Season THREE – Episode 08 – “Lure of the North”
With a six-foot-long oar, Rusty searched for the bottom next to the floating dock but found nothing solid. Even when extended down to his armpit there was no hard pan. Ice out had been three days prior. If he wanted to retain the two wheeled cart and complete the mission of loading the fifty-five-gallon barrels of diesel fuel, there was going to be a polar plunge.
The crowd was not dispersing. A portion of the “Lure of the North” was watching a fishing camp newbie flounder with reckless abandon.
There was already a wet as hell factor in play, with Rusty soaked through his rain slicker, but he deemed it necessary to strip to his skivvies to provide freedom of movement in the water. If only Sally hadn’t blessed him with this pair of boxer style underwear bearing a bright red maple leaf in the crotched region of his less than stellar—cold, weather-shrunken male part.
“Here goes nothing” he blinked, then inhaled deeply, easing himself into the lake with a makeshift rescue rope in hand. Down—down—down—it was soft bottom loon poop without the presence of the cart. Momentarily, he thought he spotted the base, but the water was murky and what appeared to be the base was now swimming away. A fiercer glance confirmed it was a toothy piscatorial critter.
Back at the surface it was apparent he would need a longer length of oxygen, thus requiring a sailor (feet first) dive. “Was it colder in the water than out?” he pondered with blue lips and frost-stricken skin.
Again, the crowd gawked with exuberance. How splendid to see this rookie “I’m going to run a fishing camp” teeth chattering character leap from the dock in early spring!
At first, he found the handle—then fixed his eyes on the frame. With a triple granny knot he expelled the balance of his wind and tailed the loose end of rope with him back to the surface. Scuttling dockside he handed Cos the rope and took a dry towel from luggage storage in exchange.
The applause from the intimidating crowd had turned to nods of approval. Whip Bunkel from Outreel Me Resort—Winston McCloud from Drake Bay Lodge—Patrice Newhaven from Newhaven Island Outpost—Claire Gauthier from Straight Narrows Camp—Ronnie Roy from Lost Time Retreat—they were all in unison moving the remaining two barrels down the walkway and assisting their new peers with refreshing grandeur. “Hail to the Queen ‘o Canada. Or something of the sort” Rusty grinned.
Even Link was caught in excitement, flapping raindrops from his puppy ears and politely yipping with approval. This was until he mistakenly found his way off the end of the floating dock and abruptly realized he knew nothing of the coordination required to accomplish the doggy paddle. Instead, he slowly sank like a duck decoy being capsized internally by held water.
This time it was Cos to the rescue, reaching over the transom with an extended landing net, scooping the black furry ball from beneath the surface. “One swimmer is enough for today young man” he cautioned with a second towel now being prepared for use. “We need to get you two off this dock and onto our island.”
With final thanks being made—Hooked on Poutine fully loaded with supplies made her way down the channel of Hensen Bay. Next stop Flather’s & Scale’s Fishy Outfitters aka FSFO—the fishing camp that hooks you for life!
EagleOne—EagleTwo—EagleThree continued at an accelerated pace through the hills of Stirling Range. The Toyota Corolla begged for mercy on the inclines, but not knowing the whereabouts of Too-Tall and Shorty-Short (their unfriendly Eastern European trailers), along with what might lie ahead at Bremer Beach, the traveling trio graciously agreed to keep the throttle buried.
“Rainy days and Monday’s” Sally thought to herself. “Or is this a Tuesday?” She couldn’t recall. “What is clear is the leak within the Australian Commonwealth. Someone had our arrival pegged, is seemingly a step ahead of each turn we make, and clearly does not want us to meet our destination.”
Thanks to Monfuckintana she now had Ellie Waylayer along for the proverbial ride in the back seat. After Jackie Loonsuckle had disappeared from the Gold Rope Ranch for the umpteenth time on some fly-bum adventure across the globe, it didn’t take long for Ellie to enlist her services. She and Sally had meshed like paternal twins during their brief togetherness at the ranch. The spectacular sparks in her eyes, her unwavering ability to perform impossible physical tasks, and her approachable disposition made her a true asset in the espionage world.
It had taken some coercing on Sally’s behalf to get her onboard with the Australian government, but permission was finally granted when a both of us or neither of us ultimatum was delivered. There was a very lenient leash around the neck of any person committed to this impossible mission.
Enlisting Hazel Brown was currently outside of the parameter, but she couldn’t be kicked to the side of the road. Her ignited efforts back at the safehouse were forthright and commendable. It’s not every day someone saves the skin of Sally Squatsnfishes.
“Hey, reach in my backpack and find our burner phone” she then requested. “And Hazel, thanks for jumping in back at Woodanilling, our partner in the backseat is Ellie Waylayer. Ellie—this is Hazel Brown.”
EagleOne—EagleTwo—EagleThree maintained their crash driving course to Bremer Bay. Fifty-seven klicks out Hazel punched Sally’s requested number into the phone and held it to her ear. Best to have both hands on the wheel with the foot feed still mashed to the floorboards.
No answer. Forty-two klicks out. The Indian Ocean was now within visible sight.
Sally took the next available turn, as it happened to be an overlook, put the Corolla in park and turned off the ignition. “I’m not sure if we’re leading the charge or charging into some unknown.” she admitted.
“If anything, it’s dicey at best” she continued. “Our rendezvous in Bremer Bay is not picking up. We’re scheduled to convene shortly after dark which is approximately three hours from now. And I can’t even confirm that our Blackfin Phantom submarine will be at Sir James John Port.”
This was unchartered territory for Sally. Decisions being made on the fly that not only affected her, but also her constituents. One more try on the phone. She let it ring three times.
-To Be Continued-