Season THREE – Episode 18 – “Up the Down Staircase”

There was a second vaulted passage in the tunnel below. Hazel Brown aimed her flashlight to the metal door and read the words: Property of Ballard’s Resort—Do NOT open—Only in an extreme fish crisis.

“Has to be code,” she thought. “I need to think like a Czech naval intelligence interpreter.”

She grasped the latch to crank the handle and open the door, but the bolt held tight. Then she put a shoulder into the door, only to feel silly for her effort. In joking fashion—she knocked out a tune with the drumming beat on the door: Boom-ba-da-Boom-Boom, Boom-Boom!

The handle miraculously turned downward, unimpeded, and the door swung open. Hazel peered inside—then shot “Up the Down Staircase”. Her uncontrolled blast collided with Sally, and they toppled to the floor.

She erupted, “Sally! Let’s get Ellie! There’s a functioning call-radio down below!”

Sally was correct—the sun was coming up and the tide was indeed rising. Hazel was right—the radio was operational. Ellie was precise—the encrypted two-way radio could send a hard to intercept message to their rogue submarine (Blackfin Phantom).

With the GPS coordinates loaded in the Lowrance unit the three women waited for the last of the tide to rise, felt the Grady-White free itself, and then chased off to the southeast. Next stop they would be exclusive guests on board an underwater vessel capable of tracking The Kraken!

“Welcome aboard ladies,” offered Admiral Horace Barnacle. “And welcome to the exclusive world of underwater hotel accommodations.”

Sally would have preferred a surfing shack along the beach, something less conspicuous. But she would also appreciate the personal chef, private state room, personal butler, hot yoga instruction, massage therapist, indoor pistol shooting range, manicurist, and panoramic views of Australian marine life.

Ellie was the first to introduce herself, “Ellie Waylayer, nice to be on board sir. I’d welcome the opportunity to tour the Control Room as soon as we drop below the surface.”

Hazel was next, “You can call me Eagle-Three sir,” as she was taking ZERO chances identifying herself as a native to the country. “Currently, I am most interested in a hard bed and a soft pillow.”

Sally brazenly completed the intros, “Yes—Sally Squatnfishes—looking forward to a short and successful visit. Any chance we can pull the plug on this hunk of iron, get her below surface and get with it?”

          “Yes, I assure you ladies, we are prepared to offer our fullest cooperation and amenities,” replied Admiral Barnacle.

With that—the foursome retreated below the hatch as an explosive went off nearby and sank their drifting Grady-White. Grady’s are manufactured as unsinkable—unless you are using a HBX torpedo—appropriately designed to detonate under water and cause maximum damage.

One last glimpse of the flames generated a mirage in Sally’s psychological panoramic, “Are Too-Tall and Shorty-Short still on the women’s navigable trail?”  Unfortunately, the answer was “MAYBE!” Just beyond the glowing ball of flame she thought could see them afloat—opposite the burning Grady-White—then discredited herself based on fatigue.

A klaxon sounded off with a familiar “AH—OO—GAH” from deep within the bowels of the Blackfin Phantom. This was followed by an automated voice instructing: “Attention all hands—Attention all hands—Torpedo impact registered—Hull integrity sound—Martini service available.”

Ellie mentally checked herself while descending the coiled walkway. “That may be the most bazaar security announcement I’ve ever heard,” she declared.

          “No worries,” Admiral Barnacle offered. “We like to keep it hip below the surface. Most of our crew were video trained with the use of 1970’s James Bond films, shown behind closed doors in retro shag carpet bars. Super cozy—sensual—a touch of mystery. You get the vibe.”

“Cozy, and sleazy,” Ellie thought.

Continuing down the spiral staircase into the Control Room the surroundings became more bazaar, as Eagle ONE-TWO-THREE could not hide their questioning glances. The walls of the sub were lined with mirrors and countless glowing monitors echoing a psychedelic sensation. There were live feeds coming across screens observing ocean trenches, sonar pulses, and even one feed dedicated solely to the activity of five orbital dolphins moving as if they were immersed in a spherical rotation controlled by the talents of a professional juggling artist.

Hazel tapped one of the screens. “Is this for real?” (looping video of stylish snorkelers playing some version of underwater lawn croquet) “Or what’s the deal?” she questioned.

          “No, that’s our morale feed,” Admirable Barnacle responded. “Keeps the crew in touch with a subtle blend of elegance—and subliminally discourages thoughts of mutiny.”

Sally leaned forward to view the sonar console. “Admiral, has there been any recent activity with The Kraken? Or any sign of you yourself being tracked?”

Barnacle pushed the bill of his skipper’s cap up with an index finger, “Just 178 nautical miles to the east. Two days ago. A pulsing blip. There were no known vessels in the vicinity. It was detected at 280 meters below sea level—hovering near the Great Australian Shelf. We are cautiously referring to it as The Kraken’s Snack Tray.”

          “And what about this?” Sally pointed to an adjacent screen, crossing her arms.

“Sound the alarms! Hold the martinis!” Admirable Barnacle called out. “We are being stalked!”

Eagle ONE-TWO-THREE took immediate places at battle stations. No rest for the weary—the threesome couldn’t even get on a submarine without meeting havoc.

Meanwhile—back on Lac des Bois…

Rusty Flathers tripped ass over teakettle as he attempted to get “Up the Down Staircase” leading to the outstretched hand of Tawny Bishop. He was scared that if he touched her—she might disappear.

“Pleased to meet you, is it Ms. or Mrs. Bishop?” he caught himself, before completely face planting on the paved walkway.

          “It’s Ms. and you can call me Tawny. You have four of my five allotted minutes remaining on your clock, MR. FLATHERS.”

–To Be Continued– 

Season THREE – Episode 17 – “A Fish Whisperer”

No breakfast today—except for Link. Otherwise, Rusty and Cosmoid needed to get their proverbial butts in high gear—no clutch. With twelve days remaining until their inaugural ceremony, it was time to get back to the mainland to seek (PLEAD FOR) help.

The camp boats with the 40hp motors, except for the one they had destroyed the day before, were well stocked on the island. The men went fast in pulling another skiff off the beach—to slap another 40hp Yamaha from the boathouse on the transom—Rusty tried to look confident.

Tightening the mounting bolts, the adjustable wrench slipped and busted him in the knee. “Heavens to Holy Canada!” he yelped, while the reverberating pain shot down his ankle to where the crayfish had feasted the day prior.

Link went belly flat on the beach and covered his ears with fuzzy paws. Cosmoid bit down on the right portion of his lip and held back a burst of laughter, then countered in effort to lighten the mood, “That’s really not a proper prayer.”

“Yeah, I guess I was improvising,” Rusty muttered, and then wiped sweat from his forehead with a fuel rag.

Cos went to work on one of the Hummingbird GPS units, placing it to the bracket and wiring attachment along the gunnel of the boat. This was something he realized they should have done the day prior before aimlessly leaving the island in search of Hooked on Poutine (their passenger boat).

“Island lesson learned” was the image now branded in his mind. It’s easier to navigate your way on a one-million-acre lake if you are following a reliable electronic device. Particularly one that maps out boating hazards.

“Got it buddy,” Cos alerted Rusty. “Looks like we’re powered up here, GPS good to go.”

          “Cos, when we get to the mainland, we need to seek out “A Fish Whisperer,” Rusty suggested. “Someone who knows tons about camp work—along with the intricacies of navigating and catching fish on this lake.”

          “Well, let’s find our way back to the mainland first, and go from there,” responded Cos. “And I don’t want to rain on your spirits, but we might be making the impossible ask.”

Five minutes later—beyond sight of camp—it started to pour rain. Neither man possessed a weatherproof jacket. More camp life lessons. Seemed the only one with sense was Link who remained back at the main lodge under the deck with his loyal entourage of geese and squirrels.

Standing inside the entrance of Raker’s Marine both men shook with the veracity of a Newfoundland dog. Enough so that it caught the attention of Minnie Maple who was occupying herself behind the counter organizing invoices.

“You fellas forget your rain gear?” she queried. “Ya know, some say Lac des Bois shoulda been named Lake of the Rains, eh.”

          “No, yeah,” Rusty replied. Wanting to fit in as a local by recalling his brief orientation to Canadian language when they had received their work permits at the border. “My pants are soaked through to my passport.”

“Hmmm, that’s not just rain you’re soaked with Rusty,” Cos sniffed. “I’m smelling motor oil. From your backpack?”

          “Looks like you sprung a leak there Rusty,” observed Minnie Maple. And then, following her gregarious belly laugh, she offered each of the men a towel. This gesture was much appreciated by each gentleman, albeit each towel appeared to have been exhausted by boat engine work and post tinkering slimy grime hand washes.

Rubbing his face and shoulders Cos attempted to spin some comic positivity into this awkwardly wet situation. “Rusty and I often choose to suffer like good Catholics (even though neither of them was). It tends to build character. We’re both big on growth. Isn’t life truly about the suffering?”

          “Good to know,” Minnie countered. “You fellas let me know if you need a couple pairs of emotional support flip-flops for the summer. Now—how can I be of service?”

“Actually, and maybe you’re not surprised, but we’re looking for some camp help,” Rusty admitted. “Someone from this area, you know, someone who has experience with camps, knows their way around the lake, is like the person who you would want on your team.”

          “That’s a big ask fellas, let me think for a sec,” Minnie replied. “Ya know—there is someone—but they haven’t worked the lake for four or five years. Still fishing in some tournaments mostly. For a long time worked out at Jack Thorton’s place on Little Narrows Island, ‘til Jack went sideways and pretty much lost all his clientele.”

“This person still around?” asked Cos. “Any idea how to get a hold of them?”

          “Name’s Tawny Bishop. For sure the one person I’d want on my team. Absolute sniper—best worker on the lake she is—I mean was,” finished Minnie. “Last I heard she was pitchin’ part time at the local Anishinaabe school.”

“You have a cell number? Or a home number?” Rusty asked—The word SHE is propelling him to trade glances with Cosmoid.

Tawny Bishop, age 34, is a First Nations Ojibwe (Anishinaabe). Her home base is a solar-powered cedar cabin on the shores of the largest peninsula on Lac des Bois. She is the complete package: fishing guide, camp specialist, boat builder, accomplished tracker, and life coach for elite clients willing to give up modern comforts for a trek into her unforgiving wilderness.

Rusty had her on the phone in a hot second. “Yeah hi, is this Tawny Bishop? Yeah hey, my name is Rusty Flathers—oh yeah—that’s us—so you heard—yep—yep—we are.  Anyway, we’re looking for some help this season. Would you be interested in meeting with us? Oh, OK, well I appreciate your time, thanks.”

          “Not interested,” said Cos with raised eyebrows.

“Actually, she’s at Tremblay’s General Store right now, and said she’d give us five minutes if we could hustle our way over,” responded Rusty. “Let’s go!”

Tawny Bishop was born and raised in the eyes of her Nokomis (grandmother). Summer months were spent living on the lake, learning how to tend fishing nets and plant sustainable food sources. Winter months they retreated to the mainland, where she was taught how to supplement fishing income with fur harvest, and track deer to complement their canned or pickled summer veggies with fresh venison.

Rusty wheeled into the parking lot and thought to himself “that HAS to be her,” before he could even get the pickup in park. No guessing necessary. The person sitting on the bench of the walkway at Tremblay’s General Store was a thunderous goddess: the kind of beauty that Ontario lake country dreams into being, when no one is looking.

“What if she doesn’t like men who smell like wet dogs and outboard motor oil?” Rusty spouted toward Cosmoid.

          “Here,” Cos held up a bottle, “take a spray of this,” and handed a pressurized green can to his camp partner.

Rusty grabbed it—took a five-count blast to the face—gagged. “What is this…DEET?!”

          Cos shrugged and dropped his chin, “You weren’t supposed to spray it in your mouth—it was just to repel the odor on your clothing.”

Rusty approached the steps and held out an introductory hand—his eyes met hers—a deep bronze of wet cedar bark. She carried a confident stillness—that of someone knowing, yet unreadable.

Positioned to the rear, Cos breathed with the professionalism of a ventriloquist performer, “You, okay?”

          Rusty froze in his tracks—thinking, “I’m in love. Or possibly sunstroke. But it’s been raining.”

“Not good symptoms,” returned Cos with a firm audible. “You might want to keep these inner thoughts in their original place. Internally.”

Clearly, Rusty has verbally slipped and spoken aloud. But to who’s fault—he was smitten with this goddess—woman.

A sudden breeze at the back of his neck pushed her long raven-black hair and cast it past her shoulders. She stood to extend her hand and introduce herself. Removed from the shadows of the walkway her sun-kissed glow echoed years of piney air, sunshine, and countless campfires.

“You must be Rusty,” she proclaimed, as he gaped seriously speechless, looking at something both wild and sacred. “I’m Tawny Bishop. Locals call me A Fish Whisperer.”  Then she winked.

Meanwhile—Hazel whispered, “I’m going to check it out,” winked to Sally, opened the hatch by pulling on the hidden panel and let herself down to the walkway of the tunnel. She was now below the surface of the ocean bed.

“Pass me your light Sally, and let’s see what Mayday Modracek has for us in this hidey-hole,” she offered.

          “Hey, be careful. I’m going to give you five minutes and then we are both going back to check in with Ellie. Sunrise is coming quickly—The tide should start working in our favor.”

Then with a deep exhale she continued with another thought: “Rusty must be having a picnic compared to what we’re dealing with. Wonder if his snacks are illuminated?” And she picked up a glowing package of Hostess Cup Cakes (circa 1946) from the desk of skeleton man.

–To Be Continued—