“Three days of pre-fishing are allowed, and we’re late getting on the water, no thanks to you Loonsuckle!” Sally barked. There were 200 teams in the famed Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament and Team Eagle was currently the 200th boat to splash from Charara Point. They had been sitting in the parking lot, near the boat access, waiting for Jackie for over four hours.
“I normally make it a rule not to fish in the rain,” replied Jackie. A steady wave of moisture had come down from the sky and was expected to last throughout the day. “And besides,” he continued, “RainyDaze & MonDaze—that’s normally a beer drinking day for me.”
“Get your cowpoke ass in the boat!” Sally ordered and then clocked him in the back of the head with an open palm as he threw a leg over the gunnel to climb aboard.
“Ouch,” Jackie winced. “What the hell kind of team captain are you anyways, Squatsnfishes?”
“One that needs you to he a hell-of-a lot more focused. That’s who.”
Oh shit, Sally then said under her breath. It was Sage Golden. She was idling into the dock at the boat ramp. Returning from a large portion of the day already spent on the water.
“Well, looks who’s just getting their day started,” Sage called out from the bow of her boat, as her guide parallel parked along the dock. “Did I keep you out too late last night, Jackie dear?”
Sally’s eyes exploded and then burned a hole directly through Jackie’s skull. You dumb ass, she murmured barely above audible and then turned toward Sage to quickly change the subject.
“How’s the bite out there, Sage? Hey, that’s a nice rig you’re running. Did you find any big ones?” Sally was rambling—possibly shook—while Win and Hazel stood behind her exchanging glances that said, is it go time, again?!
“Can-it, Squatsndoesit. You can spare me the niceties and move that tin-can so we can pull our boat. We already beat ‘em up today,” replied Sage.
With that, Sally unhitched the stern rope from the boat’s cleat and pushed away from the dock. Win quickly retreated to the center console and reversed the boat. Probably best not to say anything right now, thought Jackie as they idled past his previous night’s encounter. But hot-damn, Sage is lookin’ good.
It was a 35-minute run from the dock to Sanyati Gorge. Win clocked it on her Lowrance GPS and saved the trail in the routes log. Ron Heimburg counted 37 crocodiles enroute, before she cut the throttle.
Prior to their departure, Win pre-rigged four medium-heavy rods with fast action tips for vertical jigging. These were stout sticks, seven feet in length, and built to handle 3-5oz jigs. She preferred braided line versus mono for the low stretch and high sensitivity. But she also tweaked the leader by using 80-pound saltwater mono (making her own 24” leaders) versus a shorter steel line that many competitors operated.
Hazel was the first to thread a live kapenta on her jig, lip through the nose, and then free-spool the bail letting it freefall into 137-feet. Once it hit bottom she lifted and twitched the bait repeatedly. Nothing—yet.
“I thought we’d be fly fishing,” sneered Jackie. “You know, I got a reputation to uphold.”
“Exactly,” Sally responded. “And most of that reputation tells people you’re not the sharpest fillet knife in the tackle box. So shut your mouth, bait your hook, and get your line in the water like a good little boy.”
That brought a belly-laugh from the innards of Ron Heimburg, and then he screamed, “I think I’ve got one!”
“Reel, Ron! Reel!” Win instructed. “Keep your line tight.”
Whatever he had hooked was having its way from the get-go, pulling like a mule and holding tight to the bottom. “My god, how big do these things get?” Ron asked as he held the butt of the rod to his waistline and continued cranking the reel.
“Most average eight pounds, but I’ve seen ‘em go thirty-plus,” Hazel answered. “Here, tighten the drag.” Then she reached around his mid-section and twisted down on the bar.
Slowly the weight of the catch began to respond to the tension. In what seemed like hours to Ron, which was about six minutes, whatever he had hooked was boatside. And it was not a tiger fish.
“Oh, ugh, that’s no fish!” Hazel declared.
“No—it’s not,” replied Win as she reached over the gunnel, grabbed Ron’s fishing line with her free hand, and cut the leader.
Ten feet below the surface you could still make out the middle finger that was attached to the hand, that was attached to the arm, that was attached to the shoulder of what used to be a human body. And then it was gone.
“Alright,” said Sally, breaking the morbid silence, “maybe not the best way to start our pre-fishing.”
“Crocs most likely,” explained Win. “You rarely catch a body part, but I’ve heard of it happening.”
Ron Heimburg was the last to see the dismembered remains disappear below the surface. And then he screamed, “Nyami Nyami!”
It was the fish-headed snake inhaling the remains of his foul-hooked catch. Or was it?
Meanwhile, back at the bunkhouse, Rusty bolted upright, “I’d better get the door,” he told Ellie and jumped from under the sheets.
With the knocking now relentless, he threw on a pair of sweatpants and T-shirt, then raced to the entrance. Pulling on the knob he opened the door in time for Celine to hit him right betwixt the eyes.
“What the hell, bossman?” shouted Celine as she stood overtop Rusty who was laying flat on the floor holding his nose with both hands. “Couldn’t you hear me knocking? We got a Code-3 in Bayview Cabin. Regular slip-slider, and I don’t need anyone latching on to yours truly!”
Rusty sat upright and pinched. Somewhere, sometime, he thought he remembered being told, do not lean your head back when you have a gushing bloody nose.
“A Code-what?” he asked Celine.
“Flappity-flopper, down on the enameled cast iron. Lizard can’t get himself up.”
“Celine, English, please,” begged Rusty as he sat and continued to pinch his blood-filled nostrils. “What’s the emergency?”
“Rustomatic, there’s a dude in Bayview—hundred and three if he’s a day—can’t lift himself out of the bathtub—wife can’t help either. She went to the lodge—couldn’t find anyone—ended up in my bunkhouse—thought it was the devil coming for me and Nev—shouda seen that mess—anyway your dutiness calls—I’m not letting some old goat grab my hooters—good luck!”
Guess I should remove my shoes, Rusty thought as he pulled back the shower curtain to reveal the overly exposed Mr. Chester Pruneworth.
“Sorry about this, Flabbers,” said Chester, “but I’m gonna need a bear-hug to get me out of this tank.”
God help me, Rusty mumbled under his breath as he kicked off his shoes, peeled his socks, and hiked his pantlegs to enter the standing water.
“Ok, on-three, Mr. Pruneworth,” and with his knees bent he wrapped his arms around the massively shriveled nakedness and hoisted toward the ceiling.
“Well, that was awkward,” replied Mr. P, now standing safely at attention.
Rusty on the other hand, believing he had felt something move, jumped from the water like Shamu from SeaWorld. “No worries, Mr. P, I’ll see you at breakfast,” he replied—full on knowing he would NEVER unsee what had just transpired.
I may never hug Ellie the same, he thought, retreating to his bunkhouse and officially starting the day.
–To Be Continued—
