The wind increased as Rusty cut the throttle on Hooked on Poutine. The air temperature was colder, but his face was getting hotter.
“What’s that in the weedbed?” blurted one of his passengers. “It’s something shiny.”
Link stretched his front paws to the dash of the charter boat, then barked twice. “It’s a homo-erectus, just relax, we’ll figure this out.” Then he glanced at Rusty in the captain’s chair and shook his floppy ears.
One of the more—plump like a pear passenger—a middle-aged gentleman with a purple cap, turned to his spouse and said, “Did that dog just say homo-erectus?”
“It’s a person—a person!” shouted another member of the chaotic camp arrivals.
Rusty acknowledged Link’s quick admonishment and watched as his four-legged friend dropped two paws from the dash, pulled his aviator cap down over his doggy eyeballs, and then repeated, “Yes, it’s a person, don’t you understand British Labrador? To be clear—it appears to be our very own Tawny Bishop.”
Yes, it truly was Tawny. Rusty’s guide extraordinaire—standing on the transom of her 18ft Lund Outfitter—balancing with her knees against the motor cowling—buried head high in bullrushes—waving a paddle to and fro attempting to stop any willing passerby.
It just so happened that this time it was her boss. The one who seconds ago had been bragging about her historic prowess on Lac des Bois.
Rusty steered the boat parallel to the weedbed and held the bow into the wind. Then he quickly bailed from the captain’s seat, ran to the gunnel, and shouted, “Everything ok over there, Tawn?”
“Hell no, it’s not,” she hollered back, into the wind. With a strong nor’wester, the boat was pushed a good fifteen yards into the weeds. She was without anchor and had double-hitched a bow rope around a log that was sticking out of a beaver hut.
“Who is that?” one of Rusty’s guests queried.
Link barked once, “Quiet please, everyone!”
“I think she’s yelling, you have FISH BREATH,” offered the eldest guest—cupping a hand behind his long-lobed ear.
Rusty knew immediately. He had witnessed—multiple times—Tawny checking the fuel level of her skiff with the use of a willow stick. Easier than replacing the gas level sensor connected to the more accurate fuel gauge. Albeit not as reliable.
“Fetch the gas can!” is what Rusty heard her say.
Returning to the helm, he put the boat in forward gear. Slowly, he maneuvered on step and began plowing waves as they resumed their trek to the island.
“Who was that?” continued long ears. “Good God, man, aren’t you going to help that individual?”
“She’ll be fine,” replied Rusty, a smile beginning to crack at the side of his face. “That’s your fishing guide for this afternoon, Tawny Bishop, the one that’s been around since they put water in the lake.”
Meanwhile, back on Fifth Ave, the only one putting water into anything was Sally’s mother, Sanda. She was splashing water into her way too early mid-morning martini, waiting for her daughter’s excuse for showing up unannounced.
“Let me guess… You stopped by long enough to do a load of laundry, before you and your boyfriend—Feathers—Blathers—whatever his name, head out someplace to dig worms and catch a stinky fish.”
Obviously, Sanda Squatsnfishes was unimpressed with Sally’s choice of Rusty and the idea of her daughter living out her days at a remote fishing camp in NW Ontario. So much so, in their last conversation before Sally departed for Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters, she vocally phrased this choice of “low living—like a groundhog’s belly is low to the ground—and the last time she checked their family lineage was at a considerably higher level.”
“Well, Mother,” Sally struck back, “you won’t have to worry about that any longer. Rusty and I are,” she hesitated, “taking a break.”
“Oh, you are?” Sanda replied, and her left eyebrow raised quizzically.
“Yes, and don’t get any ideas. I’m only here for a few days—planning a business trip to Africa.”
“Splendid! Just wonderful,” Glenn with two n’s jumped in. “We love having you here for any amount of time we can get. Isn’t that right, Sanda?”
Icy was a good word to describe the glare he attempted to shield, coming from his wife.
“Well, honey,” Glenn continued, “why don’t you freshen up, and I’ll have Gieves get your luggage from the rental. Then maybe an early lunch on the lakefront veranda? How’s that sound, everyone?”
To this… There was general consent between mother and daughter with Sally hesitantly agreeing by nod and Sanda hoisting her martini glass to her lips.
Within the confines of her childhood bedroom… With forty-five minutes to unpack and unwind… Sally turned her attention to “Team Eagle.” This was the name she had bestowed upon her clustered group that would soon be traveling to Zimbabwe for the Kariba International Tiger Fishing Tournament.
Ron Heimburg… Check. Ron was first on her roster as the pivotal member putting up the million-dollar entry fee. He would need to be treated with VIP respect. He knew little about the outdoors but was a must-have liability.
Jackie Loonsuckle… Confirmed. Second member of Team Eagle. Bold—brash—conceited—damn good fisherman. He would require a considerable amount of ego check during the three-day tourney and the pre-fishing leading up to the event, but his positives outweighed the negatives. In the elite circle of international fishing, Jackie was what worldwide anglers referred to as a gamer.
Dark horse… This was spot number three on Sally’s team. A person she had communicated with earlier during her lengthy rental car commute from airport to Fifth Ave. This person had to be a special talent. They would be hitting third in the lineup—which required game-day decision-making talents, hardcore ice-in-the-veins intensity, and killer instincts. Literally.
Hazel Brown was Sally’s dark horse for the tournament. Beyond her general ability to kick ass and take names… She was more at home on the water than she was on land… And with the two of them teaming up this would leave little room for error per keeping Mr. Jackie in line.
Hazel’s travel arrangements from Australia were being coordinated by agent Ben T. Hook. She was scheduled to arrive at the Squatsnfishes Fifth Ave location within forty-eight hours. Overall, Sally was jacked to be reunited with her peer from Down Under.
The early lunch consisted of more martinis for Sanda… Intermittent bouts of refereeing for Glenn… And Sally being reminded of what it was like to be surrounded by the privileges of generational wealth.
Finally, an awkward calm settled among the trio. This lasted a mere thirteen seconds before being blown up by Gieves. He arrived at the lunch scene and announced a surprise visitor. Sally choked on her platter of freshly imported mussels and gasped for breath. Glenn spit an ice cube across the length of the solid teak patio table.
It was Quale Chute. Sally’s former flame, pre-Rusty. He was Ivy League—sat in the stroke seat for Harvard’s rowing team—IRA Champion. Clearly, Sanda wasted no time in letting the paint dry.
“Also, madam,” Gieves calmly announced to the beaming mother, “there’s a rather obnoxious gold Apache K10 parked outside the gate, laying on the horn.”
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 