Season THREE – Episode 06 – “Deal with It”
There were few cars in the lot at Raker’s Marine when Rusty eased the Chevy into park mode. It was pre-season in Ontario, the lake ice had gone out three days prior, and the ten-plus-camps that used docking facilities for themselves as well as their guests were just starting to roll in.
He and Cos surveyed the area briefly before locating their requested sign at the end of one of the piers. At first it was going to be named “Flather’s Trophy Lodge”. Then there was talk of a coin toss when “Scale’s Gills & Tales Camp” was suggested. But finally, being equal partners, they settled on Flather’s & Scale’s Fishy Outfitters.
And then for marketing purposes… FSFO—The fishing camp that hooks you for life!
A mist of rain on the windshield turned into a steady downpour. With luck this would be a dry rain, like a fine red burgundy, as there was lots of unpacking to do in the out-of-doors.
No such chance… The guys would have to “Deal with It” if they were going to get the Chevy emptied out and transport everything to their newly acquired (new to them) passenger boat. Speaking of which… It appeared the 27 ft pilot-house inboard was listing considerably to the starboard side. Upon closer inspection it was confirmed.
Unfortunately, if you took all of Rusty’s mechanical boating knowledge and poured it into a sewing thimble, you wouldn’t fill it. Such was the case with his head now stuck in the bilge area, near the transom of “Hooked on Poutine”.
She was a weathered skiff, her age showed with spiderweb cracks along the fiberglass gunnels, but her stringers had been newly strengthened giving a spirit of youth.
Rod Gills… The head wrench at Raker’s Marine was the handyman who broke her down and put her back together over the course of the previous winter. He was a third-generation shirttail relative by marriage to the Raker’s… Rod had been brought on-board thirteen years prior, as a full-time employee, after securing nuptials with the Raker’s second cousin-twice-removed Minnie Maple.
“Was there power to the bilge pump?” Rusty thought to himself, just prior to touching the exposed end of the RED wire with the exposed end of the BLACK wire. Once the sparks subsided and the tingling in his arms dissipated, he confirmed—in fact there was active juice to the battery unit.
“Rusty, you got everything under control?” Cos hollered from the top of the walkway that led down to the floating dock. “Was that smoke I was seeing?”
With no less than 23-gallons of water lying idle in the hull of the boat… Rusty scratched a portion of his fire frayed hair and put the wires back in place on the connectors of the bilge pump.
“I’m assuming with all the rain… The boat is holding a ton of water.” Rusty explained to Cos. “But for some reason, the pump doesn’t seem to be working. I checked the connections and there’s power, but it won’t engage.”
“Here… Let’s try this.” Cos implored. Then made his way to the dash of “Hooked on Poutine”, flipped the power switch to the ON position, and then flipped the bilge switch to the UP position. The immediate result was a firehose spray of water being pulled from the floor of the skiff.
“Hmmm… Ok…” Rusty countered. “Guess it’s not an auto-bilge.”
Then the sky clapped, and a thunderbolt hit a tree along the shoreline a hundred yards away from the pier. It shook the bay and was immediately complimented by an increased roar of rain. From under the canopy of the wheelhouse you could no longer see the bow of the boat.
“At least it’s not raining,” Rusty facetiously thought to himself—Then he pressed the power button on the Lowrance HDS PRO 12 Fish Finder / Chartplotter to check power to the graph. Neither he nor Cos had previously stepped foot on the island they would make their way toward, but they had been clued that it was an 18-mile run.
The wetness from the sky was relentless with the two men agreeing they would continue loading their personals, food supplies and construction materials. Every stitch of everything was getting soaked, with the only reprieve under the hardtop of the pilot’s house or below deck in the bow of the charter.
Link was onboard with whatever Rusty and Cos were up to and didn’t seem to mind that he too was soaked to the bone. On the dock he found it quite entertaining to run from the bow to the stern—bow to stern—bow to stern in relentless succession.
The final stage of the loading process involved three fifty-five-gallon drums of diesel fuel, a two-wheel cart, and some faith in God. Getting the drums from the parking lot—down the ramp of the floating dock—onto a makeshift gangplank—into the boat—strength and physics required.
Rusty held tight to the two-wheel cart as he loaded the first drum and tiptoed his way down the ramp with Cos on the bottom of the barrel providing resistance against an overly speed driven mishap. “Do not attempt this at home,” was scrolling across the bottom of a TV program that Rusty was watching in his mind.
Stage one complete—they made it safely to the bottom of the ramp. Next hurdle—get the barrel over the gunnel and roll it down the moveable plank—tricky.
Meanwhile, Sally was dealing with her own version of complicated. Racing through the hills of the Stirling Range she was hard to figure how her arrival in Australia had been tipped. It was obvious the two Eastern European men on the flight had her in their sights and quickly approaching the safehouse in Woodanilling she feared more trouble would soon surface.
Hazel Brown (covert name Eagle Two) seemed much more at ease. “Was it her inexperience and naivety that forced this manner?” Sally thought to herself. “She’s certainly no Ellie Waylayer.”
Circling the block for the third time—all appeared quiet inside the hidey-hole—except for the curtain covering the picture window. Glancing at her watch, Sally was within the minute for her scheduled arrival time, but the one-eighth open to sunlight portion of the window wasn’t sitting well in her stomach.
Best case scenario was a minor mistake. Worse case scenario she would have to “Deal with It,” and thought better to park in the alley at the rear of the house.
Shifting the transmission to park—opening the center console of the Corolla—Sally handed one of the Austrian made Glock Gen5’s to Hazel and then opened the magazine to check the 17 rounds in the gun she held for herself.
“Aren’t you being a little over-expectant?” chirped Eagle Two. “My job was to get you to the safehouse, not to explore the interior with you.”
“Fine—have a nice life.” And with that Sally repossessed the firearm she had given Hazel Brown, grabbed her backpack from the rear seat, and cautiously exited the vehicle.
– To Be Continued –