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—