The bonus for him, again, was being on the lake—facing the challenge of catching fish—and clearing his mind of the hurdles often found within the intricacies of camp personalities. After all, ‘tis one thing to work with people, ‘tis another to live side by side with them on a remote island. This combination of work and living—every day from pre-sunrise to post-sunset—was proving to be a grinder. Yet, this is what I signed up for, Rusty thought as he gladly backed the boat out of the harbor and headed for the freedom of open waters.

“You’re gonna have to reel in that slack, Carl,” suggested Rusty. “If your jig’s lying on the bottom of the lake, it’s highly unlikely a walleye will bite. They’ll chase a bait up, but not down.”

          “Oh, geez, thanks, Blathers. Guess I didn’t realize my bail was open,” his challenged guest responded, with about sixty-five yards of line spewed out behind the boat.

          “Honey, did you hear Mr. Smathers?” Carl continued. “Keep your line tight if you wanna catch a fish.”

Speaking of tight lines… such was the case for Sally Squatsnfishes. Win had just fired up the outboard motor on the guide boat—preparing to head for shore—when Sally felt her line tighten—BOOM—the biggest big-fish bite of the day.

“Hang on, Win—I just got smoked,” Sally said, as her rod buckled in half and the thirty-pound setting on the baitcasting reel began to sing. Or at least this was the story that the balance of Team Eagle got from Winifred Dixie, when she returned to shore at 0-dark-thirty—showing up at their residence at the Kariba Paramount Lodge—less the accompaniment of Sally Squatsnfishes.

“The next thing I knew, I’d turned the boat slightly portside to help Sally fight this fish—she was up on her toes cranking—it was basically dark by then—she was leaning hard against the gunnel. Maybe it was the strength of the fish—I don’t know—I looked away for one second—to straighten out the boat—the deck was super slippery with humidity—I’m not sure—but when I turned back—she was gone,” finished Win.  

          “Nyami Nyami,” explained Ron Heimburg with a frozen face. “I know what I saw earlier today.”

“Win, is that it? Seriously? You saw nothing else?” questioned Hazel. “Did you even attempt a rescue? We’re talking about Sally—Sally Squatsnfishes!”

          “What? Jump in with the crocs? Jump in with Nyami Nyami?!” Win was defending herself. “I circled that area for over an hour—pinned the location on the GPS—there’s no way she resurfaced without me seeing or hearing her. What else could I do?”

“Radio for assistance,” said Jackie, without hesitation. “That’s one thing you could have done, and you didn’t. Instead—you chose to remain silent—at least until you got back here.”

Hazel was thinking the exact same thing but chose not to take a combative stance. Instinctive training had kicked into high-gear, and she was fully aware this emergency required decision making at a higher level. “I’m gonna have to phone this in with Eagle intelligence HQ—immediately. Everyone stay here—in this room—no one leaves—no one says anything—not until I get further instruction.”

Then Hazel retreated from the crowd to the privacy of her room and pulled the standard issue burner phone from the front pocket of her khaki fishing pants. She quickly dialed the WE’RE WAY IN OVER OUR HEADS emergency number. Stay calm, she thought, while pacing every square inch of the room.   

On the second ring, a voice came to life saying, “Is the Eagle in danger?”

          Hazel responded, “It takes tiger fish to WIN a tournament. Our team captain is overboard with enthusiasm. WIN is In de Nile, and I’m not talking about the river.”

Then, with the phone pressed tightly against her ear, the immediate response she heard was, “Eagle Three—maintain a Code10—freeze it—copy—twelve hours for an Eagle with clipped wings to expose its talons.” And then the line went dead.

What the hell?! Hazel thought to herself. Continue—business as usual—give us twelve hours to circle the wagons—are you kidding me HQ—I’m alone in the trench taking grenades!

Next, without notice, her bedroom door popped. It was Jackie Loonsuckle. The look on his face spelled disaster. His words confirmed the worst for Hazel: “Win has bolted—I was distracted with a call from Sage—Ron was making a sandwich in the kitchen—she’s gone!”

          “Dammit, Jackie—we have to cut bait!” Hazel hollered. “You get the SUV—I’ll get Ron—now go!”

Speaking of going… When Rusty returned to camp for shore lunch… Ellie’s float plane had been moved from its secured location on the beach…and was now tied up to the outside edge of the floating dock with the engine humming at idle engine speed.

But Ms. Ellie Waylayer was nowhere to be seen, which spun his mind into a panic. So, he goosed the throttle while entering the safe haven of the harbor and quickly secured his skiff to a set of cleats. “You guys go relax,” he said with distracted haste. “I’ll get these fish wacked out—we’ll have some FreshWildWalleyes in about thirty minutes.” Afterwards, he exited the boat and rapidly walk-jogged toward the lodge.

Now I’m being left alone on an island for a second time, in almost as many days, he considered as he shuffled up the steps and into the kitchen.  

–To Be Continued–