“I agree Cos… Not to say it’s overwhelming, but I WOULD use the word daunting. Plus, supporting our new business with local employees would be positive for us and for this area. Never a bad thing to seek out local talent.”

     “Then it’s agreed—Now let’s make our way up to what I assume is the generator shed on top of the hill behind the lodge. We need to get this property, the buildings, and all its necessary equipment powered up before losing daylight. Maybe even catch a fish off the dock for supper.”

The generator building sat at the peak of the island approximately two hundred meters from the camp clearing. Two of the most immediate offerings were ONE: There was a middle of the road cell signal obtainable from this peak that held a relatively consistent note, if you tilted your phone at a 45-degree angle facing the southwest.

SECOND offering: the wrap-around walkway attached to the generator shed presented a magnificent view of the lake—along with a clear shot of the docks in the protected harbor—of which Hooked on Poutine was currently nowhere to be seen.

     “Rusty, where the hell’s our passenger boat?!” fired Professor Scale.

     “Uh, didn’t you tie it to the dock after I parked?” retorted Rusty.

     “Rusty, you’re the one who pulled the boat into the harbor—put the nose on the beach—stern against the dock—and said we’re good, let’s get unloaded!”

The formidable southeast wind that blew was consistent with its ability to remove Hooked on Poutine further and further from sight of the island. Scale and Flathers stood on the ends of adjacent docks glassing the horizon through rain dripped binocular lenses. There was an hour before sunset—each was soaked to the bone—the fire in the lodge had suffocated itself several hours prior—and the hum of the diesel generator indicated it was performing imperfectly on five cylinders versus the allotted six, provided by the manufacturer.

     “Well, I guess there’s not much we can do about it tonight” offered Cos. I’m going up to the lodge to get the barrel stove going. It appears our compadres, the red squirrels, have completed their task of clearing the chimney pipe. Why don’t you see if you can change our luck and land a couple of fresh fish for dinner—I need to be done for the day.”

Inside the dock house, hanging in the rafters, Rusty located what appeared to be a vintage B’n’M graphite spinning rod built specifically for crappie fishing in the early 1970’s. This was the first of its kind—long handle and fore grip—lightweight and sensitive—the action of bamboo but the balance that allowed an angler to vertically jig.

With Link standing by his side at the end of the dock Rusty tipped the 1/16oz chartreuse jig with a miniature pearl white twister tail, flipped open the bail on the spinning reel, and pitched the bait into the lake. Experience would lead him to believe they were in approximately 13ft of water. In his angler’s mind a lucky number. There were twelve disciples plus Jesus.

Better yet—of the group you had Simon and Andrew (brothers and fishermen)—James and John (also brothers and fishermen)—thus giving Rusty the sense that as an avid angler himself, he was in pretty good company. And then the perceived depth of 13 feet proved favorable.

Link yipped and bounded on his hind legs as Rusty hoisted the first crappie from below the dock and dangled it with line in hand just beyond the pup’s reach. Its flapping tail evoked its will to return to water—and Rusty obliged with his superstitious belief that by returning your first caught fish to the lake, the fish gods would come back and smile upon you tenfold.

Do not contest the vibe of the Disciples or the fish gods. Bite after bite—fish after fish—the crappies committed themselves to his hook and all returned safely to their habitat, albeit a sparring few kept for the pleasure of teasing the palate, feeding hunger, and fulfilling the ancient hunter gatherer instinct.

     “Rusty how goes it down there?” shouted Cos from the deck of the lodge.

     “Wonderful! I’ve got enough for supper. I’ll be up in a minute. You want to put some beans and potatoes on?”

In the next instant there was a tug on his line—one that bent rod tip to handle—line peeling from an underpowered reel. Rusty took two steps back from the edge of the dock and buried the rod butt into his waistline to gain leverage. Link was on standby for assistance—peering into the depths below with his nose very near water.

With rain decreasing and sun yourself weather emerging for the first time in days, a giant musky broke the surface and tail danced across the water with an approximate two-pound walleye in its clenches. The angle of the sunlight was such that its ferocious teeth shone like electric sparks on a short-circuiting wire.

After that a stout head shake snapped the line—momentarily “The Musky’s Mysterious Wink” thanked Rusty for the assist—then he returned below depths to enjoy an evening meal.

Meanwhile the island puppy mascot Link, who struggled earlier that same day with his inability to swim, hurriedly retreated to the haven of dry land. His chattering teeth and rose hair indicated an attitude toward whether recreational swimming would be in his future after seeing the great fish.

Sally—Ellie—Hazel—collaborator William—rested impatiently inside their newly instructed meeting place. The no-see-ums brought on by darkness had ravaged them in the mangrove harbor of the Caye and relentless biting had pursued them along the entire trail to the safehouse.

Now they waited for William’s captain and first mate to return with a second vessel. An opportunity to pool resources and safely connect with the Blackfin Phantom submarine. Additionally, they had been informed there were two passengers in custody. There was to be an interrogation upon their arrival at the Caye.

-To Be Continued-