Hazel followed orders, choosing to hold a portion of the pier with one hand and the grip of her Glock in the other. At this point it was anyone’s guess who would appear through the cloud of incessant flies. Ellie held tight as well—one hand near the throttles of the 1800-horse-power—second on her Austrian made Gen5.

First out to the darkness came Sally, bouncing off the dock, launching herself over the outboard motors and backside of the transom like Carl Lewis winning his fourth consecutive Olympic long jumping gold medal. Midair—gunshots whizzing from a distance—her feet hit the deck—she immediately and ungraciously became unwound by the disgustingly snotty slipperiness of bugs consuming the floor of the Grady-White.

Neither of her accomplices (Ellie / Hazel) could lend a halting hand as she propelled forward, skidding by with arms flailing and feet crisscrossing. Next—log rolling to her stomach she narrowly glided feet first—ass up—between gunnel and center console. Only when she hit the bow at maximum tilt did her horizontal form turn into a slime embraced ball.

More gunshots—next came William bursting out of the trail and onto the boat pier. He was dragging his right arm and left leg.

     “Go! Go! Go! Go!” he shouted in advance.

Hazel released her grip off the dock and pushed the boat slightly away while Ellie slipped the motors into forward gears. Sally remained at the bow—a crumpled ball of paper—thrown against a classroom wall.

     “C’mon William!” Ellie pleaded. “Jump!”

At the stern—crouched low—Hazel returned fire with her Glock pointed toward flashes of split-second red-orange muzzle blasts. But there was no human outline for which to aim. Too much remained hidden by intense vegetation and insect-infected clouds of darkness.

Momentarily stumbling, with more firepower coming from the direction of Too-Tall and Shorty-Short, newfound and trusted friend William gathered his wherewithal and careened headfirst over the portside gunnel.

He too slipped and slid his way toward the bow. But his efforts, compared to Sally’s, were much more subdued. Almost calming.

In one shake Ellie had the Grady-White on step, with its compass pointing east, and total darkness of the sea lying ahead. Then in what seemed like hours she took her first gulp of insect free breath. Something she mentally compared to a smoker’s first pull on a dart to stifle the nerves.

Meanwhile, Hazel holstered her weapon after the volume of volleyed shots faded and took up a position as copilot at the helm. She then observed Ellie’s exaggerated inhale and exhale of fresh air, held her own blonde hair to the wind, and followed suit.

Sensing the boat had reached top speed and leveled out—Sally expanded from the fetal position, slowly stretched body parts, then sat up and spun in a one-eighty to face her teammates. William—motionless—remained near her side.

Sally had smelled death before (never human). The first time was in her teens—a late season November bow hunt—northeast New England property—owned by the Squatsnfishes. She had two harvest tags (doe and buck) in possession with the assignment of bringing venison to the table for Thanksgiving weekend.

The clock ticked toward sunset with less than half-an-hour before legal shooting time remaining on her watch. Then, as if on cue, a medium-large doe appeared on the wild game trail and headed toward her tree stand. Slow—purposeful—nose up—nose down—soon within twelve yards.

Thirty minutes after releasing the arrow Sally exited the stand and climbed down the ladder. Total darkness was very near. She walked to the edge of the trail to look for the deer. Instead, she heard gurgling.

This was consistent with a story her grandmother Molva Squatsnfishes once shared, so she proceeded deeper into the bush, tracking the sound to a set of dark eyes. Both the hunter and the hunted heaved for breath. Sally’s first attempt to kill and the deer’s last to remain alive.

The wait for death was expedited when the hunter retrieved a vintage H.H. Buck & Son 6-inch blade from its sheath. Making the cut—the scent of blood was sharp on her senses—tangy, like iron, or copper. The deer’s erratic breathing halted. As did William’s.

Before getting back onboard the tinner and starting the mangled motor there were pinching sensations happening at Rusty’s sockless ankles. He had successfully kept his wits standing on a slippery reef until he was unceremoniously violated by oversized crayfish.

These buggers had pinchers strong enough to pierce skin, and when threatened in their natural habitat could cause immense pain. Certainly, “Big Attitudes for Small Fish.”

In terms of wounds—Rusty fantastically had many. His utter display of incoherent dancing approached someone in water with their feet on fire—Cos and Link quietly exchanged glances as day two of their Canadian camp ownership adventure catapulted to full send.

–            To Be Continued –