park.
“Hell of a first week at camp,” congratulated Cos, as he stood and clinked his bottle of Molson with Rusty. The entire crew, less Biggy Pescatore, were sitting at fireside roasting smores.
Oddly (or not), Biggy’s legs had become tangled up in a rope after his boat was ultimately stopped. No one seemed quite clear as to how the scenario unfolded (or they did). And then there was something about Anchors Away. But that was strictly Sam Doright’s department (copy that).
Biggy Pescatore was swimming with the fish… Forever excused from the campfire gathering.
“And here’s to the Pikeannoli brothers, or whoever the hell they really were,” continued Cosmoid. “May Cy and Ted rest in peace… And hopefully Alvin can safely relocate.”
Cos then raised his glass again—“Marlin, Stash, Rod, unbelievable couple of days. Appreciate the professionalism.”
“Sally, you brought in a water bomber that ultimately downed the Wendigo. Damn thing had a heart made of ice and refused to stop eating, even in the blaze of a forest fire.” Cos was on a roll. “You somehow just keep being in the right place at the right time. Unstoppable.”
Tawny rolled her eyes. Rusty caught it from her reflection in the fire. He did not totally agree, nor disagree.
“What’s next for our wondrous Miss Squatnfishes?” Cos said and saluted her with a final hoist of his beer.
“Well… Maybe the KITFT—Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament in Zimbabwe,” Sally replied. “That’s if my main man, (hoisting her bottle toward Rusty) wants to be my full-time partner.”
Celine, who at this time had been unusually quiet for the better part of thirteen seconds, leaned toward Minister Nev—her leg rubbing against his—and whispered as though she had been taught to do so in a sawmill, “Where is Zimbabwe? Is that near Turkmenistan? I’ve always wanted to visit The Door to Hell.”
Squeezing his eyelids with ferociousness… Neville prayed silently… Praying as if the life of Moses depended on it.
Nearby, Link the camp mascot and British Labrador—who this same day had floated belly up off the bottom of Lac des Bois missing his aviator cap—was sitting upright in a camp chair. Somehow, he had acquired the use of a smore stick and was dangerously close to the fire.
Glancing around the circle of these would-be adventurers he thought, “These humans, can’t they just relax and win?”
Rusty… Having heard about half of what Sally had just said… Was now seeing Ellie’s reflection in the campfire. This was a delicate fantasy—rising from blazing embers. Ultimately, she was well on her way to Winnipeg delivering Alvin to safety, and then herself back to Australia.
–Season Finale—
Stay tuned for Season FIVE and more adventures with the Rusty Flathers Series!
Rusty Flathers 