Season THREE– Episode 20 “A belch, or a burp?!”

Warning lights on the Blackfin Phantom submarine continued to flare. Below them the much too large shadow settled on the ocean floor while Admiral Horace Barnicle sipped his dirty martini.

Hazel kept her focus glued to the sonar—albeit her left eyelid fluttered with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. “It appears as though the creature is burping,” she alerted the team.

“A belch, or a burp?!” Barnacle spit a mouthful of liquor across the instrument panel. “Full throttle ahead! Full throttle ahead!” he commanded Sally. And yes—she had taken over the pilot’s chair.

Invisible to the naked eye and or the most elite form of radar technology known to mankind… Sally knew full well what to expect. The massive expulsion of air would produce a bubble large enough to capsize the submarine and turn her topsy-turvy. Speed was of the essence.

Ellie, now suited up in the co-pilot chair, was running diagnostics. “Sally, we have eight seconds and counting to move the length of TWO football fields! Go! Go! Go!”

Admiral Barnacle stood behind Eagle ONE, TWO, and THREE… Unusually quiet.

“Sir?” Hazel questioned. “Have you encountered this air bubble burping behavior pattern?”

He gave a sobering shake of his noggin. “Never. I have no idea what the hell we’re dealing with.”

“Twenty-eight more yards SALLY!” screamed Ellie. “With 3—2—1—Brace for impact!”

The sonar let out a loud, thunderous clap and shattered the glass monitor. Then another. Hazel removed the headset and there was a trickle of rose red blood trickling down her right ear lobe. She dropped from the viewing chair as the aft of the submarine began to rise.

Instinctively, Sally cranked back on the throttles to maintain level buoyancy, then opted to go full on REVERSE.

“For the love of Richard H. O’Kane (famous WWII submarine commander), what are you doing WOMAN!” Admiral Barnacle spouted.

Sally met his eyes with a flash of fire then spit flames at Barnacle, “Saving your sorry sailor’s ass! Hang on!”

The gears were griding—jet fueled propellers torquing without pleasure—grown men on board weeping.

“Sally we’ve just lost engines one and four. Their RPM’s have cut to zero,” Ellie calmly stated.

Then, with the two remaining throttles fully engaged in reverse, the stern of the submarine began to find neutral buoyancy. As hoped, Sally had successfully sliced the rind of the bubble with the rotating props and the potential threat of capsizing had been averted.

With the submarine leveling out… Ellie started to breathe. “That was damn close Sal, but we’re not fish food… Yet. The diagnostics show engines two and three holding strong.”

Hazel peeled herself off the floor like rubber backing of industrial carpet being separated from tacky glue. Her eyes were dazed from the constant ringing in her ears, but her spirits were high. “I’ll take a hard pass on any more confrontations that involve digestive gasses. Can’t say I could ever replicate that burp with a semi-trailer load of Victoria Bitter in my stomach.”

“Cheers to that,” Sally muttered, and rammed both active throttles forward, as if punching Admiral Martini in his proverbial barnacles. “Full ahead!” she commanded.

Admirable Barnacle, appearing to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, refilled his glass from a thermos only to watch the first tip of the glass spill down the starched collar of his pressed formal wear. Fumbling to refill he weighed the option of using this pinnacle opportunity to call it quits on booze but then thought “BAD IDEA.”

Two out of four functioning engines equaled half throttle speed. And just as the martini-shaken crew began to gather their confidence, the submarine gave way to a soft thud-thud-thud.

The non-functioning sonar provided nary a clue. But you could have heard a pin drop when three sharp, non-inviting knocks blasted against the hull.

Everyone froze. Except for Barnacle. Post knock-knock-knock his mouthful of vodka was spewing from his nose like a Neti pot working in unison with a Flonase spray. Not cool. Excessively wet.

It was Sally’s turn for her left eye to start twitching. “Tell me sea monsters don’t knock.”

Ellie, back in her surveillance chair, watched a cracked spiderweb screen come to life. To her astonishment there were two boldly blinking words: HELLO LADIES.

Barnacle caught a glimpse over her shoulder. “No one touches anything.”

Speaking of “No touching”, back on location at FSFO (Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters) Tawny Bishop had put up a STOP sign per Rusty’s attempt at his butt out awkward attempt at a thankful hug.

“Easy Flathers,” she cautioned. “The last dude that tried to hug me, still has “whereabouts unknown” on Lac des Bois.

“Yes Ms. Bishop. Just super appreciative you were able to locate our passenger boat,” Rusty obliged.

“Didn’t take much…Half the residents on the lake knew where this old tub was beached,” she continued. I had Stash McGivern drop me off there this morning with my canoe when he was making a mail run. It took me longer to dig the sand away to get her afloat, than anything else.”

“Well, either way, we’re certainly appreciative of your effort Tawny,” complimented Professor Scale. “Can I call you Tawny? And if so—does this mean you might be accepting our offer to join this little adventure of a camp we’re hoping to build?”

“Tell you what fellas—I like the deal you’re offering—I have my doubts about this business coming to fruition. But, yes, I am here to help.”

Link got the one and only hug from Tawny. When tugging at the cuff of her Levi’s, she picked him up for a squeeze.

“Was that “A belch or a burp?!” she exclaimed while returning Link to the planks on the dock.

Either way, it was enough for the newly bound threesome to erupt in laughter. A much overdue mood change for both Flathers and Scale.

–To Be Continued—

Season THREE – Episode 19 – “Test of Silence”

Under the awning at Tremblay’s General Store—rain returned to Lac des Bois.

“Um, excuse me Tawny,” Professor Scale stepped forward, extending a hand, accepting the reality that his partner was frozen like a popsicle in the deepfreeze of a Whirlpool freezer. “We are looking for some much-needed assistance at our camp and your name came highly recommended from both Minnie Maple and her husband Rod Gills at the marina.”

          “Well, I appreciate their recommendation, but I’m not looking to get back into camp work. Kinda been there done that. Used to have a great gig going, but the guide days at Little Narrows Island turned more into camp work, and that’s honestly something I’m not interested in doing.”

          “What if we guaranteed you 80-paid-guide-days this season, regardless of whether we produce the dates or not?” spoke a melting Bomb Pop (Rusty). “And as far as camp work—yes—but more so we need advice on how to shape the camp with your local expertise.

The following “Test of Silence” was unnerving. Rusty had laid his proverbial cards on the table. He’d made his case—short of begging—pushing for sincerity.

Tic toc… There was ONE of Rusty’s five minutes left on Tawny’s clock.

Then she spoke, “Geez, I’m not sure fellas, I was loyal to Jack Thorton for almost fifteen years. I started guiding with his outfit when I was fourteen years old. Told myself after I left, I’d be hard pressed to return.”

          “Can you at least think about it for a day?” asserted Rusty—while Cosmoid took his turn in the freezer department, not a deer in headlights, more like half a beef hanging on a meat hook—he hadn’t expected Rusty to throw down a paid guarantee without even a whispered strategy session—even though she was the reputed Fish Whisperer.

“I’ll get back to you. 24-hours,” then she walked from under the awning and disappeared into smoke-laced raindrops.

It was practically dark by the time Rusty and Cos returned to camp. After leaving the mainland they continued their search for “Hooked on Poutine”. Too embarrassed to ask for assistance, who wants to tell the entire neighborhood you lost your own passenger boat—they unsuccessfully searched miles and miles of island shorelines to once again come up empty.

          “I’ll get a fire going in the lodge,” Cos mentioned to Rusty as they glided the camp skiff into a dock slip. “Maybe you could grab some burgers and brats from the boathouse? And you’d better check to see what Link’s up to. I didn’t see him when we pulled into the harbor.

Dogs clearly make more sense than most. Link had arranged himself as a permanent (and dry) fixture inside the squirrels’ cabana throughout the dreary rain filled day. They didn’t seem to mind. No incessant “honk-honk-honk-honk” all day long, like the geese. He snoozed quietly—British Lab manners—curiously observant of squirrel life.

“What is this, night three?” Rusty thought to himself, post supper, lights out, snuggled with Link on the couch in the lodge. Amidst the steady downpour his thoughts raced: Hows’ Sally…where’s Sally…I miss Sally…Is Sally missing me…I could use Sally’s help… No, I should be doing this on my own…But then I push to meet with Tawny Bishop…

And continued to race: Ellie would have been good at running this camp…How’s Ellie…Still at the Gold Rope Ranch in Montana… She saved my life… So did Sally… Whose life has Tawny saved…

And continued to race: Tawny is next level… For sure Ellie level… MAY BE higher than Sally level… Should I be medicated… Nine days until our first guests arrive… God created the earth and heavens in less…………………… And he obviously created Tawny…

And continued to race:  Jet black hair… Smooth… Shoreline stones polished by water…  I definitely need to get medicated… Straight full-length strands… Sways like a dark waterfall… Subtle—Natural—Graceful… Dangerous are women.

A boat horn sounded off three times in succession—“Hooked on Poutine” had returned to her port, dreamed Rusty. Long echoing blasts were rolling across Lac des Bois like clamorous thunder through a hollowed out First Nations dance drum.

The first blast was a steady, low moan that woke the shoreline of FSFO—Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.

The second boom rang with urgency, someone or something was coming, noise bouncing off pine trunks and pushing majestic loons to flight. Nature was being alerted.

The third and final roar—considerably longer than the two prior—was a warning shot fired like a message with bullet speed. Its purpose was clear: I am coming for you, ready or not.

From the couch in the lodge, Rusty raised his head to a hand and anchored it with an elbow. Outside, parked at the end of the pier was “Hooked on Poutine”. Professor Cosmoid Scale and TAWNY BISHOP were securing her bow and aft lines to the dock.

No fish tale—The Whisperer had indeed arrived. Rusty set Link to the hardwood floor, rubbed his eyes one more time to confirm this was truly NOT a dream, and then stood to greet the day. “Should be a dandy!” he thought to himself.

Secured across the gunnels of “Hooked on Poutine” was a battered cedar-strip canoe. One that Rusty assumed Tawny had used to paddle her way through the islands in the predawn darkness, on her way to leisurely “no GPS needed” locate and resecure their passenger boat and then show up at their camp “no-big-whoop” returning her safety no worse for the wear.

“Who is this—WOMAN! And why does she appear drop dead gorgeous in a weathered Simms fishing cap?!—Maybe I should be wishing it were a dream,” Rusty thought momentarily.

Then, without further hesitation—he gave a congratulatory slap on the back to Cos—continued down the dock toward Tawny and held out his arms full length—offering an unsolicited hug of thanks.

“Too early for embraces,” considered Cosmoid in silence. “He may have just struck a match to the greatest forest fire NW Ontario has ever seen.”

Two hundred meters below the surface of the Southern Ocean off the south tip of Australia—the Blackfin Phantom with its espionage passengers onboard were also being approached for a “HUG”.

There was an eerie creak. Not the normal creak of a healthy submarine underwater. Positioned at battle stations EAGLE One-Two-Three strained through cupped listening devices as the sub reduced speed, allowing its pursuer to come within close proximity. This tactic was perfected countless times by Admiral Horace Barnacle, but ultimately, this was feeling quite different.

          “It doesn’t sound like a submarine,” Sally whispered (lots of whispering going on today) to Ellie. “Not mechanical. More creaturelike.”

“Whatever it is… This monitor is red lined. It’s gaining on us at 661 nautical miles per hour. That’s Mach one! I hope to hell this Barnacle knows what he’s doing.”

          “Stirring a martini, by the looks of it. I thought we were putting martini hour on hold?”

“I don’t know if we can trust this guy, Sal.”

Hazel Brown’s left eye began to twitch. There was a “Test of Silence” taking place 109.36 fathoms below sea. Staring at the sonar, a massive, unidentifiable shape was now circling them.

–To Be Continued—