The water lines and plumbing needed attention. The generator sounded like a Jiffy Pop popcorn bag over a campfire. Then there was the concerning septic tank, where you know what, was not flowing downhill. You fill in the blank—”you know what”—can start with either an “s” or a “p”.
“Well, here’s the thing Flathers,” Tawny instructed. “There’s only one way to get “Dirty Deeds, Done,” and then she popped the lid off the septic tank. Vile…Odiferous…Repugnant… Pick a word. Bottom line: the odors inside the tank were repulsive.
Upon first inspection Rusty wanted to barf. The fumes that escaped under the hatch were pungent to his nostrils, and he immediately pulled the Simms fishing buff over his face and nose.
“Probably just going to have to get used to that stench, at least until you find your way to the bottom of this tank,” Tawny advised. “Get yourself a steel rake, use it like a plunger, but you have to have a steady flow of water coming here from a hose to help loosen things up.”
“Is it solid all the way to the bottom? Six feet?” Rusty asked.
“Hard to say until you get through the top layer. I’ve seen some crusts be 6” to 12”. Others might go all the way to the bottom depending on how long any sort of service has been ignored,” she replied.
“So, jumping up and down on this first layer—probably not advisable.”
“Ahhhh… You’re catching on quickly Flathers. Now pinch your nose with a clothespin and get busy. We’re staring down the barrels of an up-and-coming fishing season.”
Rusty beamed with enthusiasm. It felt more than good for him to hear Tawny say the word “we are”.
The septic tank was plugged. Period. So much so that when Rusty started the project, he could literally stand at one top of the sludge and kick away at solid dusty debris. Clearly, it had been way too long since the system had been given attention, and now it was time to pay the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Though he wasn’t necessarily paying to lure rats away—made Rusty think more of the annoying geese (Link’s buddies)—or if he pays The Piper, will it take care of his poop problems? Lots of questions running round chaotically in Rusty’s noggin. Similar to what the herd of LInk’s squirrely squirrel buddies would look like if they were jacked up on Mountain Dew.
“All this to catch a fish,” Rusty thought, as the first spackling of wet garden hose dirt / human waste splattered his forehead. Then the skies opened and the rains that accompanied Lac de Bois joined the poop party.
“Only one way to the bottom,” Tawny encouraged while spectating from a distance. “I’m going to go check on that generator. Damn thing pops like an old Ford 8N we had when I was a kid. Used it when we could, to haul wood from the bush. Otherwise, it generally took a team of horses.”
“I assume this is something she and her family would do regularly, while I was “busy” indoors, playing elementary basketball in the winters,” Rusty thought. “Two totally different tournaments.”
An alarming splash brought Rusty out of his mental trance. A combination of septic tank digging—and digging further into Tawny’s background.
“I’m ok—I’m ok,” sounded off Professor Scale. His water entrance off the edge of the dock was less than stellar. Noise wise? Sure, it carried the volume of a fifty-pound beaver slapping its tail on the water. Style points? 0.03 as voted upon by both Chinese and American judges. Scale was no Guo Jingjing when it came to technique, and his precision would never be mentioned in the same pool as a Greg Louganis, but he did give it some effort.
The old dock, meant to hold the camp rental boats in a safe haven, was a weather-beaten skeleton of its former self. “Try to get through this first season,” was what Cos told himself. But the further he got into rusted nails, rotten boards, and gaping holes there was a serious threat to guests. He himself was floundering in waist deep water the victim of a dock that had long outlived its functional years.
“Keep grinding,” he told himself—climbing back on the walkway, and then having every step across creaking boards feel like a gamble. “We need to turn this relic into a reliable structure.”
Even Link was doing his part. First order of duty was organizing his literal Squirrely friends to pick up sticks and debris across four acres of property that hadn’t seen a rake in a decade. They were more than compelled to pitch in when he offered up the attic of the boathouse in which to build the ultimate Squirrel lounging arena.
There was no stick, branch, or leaf too big or too small. The ultimate plan was shade, comfort, and a cool summer breeze. They could have their nuts and eat them too within the confines of these new digs. What a spectacular and protected view!
YES, the geese were frustrated with Link’s offering. Particularly the head goose and the lead gander. They were of the understanding they would have free reign on the property for grazing and such. “Such” including their free and God given right to expel tailfeather toffee wherever and whenever they were so inclined. In return they keep the grass manicured and weeds to a minimum. Seemed like a square deal.
“No such luck!” barked Link, once he had them gathered in a formidable flock. “I insist we keep the feathered fudge nuggets to a minimum—that means do your business accordingly behind the boathouse—or you’ll find my six newly sharpened incisors on the back of your heels.”
“Now honk twice if you comprende?” he howled.
There were exactly five ruffled feathers in total, but the bulk of the flock got the jest. Keep the grass trimmed—drop the Gooseberry bombs in an area away from the paths of humans. Got it.
Rusty didn’t even turn when Cosmoid launched off the dock for a second time. His focus was two feet down, into the unionized smell of the septic pit.
Sally’s focus was on the “HELLO LADIES” flashing in bold on the shattered sonar screen. Eagle ONE-TWO-THREE were sleep deprived, going on 72-hours, and getting “Dirty Deeds, Done,” seemed further and further away from fruition.
The silence from 300ft below the surface of the ocean continued. Five minutes—ten minutes—fifteen minutes…
Admiral Horace Barnacle called for a random “Underwater Etiquette Training Session,” in James Bond colorization. Hazel Brown shook her ringing ears as if to clear water from a swimming pool. No way was she in the mood for a lecture on etiquette.
Ellie Waylayer eased the subtle tension by placing a comforting hand on Sally’s shoulder. Sally disregarded Barnacle’s absurdity—checked her watch to confirm what was now thirty minutes of unharmed silence—and ordered her team to personal quarters.
“Ladies… We need a power nap and spa scene. Let’s embrace this silence and see if we can’t bug out for a bit. Set a five-hour timer for sleep—then meet me for a facial,” Sally directed.
“Barnacle, sound the alarms if whatever that was earlier—returns,” she glared. “We need you to hold it together for a hot second. Maybe back off the liquor locker—copy that?”
“Madame, your safety and rest are of my utmost importance,” he replied. And then his knees buckled, and he passed out on the viewing deck, at the feet of Eagle’s ONE—TWO—THREE.
–To Be Continued—