The Secret of Excalibur (16 page)

“Not yet, Merlin, but we will be in a minute. How are you there?” he asks loudly. I can barely hear him over the sound of the rotor blades.

“We're fine, but it won't be long before you'll see waves more than twelve feet there. We're also getting ready to do some fishing.”

The storms distorting the radio, but I can hear him yelling, “Fishing? Are you crazy? In this storm?”

“Hey, Dobie, that's what we came out here for, remember? You get ready, we're fine here. Merlin out.” As I sign off, the radio lets out a screech and a blast of static, very unusual for an SSB radio, probably caused from all the electrical interference from the storm.

Ruth's setting up the tripod under a small rain cover she devised, then we mount the VCR camera on it, aiming the camera to focus on the whole beach area around the boat. Once it's activated, the camera will run for eight hours on slow, and record everything we do or say. Now, all we have to do is wait for the fish. Yes, I will cheat, if need be. The camera is going to record me catching a record fish, whether the fish has to be zapped from ten-thousand miles away.

We relax around the fire sipping our coffee and tea. I'm trying to focus on the cavern, but it's becoming more difficult because of the storm. I'm only able to penetrate to fifteen feet now. In a flash, a probe zips across my mind.

Alive, metal, not moving.

Then, it's gone.

So evidently, it's having problems focusing because of the storm too.
Good,
I think with a grin.

There, I feel fish swimming in the cavern. It's too early in the day for them to be feeding, but the sky's almost dark out up here, and they're schooling, getting ready to swim out.

“Hit the camera, kid, while I bait some lines. The fish are moving already.” I reach into the bait well and begin hooking up two four-pound Walleyes in the back, like an oversized minnow. I throw three of the lines out, off the boat, and set the rods in holders, then throw my fly out right over the cavern mouth. Using two and four pound live fish for bait differs from minnows. They run all over the place, even setting the drags off.

“How can you tell it's a fish and not the bait?” Ruth asks with a puzzled frown as she stares at the bobbing rod tips and the lines zipping around in the water.

Good question, kid.
“Well, the really big fish should pull a lot harder. I hope anyway.”

As I'm setting the last rod in the holder, it takes off. That's the fly. I snatch up the rod, rearing back with a strong jerk, as I do when I get excited, and set the hook. The fish races off with the drag singing. I have a firm grip on the six-foot rod, bent way over, and this fish isn't fooling around. After ten minutes of me reeling in and him pulling out, I'm able to horse him in towards shore. Standing in knee-deep water, I finally net him and with a spine-tingling thrill, see that he barely fits inside the net.

Excited over catching a big fish right off the bat, I yell, “Get the scale, Ruth. Look at the size of this Walleye.”

I lug the fish to the back of the boat, remove the hooks, then she hands me the scale. “Holy shit, kid, look.” The scale stops at twenty-six pounds. I hold the White up for the camera, yelling with a big grin, “Hey, Colly, look what I caught, a record already.”

I drop my fish into the live-well, and I'm about to make another smartass remark, when one of Ruth's rods shows the difference between the bait and the fish. Zzzing, sings the drag. The rod is bent over nearly in half, but Ruth's standing frozen with that wide-eyed deer look again. I'm off the boat on the wrong side, and I'm about ready to jump over the side into the boat to grab her rod, when the other line on my side takes off.

“Grab the pole, Ruth, and hang onto it. Go on, kid, get that fish.”

Jerking as though she just came out of a trance, she stoops over and grabs the rod, almost having it pulled from her hands. Sliding in the sand, she barely manages to keep herself from being dragged into the water.

Hell, I can't even remove mine from the holder; the fish is pulling so hard. But, I finally get enough slack to pull the rod loose, and because he's doing all the work, just hold on. This fish is really fighting, and I'm busy as hell for a while. Every ten yards of line I reel back on, he takes five back off. I don't know how long the fight lasts, but my arms and hands are starting to feel the pressure from the seesawing, back and forth of the line. I can feel sweat starting to trickle down my face.

He's up near the surface now and getting tired. I almost freak at what I see. Three and a half foot of white flashes and whips back down. He's trying to make a last dash into the cave, and it takes all my strength to turn him around. But he finally surfaces again, and this time he stays. That last run must've worn him out.

I know he isn't going to fit inside the net. So, wading out five feet off the bank into three-foot water, I try getting my hands in his gills, but he's not cooperating at all, thrashing his head and tail, splashing water everywhere. I faintly hear Ruth yelling, but have no idea what she's saying. You can get that way with a big fish. And this is a big fish. I finally resort to wrapping both hands around him behind his gills, and with a steel grip, half-drag, half-carry him on shore.

Once on shore, I catch my breath, then straighten with my foot on my fish, and notice Ruth. She's fighting with her bent-over-rod, and turned sideways in a funny spread-legged stance. With shock, I realize she's standing on the other rod and the line is unspooling like hell, the goddamn drag smoking.

I whip off my poncho, wrapping my fish in it, then toss them up by the chairs, close to the tripod, then sprint to help Ruth. She's yelling, face red, tears running and cussing up a storm, but I can't make out any words. Still, I can tell it isn't anything she'd repeat in church.

I snatch up the rod from the ground, almost having it torn from my hands. Another big heave from the fish throws me into Ruth, almost sending her into the lake. The spool is about empty. Following the line in to the water with my eyes, I see the fish. This bastard has two-hundred yards of line out, and wants more. It takes a few minutes to convince him otherwise, then he's worn out and I'm able to force him up to the surface and towards me. I'm again out in the water, and my heart jumps into my throat at the size of him. He looks like mine, and just as unhappy about my hands on him. I drag him up on the bank, remove the hooks, then drop him into the live-well.

I'm getting ready to retrieve my second fish, when Ruth yells again. Her head is hanging in exhaustion and her arms are trembling. “Arthur, take this bloody rod, or I swear I'll throw it in the water.” I grab her pole, and she slowly sinks to her knees, sobbing into her sand-covered hands.

With a start, I realize this bastard is fighting harder than the other fish had.
This can't be a Walleye, not running and diving like that, must be a fucking shark
. I know they swim into the lake sometimes, even a few dolphins, and occasionally a whale.
Damn. No wonder Ruth's so worn out; this is the same rod she picked up first, and the fish isn't tired yet.

Our battle rages on for fifteen minutes, in, out, in, then out. My arms are trembling from holding on and the never-ending slackening and pulling of the rod. The sky's so dark now I can barely see. Then the fish jumps twenty feet out, and I about have a heart attack. It's so goddamn long; it can't jump all the way out of the water. But, I do see a good four or five foot of it, before it falls sideways, with a big splash, back into the water.
Northern!

“Ruth, look under the seat of the boat, in my bag, and take out my gun. Now, girl, move.”

Amazing. All my psychic abilities and I completely forgot them. Catching a big fish is a lifelong learned and relearned experience. When you hook a big fish, it's you or him. I knew Ron kept a 9mm automatic in his kit, and I had transferred the gun to my bag, exactly for this purpose. With visions of the monster Northern zooming in and tearing at my legs, I reluctantly wade out into the water, but not far this time. Of course, he can't do much damage to me, but do you think I remember that now?

On trembling legs, Ruth wades into the water beside me, to my right, and holds the gun out with her fingertips, like it's infected. The Northern is running again, in the shallower water now, and not taking out as much line, but he's far from being done. Trying to horse him around is like pulling a stalled bus. But, finally, there he is, lying about six feet away, gills moving rapidly, and round, gold/black eyes staring back at me. He isn't done though; he's not on top, just right below the surface. I've seen Northerns do this before in Minnesota, resting and ready to run again, but never a Northern as big as this bastard.

I hold out the rod to Ruth. “Just keep the line tight, and hold on. If I miss, he's gonna swim off so fast, you can waterski behind him.”

With a glare, deep frown and heavy sigh, she takes the offered rod and holds it with double-fists, pulling back against the weight of the fish, keeping the line taunt.

I slowly wade out a few feet, pulling the action to chamber a round, and he just lies there, watching, gills and fins slowly undulating in the water. I aim at the top of that huge head, between the eyes, and gently pull the trigger.

The water explodes in front of me. I fall over as the Northern blasts into my legs on his way by, with Ruth tumbling over on her back as the line snaps. I scramble to my feet as Ruth is trying to stand. I help her up, and we stand staring, with open mouths, panting with excitement and fear.

The big Northern is lying in the water seven feet away from us. He sure doesn't look dead, even with that hole in his head. His gills are barely fluttering now, and he's twitching, blood seeping into the water around him. I wade over by him, grabbing him behind the gills. My hands don't meet. He quivers and I flinch. I turn him slowly towards shore, towing him along to the bank.
What a monster.
I loop a rope around him, and hook the scale up to his middle. The scale groans, seventy-three pounds.

“Holy shit, kid, you caught a fucking whale. That's two records for damn sure.”

Reaching into the mouth to unhook him, I can barely see the tail of the bait. He totally swallowed a three to four-pound Walleye, and the hook is buried deep, so I cut the line. Ruth caught a seventy-three pound Northern, on sixty-pound line. Has to be at least two fishing records broken here today.

I stride, with slumped shoulders and aching arms, up to the chairs and remove my other fish from my poncho, and we weigh him, thirty-one and one-half pounds. Ruth's first fish weighs in at thirty-one pounds, makes my twenty-six pound one look sad.

“I almost beat you, Arthur.” Ruth says with a teary smile. She looks a mess, tears, sweat, sand, and running mascara.

“Yeah, you almost did, but you caught the record Northern, kid, maybe for the whole fucking world.” I give her a long warm embrace, and she leans against me with a soft sigh. Seems she doesn't mind the fish slime and blood now.

We look over at the camera, and I yell, “Hey Colly, you'd better hide. Your Mrs. is going to kill you for sure.”

I peer down at Ruth and the next thing I know we're laughing our heads off. Imagining Molly berating Colly for losing our bet has us rolling in the sand.

“Oh, she will kill him too. I can just see it,” Ruth sputters, breaking out in laughter again.

Wiping the laughter tears from my eyes, I stare into the camera. “Okay, Colly, it's now four fifty-six in the afternoon, that's ah, ten hours and fifty-six minutes into the allotted seventy-two hours. I'm going to shut the camera off now, and we'll show you the footage back at the Lodge. You're in trouble, man, for sure.” Shutting off the camera, I glance over at Ruth. “You're a mess, kid, sand and makeup everywhere. You should rinse off before it gets in your eyes.”

She winks at me, saying, “You are too. And don't forget the fish slime and blood.”

I stare at her with slack-jaws.
Can she read my mind? Naw.

After removing her tennis shoes, she heads for the water. I shake my head, dumbfounded
. Why did she take off her shoes? They were already soaked.
With a shrug, I head for the tent to fetch a few towels, and when I step back outside, it starts raining harder, pounding and bouncing off the roof of the tent. Warm rain, like a warm shower. I duck back inside, grab the soap as well, and yell at Ruth, “Hey, kid, let's take a shower.”

She has her pants off, standing in the water in panties and her shirt and yells back, “Are you crazy?” then starts looking around.

I pull her back on shore. “No, nobody's around, it's just us.”

With a devilish grin, I unbutton her shirt and drop it on the soggy, sandy beach. Because she's not wearing a bra, she's down to panties, so I slowly slide her panties down her long, curvy legs. As she daintily steps out of them, in record time I strip out of my smelly clothes. Laughing and splashing in the warm rain, we start washing each other, which leads to soft lips and warm hands fondling intimate places, and before long we're lying on the sand in front of the boat, passionately making love.

Sated, on propped elbows, I rest on top of her, panting and dripping with rain. I gaze down at her breathtaking face. Her beautiful eyes are closed with warm rain falling gently on her long lashes and trailing from her cute nose and full lips. Leaning down to give her a kiss, the rain turns ice cold. ”Yaah”, I yell, scrambling up, and sprint for the tent, Ruth right behind me.

Shivering, teeth chattering, we dry each other off. The rain stops, leaving silence, but for the water dripping off the pine trees onto the roof of the tent. We huddle in the sleeping bag, trying to get warm, and pretty soon we figure out how.

At 3:40 am, I awake. Unable to go back to sleep, I climb out of the sleeping bag, being careful not to disturb Ruth. I pull on shorts, then duck outside. Stretching, I notice the air temperature, warm, must be seventy-five or so. There's a tiny hint of light to the east. The monster storm is gone; stars are brightly twinkling across the sky. I place wet wood in the fire-pit, and it takes five minutes of mental concentration to get the saturated wood to burn.
Damn,
I think with growing concern,
shouldn't be this difficult to start a fire.