Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (5 page)

"How so?" I asked, not sure I really wanted to know. I felt anxious enough as it was, scanning the surface of the water constantly for menacing dorsal fins moving on a direct path toward me. I swear I saw at least two humongous bull sharks swim by about thirty yards out. When I anxiously pointed them out, Milo laughed. I let him know I wasn't amused and he promised me all I'd seen were a couple of large bait fish. They were skimming the surface, occasionally flying out of the water like tiny sailfish, as if fleeing a larger fish hunting for its breakfast.

Milo explained. "Those are mullet, just like we'll be using today for bait, only larger. Keep an eye out and you'll probably see another one breaching the surface soon."

I watched for a few moments until I spotted another mullet, probably a foot long, flying in and out of the water five times as it scooted swiftly away. It was like watching a shiny rock being skipped across the top of the water.

"Don't forget what I told you earlier," Milo said, after the bait fish had at last submerged and not resurfaced. "If you were to accidentally step into a pothole over your head, your waders would instantly fill up with so much water you likely wouldn't be able to surface. There aren't too many really deep ones in this area, but there are a few scattered out there, so it's always a possibility. And it seems like at least one wade-fisherman drowns out in these bays every year."

"Oh, swell. Thanks for bringing my anxiety level down a notch. You're making wade-fishing sound like more and more fun with every comment you make."

"You'll be okay, Rapella. Just be careful and walk slowly. You'll feel more at ease as you get accustomed to wading," Milo assured me. Rip was already twenty feet ahead of us, not a care in the world. "Soon you'll be perfectly at ease out here. And trust me, if you fish for any length of time at all, it will get into your blood."

After Milo felt confident I could get along by myself, he picked up speed and was soon wading side-by-side with Rip, who had forged ahead as Milo assisted me. I was carrying a fishing pole, and had a hand net, a bait bucket, and a stringer to put the fish on, attached to the fishing belt. I felt weighed down by all the pricey but, according to Rip, necessary, wade-fishing accessories I was dragging around.

A few minutes later, I was in water up to the top of my thighs. I had absolutely no desire to get into even deeper water, so I decided to tack in a different direction. I was hoping to find shallower water which, thankfully, I quickly did.

When I arrived at the general location Milo had pointed to, he hollered loudly enough I could just make out what he was saying. "Right there's a good place to start! Make sure you scoot your feet as you wade around in the water so you don't surprise a stingray and get stung. They have sharp barbs on their stingers and are difficult and painful to get out of your leg."

Seriously?
Now you tell me that?
I was beginning to feel a sense of dread, as my mind filled with visions of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, who'd died from a stingray's barb imbedded in his chest. Rip and I had always assumed it'd be a huge croc that'd take him out.

Instead of responding with the first caustic remark that came to mind, I tried to still my jumpy nerves and shouted back, "Swell. Now please stop pointing out every conceivable way I could get injured—or worse—today. Just tell me what I need to do next."

"Bait your hook and cast it out toward one of those light greenish areas. Those are the potholes I was telling you about. If you feel a tug, wait a few seconds and pull the rod back forcefully enough to set the hook. I already sat the drag on your reel, so just fight the fish, reel it in, net it, and put it on your stringer. That's all there is to it!" Milo's voice reverberated across the surface of the water, which had small ripples due to a slight breeze. I had to admit it was a beautiful day to be outside.

My first order of business was to bait my hook, Milo had said. So I opened up my bait bucket and saw a dozen slimy mullet about five inches long, and an even larger number of medium-sized shrimp darting here and there. When I opened the lid of the bait bucket, two of the shrimp flew out unexpectedly, nearly causing me to lose my balance again. I couldn't decide which of my two choices seemed less icky to handle. Since the leaping shrimp had startled me and looked more menacing with their pointed snouts and black beady eyes, I chose the mullet.

It took me at least forty-five seconds to snag a mullet. They swam faster than I could move my hand around in the bucket and were able to evade being caught until I finally trapped one against the bottom. I pulled it out and reached for my hook. As soon as I grasped my line, the slimy mullet slivered out of my hand into the water. I swear it sneered at me as it scurried away.

It took thirty more seconds to capture another elusive mullet, only to have it spring free from my hand, as well. Finally, on the third attempt, I squeezed one of the little buggers so tightly its eyes were about to pop out of its head. I wasn't sure where to shove the hook in him and couldn't bear to watch such cruelty. So I just shut my eyes and forced it in. Opening my eyes, I discovered I'd hooked him squarely in the tail fin. I figured that'd work as well as any other place, and I didn't want to torture the poor thing any further. I couldn't bear to look the little feller in the eyes for fear I'd see the agony I'd inflicted.

Now to cast. It was a complicated-looking reel, for sure. I recalled Rip instructing me to open the bail before I cast, allowing the line to fly freely out over the water. On my first attempt, the bail closed as soon as I began to cast the line out. My hook and lead weight splashed down and sank to the bottom about two feet in front of me, but not before my mullet broke loose and sailed another fifty to sixty feet through the air.

Poor little critter. And I'd thought I was having a bad day
.
Crap!
Now I have to start this whole ordeal over again
. I baited the hook and tried again. The mullet landed on the sandy shore behind me. After many disastrous attempts, and spending at least an hour untangling the rat's nest of fishing line that resulted from an errant cast, I managed to land a mullet within a foot or two of the pothole. It was close enough that I wasn't going to mess with it again unless I had a bite.

The next hour-and-a-half seemed to last a full week. My back was already beginning to ache from the awkward position I'd assumed in order to maintain my balance in the undulating water as I waited impatiently for a tug on my line. I set the hook on more than one imaginary fish, not exactly sure how it'd feel if I got a bite. When each of those imaginary fish failed to take off in a frantic attempt to shake the hook, I let my bait lie where it had landed after my spastic yank.

Finally, I decided it was time to check my bait, only to find the mullet was long gone. It occurred to me then I might have spent the last four hours fishing with no bait. Apparently one of those earlier bites had not been just a figment after all.

After another taxing effort to bait and cast my line, it hit the water at least a city block from the closest pothole. Although no one could hear me, even the brown pelicans a hundred yards away pounding the top of the water for fish to consume, I shouted out a long string of profanities. I cussed the "fish gods" for the suffering I was enduring. I was beginning to understand the old saying, "swear like a sailor."

Later, I nearly fell into a coma from standing in the same place for yet another two hours with my boots buried six inches in the muck beneath me. I wondered exactly how much time it usually took for fishing to "get in one's blood," as Milo had assured me it would. The way I felt just then, I didn't think I'd live long enough for that to happen.

I hoped Rip was having better luck and a better time than me, which wouldn't take a heck of a lot. The bar had been set extremely low on my end of this fishing experience. I finally decided my back couldn't take much more abuse. I told myself if I didn't get a bite in the next ten minutes, I'd head back to the boat, which now looked like a speck on the horizon from where I stood. Any energy I'd started out with was long gone. I feared returning to the boat would require more oomph than I could scrounge up. I almost prayed for a dorsal fin to emerge behind me when I headed back, giving me the adrenalin rush I'd need to reach the boat.

After checking my bait, only to find it gone again, I mindlessly cast out and finally landed a lively mullet just inside the edge of a large pothole. I began cheering out loud, as if I'd won the lottery, which was virtually impossible because I was too cheap to buy a ticket.

To while away the allotted ten minutes before giving up, I mentally made a list of groceries I needed to pick up at H.E.B. and debated about what to cook for supper. Fresh redfish was most likely no longer an option. I had glanced toward where Milo and Rip were fishing on occasion and hadn't seen any sign of yanking going on.

I then pondered how much longer my hair and nails had gotten since I'd flopped myself out of the boat what seemed like a month and a half earlier. Suddenly, I was jerked from my reverie by a solid tug on my line that nearly pulled the rod out of my hands. I'd been instructed by Rip to resist yanking so hard and fast that I'd reel in nothing but a pair of fish lips. But he'd also said there was a fine line between yanking too early and waiting so long I'd give the fish a chance to swallow the hook. He'd said, "Milo told me they're tough to get out when they swallow it. And if you're unlucky enough to catch a hardhead, don't let it prick you with its dorsal fin, or it'll burn like crazy for a good twenty minutes."

"What's a hardhead?" I'd asked, thrilled to learn there was yet another hazard I'd have to be prepared for.

"It looks like a little catfish, but is nothing more than a nuisance down here, a trash fish Milo called it, and the fin contains some kind of poison. It serves as a natural defense for the hardheads," Rip had explained.

"Oh, okay. Good to know." And then, because I just couldn't resist, I'd added, "And here all this time I thought a hardhead was a roly-poly retired police officer who wouldn't get his throbbing, aching hip joint replaced until an unexpected accident left him no option."

"Being a smart ass will get you nowhere," he had returned with a smirk.

However, exasperating as it was, I couldn't dwell on Rip's stubbornness now. I had what felt like a blue whale on the end of my line. It was pulling away with a strong steady tug. When I yanked on my pole to set the hook, there was a second of stillness before the fish took off so fast I could hear the whirring of my line streaming out a mile-a-minute.

I tussled with that fish for quite a long spell, cranking the reel's handle whenever the fish took a break to get a second wind and the line began to go slack. But before long the monster would be on the run again and unwinding my line faster than I could crank it back in. This back and forth struggle went on for a good thirty minutes. Looking back later, I'd realize it was actually more like five or six minutes, but my story would forever remain unchanged. Truthfully, I knew it probably
would
change in time, growing even more astonishing with each telling, but I wouldn't be the first fisherman to exaggerate their fish tale. It was practically expected of dedicated anglers.

Could this fish possibly be a state record?
I wondered, still fighting Moby Dick with all the strength I could muster. I was having the time of my life trying to land my admirable opponent. It'd be the first fish I'd caught in my entire life if I could get him in my net.

I'd even forgotten that my back had been throbbing in rhythm with the waves slapping the banks of St. Jo Island, which was not far from where I stood knee-deep in water that was brackish from recent heavy rainfall.

I was so wound up I nearly peed in my waders, not only from the excitement of fighting the fish, but also because I'd been foolish enough to drink two cups of coffee that morning. I'd had to hold it for hours and it was beginning to get painful.

It was to the point I felt my bladder had to be stretched as tight as my friend, Mabel Hick's, girdle. Unlike the men, I couldn't just slide my waders down and take a leak in the water. Still, despite my discomfort, I had a fish on the end of my line, and this was the first time I thought all the expense entailed in this adventure was worth every dime.

While I watched line peeling off my reel once again, I was visualizing the pride I'd have in showing my Bunko club a photo of me holding my trophy fish. Of course, Gracie Parker would be at the party too, and she'd probably one-up me as she always did all of us girls. I could just see her reaching into her brassiere and pulling out a faded Polaroid snapshot of a young Gracie at sixteen, holding up a tarpon the size of a Volkswagen. Oh, well. At the rate I was going, my trophy fish would die of old age before I got him reeled in close enough to net, anyway.

When I finally got the thrashing fish within a few feet of me, I reached for my net only to discover it was tangled up with the braided nylon cord attached to my bait bucket. Both cords had wrapped around me several times due to the motion of the waves. Before I could unwind myself from the entire conglomeration, the fish swam between my legs and started to circle me. I spun around and around like a carousel at a carnival.
This blasted fish is just playing with me now
, I thought.
But we'll see who gets the last laugh
.

Frustrated, I was starting to get dizzy and was gasping for breath like an asthmatic having an attack. I was ready to throw in the towel when the fish, which appeared to be as exhausted as I was by this time, swam directly into the net. Apparently it had thrown in the towel just seconds before I could. I held the net up so I could admire the huge fish and was relieved to see it wasn't a hardhead. Shining in the sun's glare, it was a beautiful shade of red and had the distinctive black dot on its tail that Milo had explained would indicate it was a redfish.