Season THREE – Episode 16– “Tin Can Alley of Sharks”     

Spirits were strained as Sally, Ellie, and Hazel watched William—no longer inflated with life—begin to sink. Returning to the marina at Sand Point Beach with a corpse in the bow of the Grady-White Canyon 456 center console was not an option.

After a tense debate among the trio, it was agreed to retreat across choppy waters and hit the reset button on the mainland. Time to think—no more distractions. Time to regroup—pull the team together. They were running in a “Tin Can Alley of Sharks”—time to find their rogue submarine.

With Ellie at the helm and the Lowrance HDS Pro 16 navigation unit set on night mode, Sally offered these final words, “William, you were part of something much bigger than all of us. And you have my word that we will see this mission to its end, along with the miserable likes of Too-Tall and Shorty-Short. Their tournament is going to come to a screeching halt the next chance we get.”

         “Let’s go Ell. Best if we can make the marina before sunrise.”

And with that—the women continued east—following the breadcrumbs recorded by the Global Positioning System. Traveling at speeds more than 50-mph they cut through a horizon that was darker than the inside of a cow. Ellie had dropped a pin on the touchscreen shortly after takeoff. It was eight miles back to the original Caye where they had first hidden with William. From there is another five miles to the mainland.

Sally and Hazel stood at opposite sides of the T-Top—hanging onto the aluminum rails—their knees working like shocks—absorbing the clutter of gamey seas growing with intensity.

“How far out Ell?” Hazel questioned, turning her chin down and away from the wind.

“I’m tracking 7.8 miles at 47 miles an hour and I buried the trim tabs to push the bow down in these waves. The wind has to be cranking 30 knots based on this roll.” Ellie responded. 

          “This rough water has to have something to do with the tide.”

And it certainly did—Within a short distance of 178 yards, at 47 miles an hour, the women soon found out what effect a lowering tide could have on forward motion.

Ellie’s head was so close to the GPS unit, following the travel line on the screen, her forehead was the first thing to contact the dash of the console when the FOUR Yamaha outboard motors collectively found bottom. Next were her ribs—each finding their way top to bottom along the stainless-steel steering wheel.

Sally held tight to the T-Top rail, but her right arm felt as though it had been jerked from its socket. Hazel took the brunt of the forced SLOW-DOWN when her left hand lost its grip, and she was propelled into the bow like a Yukon Gold coming out of a spud gun.

Bogged down in sand—mud—muck… This unpredicted loss of water depth brought silence to their surroundings. The boat was beached and the waves were launching spray over the forward part of the hull.

“You guys all right?” Sally quizzed, searching for her backpack in the console for the Mini-Monster 9600 Lm LED flashlight produced by MF Tactical for extremely dark situations.

          “I’m fine—maybe a bump on my head—some bruised ribs,” answered Ellie. Then they confirmed the marks with Sally’s flashlight.

“Hazel?” Sally queried.

          “Yeah, I’m alright—My ego more than anything—along with my ass.”

“Not going to run a flashlight on that.” Sally finished.

Then laying the light across the starboard gunnel Sally panned the horizon and caught a reflection within 400 meters of the max output of lumens. It wasn’t much. Possibly a small Caye.

“Hey Ell, does the Lowrance screen show an island nearby? Or at least some sort of structure at our 2 o’clock?” Sally quizzed.

          “I got nothin’. The screen only shows water. Obviously, William was able to run us through this area with a high tide.”

“Hazel, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Sally continued.

          “Yeah, there’s at least a shadow of something out there. Maybe a coral reef or a mangrove.”

“Only one way to tell—let’s go. Ellie, you stay with the boat.”

Over the gunnel into knee deep water waded Sally and Hazel. The tide continued to lower and the further they traversed the shallower the wading became. Winds remained stout but the water was warm, and the mixed muck had fully converted to precious sands.

“Sally, look, it is a Caye!” Hazel explained. “I can see an eclipse of higher ground behind the shadows of the mangroves.”

          “Must not be on the map—but clearly it’s some sort of outpost—let’s check it out.”

Onshore, they found a crumbling concrete structure. More than half-covered in moss, it was clearly some sort of Cold War era site. Purposely removed from anyone’s radar.

Inside they discover a long-dead radio operator named Modracek. Hazel recognized the nameplate on his desk.

“Sally, I think the bag of bones here is Milo “Mayday” Modracek. He was a spy for Australia during WWII—originally came from Czechoslovakia. Reportedly, he was an intricate member of the Fleet Radio Unit—guy who would transmit emergencies by decrypting Japanese naval comm—loved the drama.

“Damn, look at this!” Sally exclaimed as she perused over the skeletal remains. “It’s some sort of cryptic note: The Kraken swims beneath the North Carolina-class battleship. Watch for the blinking kelp.”

          “Do you think The Kraken was here? Back in the ‘40’s? Or is it just a code?” Hazel questioned.

“Hard to say—but if you’re telling me that Modracek represented the Czech Republic—maybe this is some sort of connection to the Eastern Bloc?”

“Yeah, that might be a stretch. But look at this!” Hazel signaled—lifting a floorboard and exposing a hidden panel—then she pulled the cap and exposed a secret tunnel.

There was no secret tunnel back at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. Not yet. But there was urgency to acquire more hands at the island property. Guests would be arriving in two weeks—zero had been accomplished in their first full day at the island—passenger boat Hooked on Poutine remained at large on Lac du Bois.

Tomorrow, Rusty and Cos needed to find themselves a TopGunSniper. Someone who’d grown up on the lake—understood the nuances of camp operations—capable of maneuvering their way through a “Tin Can Alley of Sharks.”

These were Rusty’s thoughts, twirling on a spindle, while he lay in bed listening to the gaggle of geese and guard of squirrels saying good night to one another and to another day.

–To Be Continued—

Season THREE – Episode 15 – “Fish, Snacks, and Sunburns: The Perfect Canadian Trifecta”

        “Dammit Rusty!” he cussed himself aloud. “You need to pull it together!”

The sun had picked this exact day to shine its brightest on Lac des Bois—the Yamaha motor came to life when sparked by the key—and the three rookie adventurers turned the skiff back to the northwest and began a painstakingly-slow boat ride back to camp.

Rusty clutched the tiller arm of the outboard motor with both arms. The uncontrollable shaking pushed him to a childhood memory. His cousin Twerkina Flathers—three beers and an Elvis “Hound Dog” rendition by the band at their uncle’s wedding—She was unstoppable. Wild gyrations, zero rhythm, and 100% confidence.

Cos estimated their travel speed with the use of his watch and the movement of the sun. Best estimation 2.8 miles per hour. This was top end cruising speed with one crumpled blade remaining on an otherwise naked hub. This was the good news.

The bad news? Neither Cos, Rusty, nor Link had the faintest idea of how far southeast they had traversed that morning. Worrying was something they would get better at as the day progressed. For now, they continued to push a wake toward the northwest and enjoy the heat of a splendid spring day.

More bad news? The “screaming” Yamaha with zero lubrication in its lower unit was now howling like its lone propeller blade was on a caffeine bender—or a chainsaw having an existential crisis.

Either way, its manic fits became more violent in Rusty’s arms. This required him and Cos to take turns piloting. Link remained in the bow with muzzle settled on the bench seat, covering his puppy ears with both paws.

The motor was no longer cutting through the water as much as it was slapping at it repeatedly. Fellow boaters within earshot? They were nonexistent but would have been alerted within a nautical radius of 30-kilometers. Fish? All forms of swimming aquatic life had fled for the nearest streams and tributaries in an effort to save themselves.

Exactly one hour and forty-eight minutes later, as timed by Professor Cosmoid Scale, their dignity as fishing camp owners took another shot below the proverbial belt. The mechanical eruption occurred as the throttle in Rusty’s hand made one last attempt in blind optimism.

First it was a wheeze—a black and white Holstein dropping to the floor of a slaughterhouse giving its final sermon. Then suddenly there was a KA-KA-KA-KLANK!! Followed by metal-on-metal coughs like a lawnmower shucking gravel out its discharge chute.

Suddenly, the tiller jerked violently to the left, taking Rusty’s arm with it as if possessed by a demon. His fear was sprayed out the back of the boat in the wake of this smoke-filled noise and mechanical defiance. 

And then—silence. The technical parts and pieces that separated themselves from the engine block were too numerous to count.

Surprisingly, the single blade from the prop emerged on the top side, flying into the air with an Olympic enthusiasm, never to be seen again. Then it surrendered to gravity. Returning to the freshwater with the elegance of a maple leaf descending from its season’s long grasp on a tree branch.

Then it pierced the water like a hot knife into milky butter. Zero splash. Nary a ripple. If a hummingbird had passed by and blinked, it would have missed it.

     “Is this actually happening?” Rusty thought immediately. “How did we get to this point?”

Somewhere in the distance, he could see a Russian judge faint. The scorer from Norway held up a perfect 10 as did Germany and China. It was 10s across the board. Even “The Musky That Winked” was applauding.

The familiar smell of burnt oil brought Rusty back to both consciousness and shame.

     “Hey kid—shake it off.” encouraged Cos. “You had no idea that reef was there. Could happen to either of us, and we’re in this together.”

With the gentle lapping of water—the three amigos took the silent opportunity to break out a dry-bag and share pre-packed provisions. This was the singular good move they had made prior to leaving camp.

Somewhere to the southeast their passenger boat Hooked on Poutine was most likely beached. Post lunch they would each grab an oar and continue back in the direction of camp.

     “Geez, this sun is a monster!” exhaled Rusty after his oar struck the water for the ten thousandth time that afternoon. Cos and Link were huddling in the bow, hiding under a jacket, taking a reprieve from the blistering rays of spring sunshine and re-energizing by splitting a Coffee Crisp bar.  

And then the vision returned—but this time it was no vision. The musky that had winked at both Rusty and Link, the evening prior while they were fishing off the dock, had returned. Here—at the bow of the boat—surfacing enough that Rusty confirmed the scar just below its left eye—running parallel to its jaw plate.

     “Hey Cos!” he shouted. “Check it out—the musky—the one Link and I saw last night!”

     “What… What are we talking about?” Cos replied, while peering out from under a sun blocking jacket.

     “Right there man—in front of the bow—pick up your paddle—he’s leading us back to camp.”

Islands now become recognizable. Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters location lie dead ahead. The friendly gaggle of their sociable resident geese could be heard.

This had been a day of “Fish, Snacks, and Sunburns: The Perfect Canadian Trifecta.” No such luck for Sally, Ellie, and Hazel. Their night had grown considerably darker as they drifted in eerie silence—lowering William over the gunnel—a burial at sea.

For the three women—their mission had not changed, but it had become considerably more challenging. Finding the elite offshore submarine near Bremer Bay would require them to retreat to the mainland. Backtracking was not ideal, but the GPS mapping provided a trail in the black of night. It was collectively agreed to be their best chance for survival.

–To Be Continued—

Season THREE – Episode 14 – “Big Attitudes for Small Fish”

Outside the cottage, shots from the attackers (Too-Tall & Shorty-Short) continued with a fevered pitch, while they pressed toward the building. Their luck with the no-see-ums was none better than those who arrived earlier at the party. These impossible creatures exhibited “Big Attitudes for Small Fish”—gnawing clouds of midges were being ousted from multiple locations while Eagle ONE-TWO-THREE and William all attempted escape.

Clawing their way through an entanglement of hell both Ellie and Hazel reached the natural harbor where the Grady-White was docked. Then, without audibling, and realizing Sally had disappeared, they reversed the direction of the boat pointing the bow toward the openness of the ocean and prepared for fight or flight.

TOUGH was going to be catching sight of Sally and William before they could leave the island. Dammit for bugs.

Ellie flipped the switches on the Quad Yamaha’s lining the boat’s transom and brought them to life. Their volume did little to attract attention with low decibel humming. Conversely the exhaust they produced in the open harbor generated the attention of millions more nighttime aerial acrobats.

The white based non-slip floor of the Grady-White became an absolute greased pig. To stand, one became a toddler, attempting your first go-round, blades strapped to your feet, while hovering over pond ice. The black thickness of insects covered the white laces of your skates.

          “Wait—I hear something!” announced Ellie. “Unhitch the ropes—but hang onto the dock!”