Season 3 – Episode 22 “It’s Quicksand!”
Sally dreamt the dream of a thousand dreams. It’d been almost 72-hours since she’d arrived in Australia, and she and Rusty were two beach bums, windsurfing, clinking ice cold bottles of Carlton Draught and getting touched by the sun as much as they were kissing each other.
His five days past due for a shave and five weeks past due for a haircut were his perfect vibe. She could be comfortable—herself—relaxed in Rusty’s presence. No expectations to meet. No “I have to do the next best thing”. No pressure to hold the weight of the world on her shoulders.
They walked towards the sunset. Rusty let go of her hand and ran ahead along the oceanfront with Link at his heels. He ran toward the orange blaze, setting a ball of fire and his image disappeared into the brightness.
Only Link returned to her heel as she called for them to return. She picked up her stride and each step raised a notch of anxiety. The fine sand beneath her feet became mixed with a combination of clay, saltwater and groundwater.
The solid surface under her feet lost its strength—she sprints—objects surrounding her are sinking—“It’s Quicksand!”.
She cries out for Rusty, but the only thing remaining to be seen is his Patagonia truckers cap. The one she recently gave to him before her surprise announcement they would be doing a remote trip to Rio Malleo in Argentina. This was world-class dry fly fishing. An epic river adventure. The trip of a lifetime.
With a broken tree limb Sally reached out to rescue the ball cap. And then she too felt herself falling uncontrollably toward the quicksand.
Who will rescue her—Her strength is weakened in the pool of sand—Treading to stay afloat—She has no one to reach for her.
Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA was the ring notification that brought her to consciousness—this song was released on June 04, 1984. Unbeknownst to Sally at this juncture, June 04 would also mark an even more commemorative day in her future—an extremely VIP birthdate.
Five hours later Sally Squatsnfishes was out of her bunk, washing sandy dreams from her mind, and refocusing on The Kraken. Her primal fear was palpable, but she kept it hidden beneath layers of what exuded as a calmness.
“Hey girls—Ready for a thirty-minute rejuve?” Sally quizzed while holding the door of the spa open for both Ellie Waylayer and Hazel Brown.
The spa’s ambiance is serene. Next level when one considers you’re traveling below the sea’s surface on a reconnaissance submarine. The lighting is soft. There’s an overwhelming sound of water trickling in the background. But not in an alarming way. This is gentle—soothing—chill.
Sally, Ellie, and Hazel are greeted by a friendly spa attendant named Hans Rubalot. For the spa biz the dude seemed appropriately named. All things considered… EAGLE ONE—TWO—THREE were jacked.
“Let’s spoil ourselves!” Sally announced.
Then each of them was provided with a plush robe. Three unique and slightly flashy colors. Then slippers and a key for personal belongings in a locker.
Ellie opted for a Swedish massage. Preferring the long, flowing strokes that ease muscle tension and make you feel less like punching people in the face when certain “spy things” don’t go your way. Hans insisted this pressure was coming from her glutes, and as he paused his massage mid-stroke, he infused by saying, “I once massaged a Yeti in Kathmandu with similar tendencies.”
Hazel chose an aromatherapy massage. More so for the calming effects. You never shout, “CALM DOWN” to someone with high anxiety. Hans appeared dissatisfied with her choice of treatment. Muttering to himself something along the lines of “wasted dragon eggs” in reference to his bundle of hot stones sitting idly on the caterer’s cart.
Sally went all in on the hot stone massage. She was ready to “embrace the burn”. Thus, potentially alleviating the possibility of sending Admiral Horace Barnacle out the trash shoot of the submarine. This brief idea of niceties passed quickly as Hans infectiously hummed “Eye of the Tiger” off-key and then produced a marine mud body wash that smelled incredibly close to pickled herring.
“What’s our plan Sally?” asked Ellie and Hazel almost in unison after the massages. They had been invited by Hans to “stay as long as they like” and were currently enjoying a bevy of infused waters and herbal teas.
“Now that we are recharged… We need to get back to Bremer Beach. More reconnaissance on mainland… Less cruising on the Blackfin. At least until we know more about who and what we are up against.
“Agree,” followed Ellie. “Just cruising around out here, waiting to be ambushed by The Kraken, doesn’t seem like our best offense. I agree. Back to shore best bet.”
“I got a guy at Dude, Where’s My Board, he might be able to give us more intel,” Hazel added with a sly grin. “And he’s got a great set of surfer quads. So, there’s that.”
Ellie arched an eyebrow. “Is that your best version of a credible source for intel?”
Hazel sipped her tea. “Absolutely, it might not hurt you to HANG-TEN, if you know what I’m saying.”
Ellie did know what she was saying—And she hadn’t “hung-ten” since leaving Jackie Loonsuckle back in Montana at the Gold Rope Ranch. The Loonsuckle’s claimed to be big on Faith—Family—Ranching. Only Jackie was a bit lacking on the “faithful” part.
“Yah! Come to think of it… Let’s definitely go HANG-TEN!” exclaimed Ellie.
Sally—Always the more reserved—Agreed. The dream that occurred during their 5-hour shut it down and recharge the batteries time-out had her on edge. They (Eagle’s ONE—TWO—THREE) needed to get to shore and blow off some steam. They weren’t sailors—But they deserved a bit of leave.
Back at the island (FSFO) sir Rusty Flathers was still busy steaming the layers upon layers of solid sediment and waste in the septic tank at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters on Lac des Bois in NW Ontario. With a garden hose and a steel rake he had now managed to plunge his way two feet down.
New sidekick Tawny Bishop had already tightened up the overhead cam on the diesel generator—restored power to all outlets in the lodge kitchen—had the pump house up and running with both HOT and COLD running water—and was currently testing an old M-T-M Industrial Plus Pressure Washer she’d found in the back of the boathouse.
With gold plated pistons the M-T-M could produce 3000psi at ten-gallons per minute. This contraption, built in the early 1950’s, could take the eye out of a barn swallow at fifty-paces. Or take the hide off a Holstein bull.
Her plan was to Saran Premium Wrap said partner Rusty… Giving him the protection of a makeshift full body condom. Basically, dress him up like a lacking-for-money Ghostbuster in a sausage casing.
After that, she would turn him loose (full send) in attack mode on this septic system poop project. Tic-toc we have guests arriving soon. Let’s work smarter.
“I feel like a damn human burrito,” he thought. “Better get to it.”
His first pull on the handle of the pressure washer gun knocked him back into the tank with a cartoon summersault. Canadian Olympic judges would have scored him a perfect-10 if it were part of a gymnastics floor routine. Unfortunately, this was not the festive games—his consolation medal was recovering in time for there to be no witnesses.
Rusty considered his location perched atop the crust of the hardpack somewhat precarious. And then began to doubt it more as the surface began to soften beneath his feet.
Now that he’d worked his way a couple feet down, the surface had become saturated and loose. What appeared to be solid ground was quickly becoming unstable.
“It’s Quicksand!” Tawny shouted over his shoulder. “Not really, but you might want to get out of that pit.”
–To Be Continued—