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By Norman German
From the crow’s nest of the playground pirate ship, a little Truman
Capote of a man lifted his eyes toward the eastern horizon. After he
signaled down to the Civic Center seawall, Mayor Randy Roach raised a
pistol, aimed it over the Jean
Lafitte Bridge,
and pulled the trigger.
As the flare burst into the shape of a well-thrown castnet, Scott
jammed the throttles forward and the bay boat jumped on plane. In 60
seconds we had crossed the lake, the engines of our competitors dwindling
to a feeble drone behind us. As we ripped into the ship channel at 60
miles an hour, Scott pointed ahead from his position at the helm.
"Can we make it?" he shouted.
A rush of adrenaline turned my heart over like a piston as I watched
the train trestle ahead of us growing in fast motion.
"Yes!" I hollered. "If a south wind didn’t push the
water up!"
I ducked and the trestle flashed by overhead. Rising slowly, I held
the top of my head like a fragile gift. Scott, who had remained standing,
leaned back and laughed.
In two minutes the Double-Dog Dare — a Pathfinder 22 with a 200
Merc squatting on the transom — had blown by Ripley’s Landing and taken
the fork into Cripple Bayou, skipping across the light chop like a
perfectly thrown stone. Cripple Bayou snaked back into the city of Lake Charles until
it was beheaded by the Salt Water Barrier, a structure the Army Corps of
Engineers designed to prevent saline intrusion from killing the primeval
cypress swamp. Within 40 years the swamp had silted over and heavy
machinery moved in, removing the majestic trees to make room for another
casino.
As the dam’s winking red lights came into view, Scott throttled down.
When I last saw him, he was losing his hair and going to fat. He had lived
in Rhode Island
for the past 15 years. I was surprised a state that small could hold his
ego.
During those years, Scott Crankton had become a major real-estate
player and an expert striper fisherman, entering a dozen Northeast
tournaments a year and winning four or five of them. When I jokingly
e-mailed him the rules for the first Cripple Bayou Striped Bass
Tournament, he called me a minute later to tell me he was interested. I
was shocked that he would trailer the Double-Dog Dare over half
the country just to compete in a rinky-dink tournament, but then I
guessed that part of the reason might be to impress the local talent with
his fancy boat, gear and fishing skills. Whatever his motivation, he had
proved good to his word, and now he was back in his home state and we
were fishing together, just like the old days.
As the boat glided toward the dam, Scott moved to the bow and lowered
his high-thrust trolling motor into the water rushing over the lowered
gates. Above the turbulence I heard a pod of small redfish busting the
surface as they attacked a school of shad. I made a cast and hooked up
immediately. Scott laughed derisively.
"Hey," I said, "just warming up." As I unhooked
and released the six-pounder, I glanced at my old buddy again. I hadn’t
seen Scott since our 30-year high school reunion, and I had to admit that
he looked like a million bucks, even if his hair implants and neck tuck
gave me the eerie feeling I was fishing with a stranger.
Scott positioned us in the eddy behind one of the dam’s columns, then fanned out five high-end outfits on the casting
deck. As he chose his weapons, I leaned my lone backup rod against the
transom and draped a lanyard with a pair of toenail clippers around my
neck.
"That reminds me," Scott said. He skipped to the console,
plucked a dainty silver cell phone from a storage compartment and slipped
it into the chest pocket of his vest. It was my turn to laugh.
"What?" he said defensively.
"Man, I’ve fished with bass spoons bigger than that little
trinket."
"I’m waiting on a call from a major investor," he explained.
"About a Martha’s Vineyard
property. We’re talking big bucks."
I cast into the churning water. "Still Mr. Gadget, eh? Got to
have the latest doodad to keep up."
"Not keep up," he said, rearing back on his rod. "Stay
ahead. I miss that call, I’m out one million."
"What if you’re hooked up or taking a leak and can’t answer the
phone?"
Scott played his fish expertly. "He’ll leave a message, but if he
doesn’t hear from me by 10:00
a.m. he goes with another agent."
In the distance, I saw the first of our competition rounding the bend.
"But what if your little phone falls in the water?"
"It’s waterproof, dummy. Cost me an extra hundred."
"Yeah, but will it float?"
He stared at me blankly. "Hadn’t thought of that." He quit
reeling, then buttoned his vest pocket and patted it securely.
As Scott released his fish, a 20-inch striper, the first boat swung
into position in front of the dam, followed by a steady queue of slower
vessels. At any given moment, a dozen lines were being cast, the backlit
mist glowing golden in the early-morning sun. I stopped fishing to take a
photograph.
"Are you crazy?" Scott barked. "Get your lure back in
the water! You could cost us the tournament!"
As he spoke, six or seven anglers hooked up simultaneously, forcing us
to back off and drift away from the dam to give them room. As the current
swept us into calm water, Scott spat scornfully. "Combat
fishing!" he sneered, motioning toward the group of tightly packed
boats and shouting fishermen.
Half the group pulled in stripers while the others landed reds. Then
Scott zipped ahead of the boats struggling against the current with their
smaller trolling motors. We had lost our initial spot to new arrivals, so
Scott pulled up to the barrier’s northernmost gate. Before casting, he
scanned the water with eyes that looked like Genghis Khan’s.
"What the hell’d you do to your eyes?"
"Blepharoplasty. Surgery to correct drooping lids. Haven’t you
heard of aging gracefully?"
"Yes, and I’ve also heard of aging naturally."
Just then Scott hooked a good striper. As we dropped back from the
dam, I connected with a redfish. The Double-Dog Dare spun in a
slow circle and drifted into still water. I hustled my fish aboard, then slipped the net under Scott’s striper. It was
easily 30 inches. Scott was about to release the fish when I stayed his
hand. "That’s a keeper," I said.
He shook his head. "Man, back east we troll with bait bigger than
this." He inspected the fish again. "You sure?"
"Another like that will place us. Bigger, and we’ll win. A
thousand smackers."
Scott dropped the fish into the live well. "Oooh!" he
grinned. "Big money!"
Starting for the trolling motor, Scott stopped in his tracks as a
little wooden skiff puttered past. Gripping the tiller of the ancient
six-horse Evinrude was an old man that we instantly recognized as Mr.
McCourtney, our old high-school shop teacher.
Scott called out and McCourtney cut the engine. "Is that you, Mr.
McCourtney? It’s Scott Crankton. Fullback, 1968."
"I can’t make out your face, but I reco’nize the voice. I don’t
see so well these days." He jerked a thumb at his partner.
"That’s C.O. Ensminger. Hardware, 1945."
"Hey, Mr. Ensminger."
"No sense talking to him," McCourtney said. "He’s deaf
as an anvil. Both of us together barely make one whole man." He
lifted his beer in salute.
Mr. Ensminger cupped a hand to his ear. "Wha’d you say,
J.D.?"
McCourtney pointed to his beer. "I said, ’Both of us together can
barely drink one whole can!’"
"Hell yes, I’d like another," Mr. Ensminger croaked.
"Gimme the church key."
While the hearing among us laughed, McCourtney reached back and yanked
the Evinrude to life. After the men had moved on, Scott said, "Hey,
did you notice? McCourtney’s exactly as old as he was 30 years ago."
I nodded. "That’s what aging naturally will do for you."
We fished for another hour without boating a
bigger striper, although the action was fairly steady. Scott filled the
time between hook-ups with play-by-play details of real-estate deals, his
fishing exploits interrupting the monologue like annoying commercials.
The art of the deal; the thrill of the kill. He was Charles Darwin
masquerading as Donald Trump.
Still talking, he set one rod down and was picking up another when his
cell phone slipped out of the corner of his vest pocket, bounced off the
deck and plopped into the water. Scott dropped to his knees and gazed at
his reflection. Then he looked up at me, his face a sickly white.
"No big deal," I said. "He’ll leave a message."
"No. You don’t know this guy. You miss the boat, you miss the
trip."
"Don’t sweat it," I said, trying to console him. "It’s
only 8:00; we still
have plenty of time to get back and check your messages. Then you can
call him back."
Scott didn’t answer. He didn’t like it. I could tell he was debating
whether to head in or keep fishing. Either way, the fun had ended.
Just then I hooked a fish, which seemed to snap Scott out of his
reverie. A look of determination came over his face as he picked up his
heaviest rod and tied a 12-inch soft-plastic Sassy Shad to the braided
line. I told him there were no shad that big in Louisiana, but he ignored me and began
casting with a fury. As he fished, he occasionally touched his vest
pocket, still feeling the pressure of the missing phone like a wedding band
removed after 50 years.
After fishing in silence for 20 minutes, I had had enough. "Hey,
let’s run back to the dock and find you another phone," I said
flatly. "No sense in letting a stupid tournament
ruin your big deal."
Scott turned on me in mid-retrieve, his eyes blazing. "No!"
he shouted. "We’re going to win this damn thing! It’s..." Just
then his rod doubled over. "Man," he said, his face lighting
up. "Now this is a fish. This is what we’ve been waiting for!"
"Well, you gonna reel him in or talk him in?"
As Scott hauled away, I noticed McCourtney’s skiff sliding toward us,
as if drawn by a giant magnet in our hull. Then a huge striper surfaced
with McCourtney’s hook in one side of his mouth and Scott’s Sassy Shad in
the other.
"Can you believe this?" Scott cried. He cranked his reel
like a winch, hauling in fish, skiff and two men in the late winter of
their lives.
"Let him have the fish," I said gently. Scott looked at me
like I had offered him ten bucks for an acre of beachfront property.
"If I reel him in, he’s mine. I don’t care if he’s attached to a
battleship!"
"Scott, look at yourself," I
pleaded. "Think of everything you have to be thankful for."
Scott grunted and pulled back hard. Midway between the boats, half the
fish cleared the water. It was the biggest striper I had ever seen. Scott
started pumping like he was hauling on a tuna.
When I saw that he was determined to wrestle the fish from old man
McCourtney, something came over me. "There is none so blind as he who refuses to see," I muttered,
stepping forward and snipping his line with my clippers. Scott stumbled
backwards and McCourtney’s skiff drifted downstream. As Scott stood
dumbfounded, I manned the trolling motor and tracked McCourtney until he
landed the fish. The striper’s belly sagged between the old man’s knees
as he worked the hook loose. Then the fish started ringing.
"Hey!" Scott yelled. "My cell phone!"
McCourtney looked up. "You want I should answer it?"
"No!" Scott shouted. "I’ll get it!" As we
approached the skiff, Scott went down on his belly to fend off.
"Quick, cut him open and hand me the phone," he grunted.
Frowning, McCourtney looked at the ringing fish. "Now, let’s
think about this. Dead, she’ll bring first prize for biggest fish. Alive,
that’s an extra five hunnert."
Scott pulled a wad of money from his pocket and started peeling off
hundred-dollar bills. "Five for biggest fish, five for releasing it
alive," he said, passing the money over.
As the old man pushed the paper into his pocket, the fish in his lap
stopped ringing. "Hmm, already got a ten-pounder," McCourtney
mused. "With this one, we could win the tourney."
Scott desperately peeled off more bills till he ran out, then reached
inside the console and extracted a credit card. "Here, you can keep
this till I get some cash at the landing," Scott panted, thrusting
the card at the old man. McCourtney held the piece of plastic close to
his nose and scanned it carefully, then handed it back.
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "Don’t take
Discover."
The negotiations kicked into high gear. After Scott had forked over
three outfits worth $400 apiece, McCourtney said, "Well, looky here.
This here’s a tagged fish. That’ll cost you another five."
When Scott offered up his GPS, McCourtney looked at him through
half-blind eyes. "Can’t use that. Always know where I am."
Finally, Scott gave up a telescoping net, his tackle bag, and his last
two rods. McCourtney handed over the fish.
On his knees, Scott cut the striper’s belly open and squeezed. Two
shad squirted out, followed by a tiny, shiny cell phone. Scott snatched
up the phone, opened it and fell back on the deck. The sick look on his
face had returned.
"What’s the matter?"
"It’s not my phone."
Heading back to the landing, I lowered my head out of the scouring
wind, only half ashamed, because I didn’t have the heart to tell Scott
that old man McCourtney would never have entered a tournament.
Dr. Norman German is a fiction writer and Professor of English at Southeastern Louisiana University.
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