July 2002 -- It's
a moment the finest dreams are made of.
A watering mouth anticipates a fresh salmon dinner. The gleaming flasher
dances a dance that only a hungry, curious salmon could find seductive.
I pray the bait embedded on the razor-sharp hook will encourage one
to attend a well-set dinner table-complete with fresh lemon wedges.
Thunk! resounds a beckoning call sound outside the hull. I fight to
remain asleep but am denied.
Thunk! I waken, grimacing about the bruised gelcoat. I wonder how many
logs will float by, tap their secret code, roll over in sidesplitting
log laughter and then continue onto the next unsuspecting vessel.
I
hope no one is around as I venture up to the bow, clad only in skivvies
and sucking the painful thumb.
Remembering that we are well secured to a State mooring buoy, I turn
over and listen to the lapping waves lick the bow as it gently swings
into the outgoing tide. With a quick snort, I return to the dream.
The rod bends toward a deep-blue water
backdrop, its trip line securely fastened onto the downrigger ball.
The bouncing rod tip mimics the pulsating flasher's sensuous undulations.
Reminiscent of a conductor raising his baton, the bent rod quickly snaps
to attention as a sliver guest samples my fare and releases the experienced
lead ball. The rod taps three times, and then becomes rigid against
the tilting horizon. Sounds of the engine, the screech of a hungry gull
and my inner screaming become muddled due to a thunderous pounding building
inside my swelling chest. Anticipation floods throughout tensing forearms.
Hungry eyes focus on the chrome-tipped baton, eyelids smack and plead
for the first downstroke. That first note which will come in the form
of a singing reel. We jump to the height of William Tell's Overture;
the rod begins jerking this way, then that. The plastic rail holder
groans from the strain and threatens to tear loose. Line flies from
the singing reel. I reach out and grab the fiberglass baton. "Ah,
so you wish to fight?" My inner voice responds to the silver monster's
challenge.
Thunk!
Barbara pokes me in the side. "Honey,
wake up. Go find out what that is."
A few choice words percolate between tight lips as I exit a warm bunk,
slip into cold, damp shoes, and then curse again while switching them
to the correct feet. Pressing my one good night eye against the ship's
clock, it reads 0245.
Thunk!
"Jim, hurry up I can't sleep!"
commands my beautiful wonderful bride (whose head remains buried deep
under covers). I fumble for the pilothouse door latch. Seems the gremlins
have wedged the latch tight in the barrel. I curse again, rattle the
door, and it loosens just enough for the latch to slide with an echoing
clink in the dark cabin. I check, then bend a throbbing thumbnail back
in place. I hope no one is around as I venture up to the bow, clad only
in skivvies and sucking the painful thumb.
The summer night air remains warm, yet
cooler from the previous 92-degree afternoon heat wave. The deck is
moist from evening's blanket as condensation pools then sends rivulets
racing towards parched scuppers.
"Ha!
Giddy up," I half shout, slapping the reins across the dark surface
and releasing thousands of phosphorous sparkles
that carry past the bow then fade into inky blackness.
Scanning the water reveals nothing. Not a stick, log, long-lost Robinson
Crusoe raft, or drifting battle ship in sight. Only a lonely mooring
buoy wishing to nestle and nuzzle our bow.
I whisper "Your a big buoy now, time to be on your own" and
release an additional 20 feet of (umbilical) line with the hope the
outbound current will keep us apart. Much like a wagon master, I hold
the loop of line secured by the bow's port and starboard cleats. The
reins reach out to my stead's galvanized bit as we traverse the star-lit
prairie. "Ha! Giddy up," I half shout, slapping the reins
across the dark surface and releasing thousands of phosphorous sparkles
that carry past the bow then fade into inky blackness. Spellbound at
their beauty, I slap the reins a few more times, becoming a bit more
vocal.
Thunk!
A muddled rap from under my feet. A clear
signal from the first mate to notify me that playtime is over, so I
quickly retreat and retire.
"Get the net!" screams an inner
voice. The monster fish rears its thrashing head and tries to spit the
hook. He smiles, turns, and with a flick of its tail, vanishes into
the briny deep, leaving an expanding ringlet. A light blue, monofilament
line punctuates its center. Smoke rises from the battle-weary reel as
the line once again peels, setting up another challenging round. Beads
of sweat drip from a wrinkled forehead and land on the overheated reel
with a hiss. Slowly the rod tip rises up out of the water as the monster's
strength begins to ebb. "You've turned the battle our way,"
a voice inside murmurs, then chants, "now, reel up, reel up!"
Thunk!
"Honey," nudges Barbara.
"Arr," I respond and make my way to the bow. Again no sticks,
logs, Trident subs-just a lonely buoy. The crafty little fellow has
found a new way to amuse himself by using the extra line to yo-yo to
and from our marred gelcoat.
Pulling on the sunken line wrapped around
its barnacled chain bottom reveals a tangled web of kelp. I reach down
with a boat hook and snare the longest strand. I turn my back and give
it a hard yank, only to have the kelp snap. With supersonic speed, it
bull whips across two thinly clad cheeks. Stars that were once bright
quickly blur behind watering eyes as I cross both legs and fight back
the urge (to pump out my bilge). With short breaths, I attempt to untangle
the starboard portion of line strangling the buoy. The buoy responds
with eager playfulness and rotates even faster, taking in more precious
port line. The metal mooring ring reports with a neighbor-wakening clang
against our bow. Lying on the deck, I reach down with a second line
and successfully pass it through the ring. This allows me to let go
of the first line, much to the dismay of the buoy. I glance down at
the sulking foam-filled tire. "You're a baaaaaad buoy," I
whisper with a scolding finger, return to the stateroom, and gingerly
settle a bruised ego under what were once warm bunk covers.
I
glance down at the sulking foam-filled tire. "You're a baaaaaad
buoy," I whisper with a scolding finger, return to the stateroom,
and gingerly settle a bruised ego under what
were once warm bunk covers.
"Keep your tip up!" shouts my inner self, as the monster salmon
rolls over into the hungry jowls of the net. Setting the pole down,
I grasp the edges of the net as the fish makes one last attempt to escape
and sends a face-bathing douse of water high into the air. I take a
deep breath, grasp the net tight, bend both legs and heave up with all
my might.
Thunk! Clank! Thunk! Clank!
"Arrg! What now?" I shout.
The mooring buoy, of course. The wake
from each passing ripple allows just enough swing for him to head butt
our bow. I respond by pulling up the cursed mooring ring to the top
of our gunwale and thereby strangle his lateral momentum. Beads of sweat
roll down my face as I tie off the ring, now jammed hard against our
brass hawsepipe. Looking over the rail I repeat, "You're a baaaaaad
buoy!"
Getting back to sleep takes a lot of
effort. I am beyond exhaustion. The breaking dawn begins filling the
cabin with all sorts of different and unusual shadows, forcing me to
roll over and press my face tightly against the outboard bulkhead. Just
as the shadows behind closed eyelids come into view, Jacob Marley's
ghost begins rattling his chains up and down the steel staircase 20
inches from my head, but my snoring soon drowns it out.
It's early afternoon when Barbara dares
to approach, with hot coffee in hand. While the engine warms up, we
plot our course. I make way toward the battle-strewn bow, dodging drying
clumps of brown kelp and peering over the rail at the struggling buoy.
Reminiscent of campaign ribbons adorning a four-star general's chest,
huge stripes of multi-colored gelcoat adorns its mangled, galvanized
tripod lapels. Obviously, he was a veteran of many battles.
I release the line that has trapped the
mooring ring high into our hawsepipe. He gobbles the recoiling chain
with a muddled thunk, pirouettes, and makes one last feeble attempt
to mark our bow with a goodbye hug. But Barbara isn't going for it and
she backs off with an authoritative shot of reverse engine. We soon
clear the area and the point, just as a large sailboat passes to port.
We wave at them, but are ignored in return. The sailors are too focused
at the rare and wonderful sight of an unoccupied mooring buoy.
To be continued… 
