by R. J. Blacks
“Don’t you think the public should be protected?”
“Of course. But there are better ways to do it.”
I avoid further confrontation and spend my time gazing at the many lakes and swamps we pass on our way back. Perhaps I’ll be lucky and catch a glimpse of some exotic wildlife. But it’s obvious Fargo is troubled. He’s very quiet and appears to be deep in thought. He saw something back there, something that concerns him, and he won’t say what it is. I fight off the temptation to ask him. I’m sure he’ll tell me when he gets it sorted out in his own mind. I need to give him some space. In time, at his own pace, I’m confident he’ll share it with me.
CHAPTER 17
As the scenery flies by, I feel myself getting hungry. Back at the cabin, when Fargo was about to leave, I was in such a rush I never had a chance to finish breakfast.
“Want to stop for lunch?” I ask.
“I’d rather get back,” he says.
“You’re not hungry?”
“I am. But we can eat on the trail.”
“So we’re still going out?”
“Don’t you want to?”
“Of course I do.”
Fargo pulls into his parking space and we exit the SUV. I dash up the stairs to the porch and see Will relaxing in one of those wooden recliners, reading his little black book.
“Come on Will, get ready. We’re going on the airboat.”
“You know, I just feel like hanging around here,” he says. “Why don’t you just go without me?”
“Oh Will, you’ll miss all the fun.”
“That’s okay. I’ve been in those things a hundred times. Besides, there’ll be another time.”
Will goes back to reading his book so I slip past him and enter the cabin. Fargo follows me in.
I head for the kitchen and scour the cabinets and refrigerator for anything edible. There’s not much left, but I manage to locate some bread, sliced ham, and American cheese. I place these on the counter along with some apples and bananas.
“What are you doing?” Fargo asks.
“Making lunch,” I say.
“I said we’ll eat on the trail.”
“Yes, I know. I’m bringing it with us.”
“There’s already food on the trail.”
Food on the trail? Does he have provisions stashed in the woods for emergencies? Things like canned tuna, beans, and maybe even spam. Or maybe he had some of those survival packets that are meant to be eaten without cooking. I was confused.
“What do you have?” I ask.
“Not sure. It depends on the season.”
Depends on the season? What’s that supposed to mean? Now I’m really confused.
“So you don’t want me to make sandwiches?”
“No. There’s plenty out there.”
It’s almost noon and I’m getting really hungry, but I take him at his word and place the food back where I found it. Fargo grabs his backpack and opens the front door.
“Take your time. I’ll be at the airboat.”
“Can I wear a swimsuit?”
He stares at me for a moment then shrugs.
“Sure, whatever you want. Bring a jacket. You might need it later.”
He exits, letting the screen door slam behind him. I stroll back to the bedroom and change into my swimsuit. Over that, I put on a tee-shirt to shield myself from the wind. Even though the Florida sun is strong, at sixty miles per hour, the December air can be chilly. I finish off my outfit with a baseball cap, allowing my hair to casually drape over my shoulders and down my back.
I open the lunch bag and remove the specimen jars filled with water and soil samples and then replace them with clean jars. I take the filled ones to the kitchen and place them in the refrigerator to prevent spoilage. I put on a pair of wrap-around sunglasses and then grab my backpack and lunch bag. This is my first time on a boat and I feel really elated, like I’m some kind of movie star going out on a yacht.
I slip out the door and sit in the wooden recliner next to Will.
“We’re leaving now. Why don’t you come?” I say.
“I’m fine here,” he says.
“It’ll be more fun with you along.”
“Fargo will take good care of you. He’s a good guy.”
“Okay, but I’ll miss you.”
“No you won’t. You’ll be having too much fun.”
“Oh Will,” I say, and then, stand up.
I notice Will gazing at my feet.
“You’re not going with flip-flops, are you?”
“What’s wrong with flip-flops?”
“Wait here,” he says, and dashes into the cabin. He returns with a pair of deer-skin moccasins, shows them to me.
“I gave these to my mother a while back, but she never wore them. She was your size; I want you to have them. They’re genuine Indian.”
“Oh Will, I couldn’t.”
“Take them!” he says, “Otherwise they’ll just go to waste. Flip-flops won’t do where you’re going.”
“I’ll get my sneakers.”
“No, don’t wear sneakers either.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Personally, I don’t care. But for Fargo, white-man’s shoes disrespect sacred Indian land. They remind us of the days when soldiers trod over the land and took it for themselves. You have to be Indian to fully appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Either you go barefoot, or wear these,” he says, placing the moccasins into my hands. “It’ll keep Fargo happy.”
“Thanks,” I say, and give him a hug. I’m about to leave, and then, I remember something.
“About dinner, I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make do,” he says.
I pick up my lunch bag and backpack and then dash down the stairs, almost tripping over my flip-flops. I race down the path towards the dock where the airboat is tied up. From a distance, I can see Fargo at the back of the airboat working on the engine and he appears to have changed into some type of swimsuit. As I get closer, I see it’s a breechcloth, a kind of loincloth with flaps on the front and back which reveal practically everything about a man except his most personal attributes. It’s crudely fabricated from what appears to be deerskin. I wonder; is he wearing this out of reverence for his ancestors, to honor the customs of the past? Or is this a ploy to impress me?
He doesn’t dress like this when he takes the airboat out on business, but I can totally understand why. His clients come from varied backgrounds and I have witnessed more than a few who are crude and boisterous. It’s obvious they lack any sense of propriety or respect for Native American culture. Given the right provocation, they would deride him mercilessly about how the Indians were gunned down to make room for the expanding frontier. How their land was taken and given to white settlers. How the Indians were herded together and sent off to reservations. As a hired guide, he would have to submit to these crass remarks passively, or risk losing business. Not a good option. Yes, it was completely understandable why he would distance himself from his Native American heritage during normal business outings.
But if his shameless display of muscle and skin is a lame attempt to appeal to my sensual fascinations, then he’s way off base. I’m not really drawn to a man whose sole asset is the size of his pectorals. The man I want has to be caring, and intelligent, and thoughtful, and ... and someone who makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Not like Logan, that scum of the earth that charmed me with his wit and intellect then threw me to the dogs at my most vulnerable hour. If I ever see Logan again I’ll... well, I’ll never see him again. But if I do, I’ll... I’ll... I don’t know what I’ll do. But that’s a thought for another day.
I watch Fargo pick up an oversized cooler filled with ice and place it into the airboat. It probably weighs as much as me yet he lifts it with ease. I find myself mesmerized by his marvelous anatomy, the rippled abs and firm thighs, and by the way his long black hair blo
ws carelessly in the wind. My eyes remain fixated on his powerful body as he moves around the airboat; with a certain grace and beauty that makes it look like all his movements have been choreographed. He is smooth and deliberate and wastes no energy unless there is a purpose in it. He looks like he could swim across the lake in record time and not cause a ripple.
I feel the rush of desire well up inside of me as I recklessly imagine myself in his arms. But I quickly snap out of it and remind myself I’m here for only one reason, business, and that doesn’t include a relationship. It would only slow me down and keep me from my goals. And it wouldn’t be fair to him either. Supposing we hit it off, and the relationship blossomed, what then? I just couldn’t picture him thriving in Philadelphia, among all the sophisticates. And I certainly wouldn’t want to live down here in the boonies.
Fargo turns suddenly, sees me staring.
“Ready?” he says.
I’m caught totally off guard. I feel my face flush.
“Ah... yes, ready,” I say.
Fargo goes back to tinkering with the engine so I step into the airboat. I make myself comfortable on a bench-type seat near the front of the airboat which runs from one side of the boat to the other. I place the backpack, the moccasins, and my lunch bag with the specimen jars, under the seat and sit facing Fargo. He acts completely indifferent to me, totally absorbed in what he’s doing, so I decide it’s a good time to prepare myself for the ride. I reach down, unzip my backpack, and remove a tube of suntan lotion, my safety net against the relentless Florida sun. I place my left foot squarely onto the seat-board drawing my knee up towards me. I squirt some suntan lotion onto my foot and rub it in thoroughly, making sure I don’t miss any bare skin. I repeat the process with my calf and then lastly, my thigh.
Out of the corner of my eye I perceive Fargo staring at me. He’s standing there with a wrench in one hand and a rag in the other and appears to be fascinated with the way I rub the lotion into my thigh, in small circular motions, making sure it penetrates to the depths of every pore, and when it is fully absorbed, pausing to add more. I instinctively snap my head around and glare at him.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“That’s a lot of cream” he says.
“I’m protecting my skin.”
“It’s so thick, will anything get through?”
“I don’t want to get burned.”
“It’s not that hot.”
“Not for you,” I say, peering at his bronze body.
“Neither for you, if you give it a chance.”
“My skin’s sensitive. I’m not taking any chances.”
“There’s a difference between ‘taking a chance’ and ‘giving it a chance’, he says.”
“I’ve been burned before.”
“You won’t get burned if you don’t force it. Let it happen at its own pace, a little at a time, the way nature intended.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and then switch legs, smearing it with copious amounts of suntan lotion.
Fargo turns his attention to the engine and I finish what I’m doing. I place the tube back into the backpack and zip it up.
“How much longer?” I ask.
“I’m done,” he says, and wipes the grease off his hands with the rag. He hops off the airboat and walks toward the cabin, then stops suddenly. He turns to face me.
“I suggest you use the bathroom now. No public restrooms where we’re going.”
I hadn’t thought of that. My whole life I’ve always been around people, and facilities. I’ve never had to deal with a situation like this. What if I had to go in the woods? Could I handle that, with poisonous snakes and spiders lurking under almost every leaf?
I follow Fargo back to the cabin and take his advice, making sure I don’t find myself in the unfortunate position of having to relieve myself amongst the horrid creatures hiding in the swamp. When I exit the cabin, Fargo is already back on the airboat. I dash down the path and step into the boat. Fargo notices me looking around, trying to decide where to sit. I didn’t want to be right at the front where I would receive the full force of the wind.
“The best place to sit is the middle of the boat, especially if this is your first time,” he says.
I nod in agreement and move my belongings to a seat near the middle of the boat. Fargo hands me a pair of industrial strength hearing protectors, the kind you see construction workers wearing.
“You’re going to need these,” he says.
I take the hearing protectors and place them on the seat next to me. Fargo prepares the engine, and as I watch him standing there, I become cognizant of how incredibly large the fan is. The blades are as wide as he is tall which would place them at over six feet from tip-to-tip. I’m not surprised though; it must take a lot of air to push something the size and weight of this boat through the water at high speeds.
Finally, Fargo places the key into the ignition and cranks over the engine. Wah, wah, wah, wah, then the engine springs to life with a loud roar. He pushes on a lever by the side of the airboat causing the engine to rev up for a moment creating an unbearably thunderous sound, louder than any motorcycle or hot-rod I have ever heard. I immediately put on the hearing protectors just as Fargo allows the engine to return to idle, producing a low-pitched uneven rumble.
“You weren’t kidding about the noise,” I say.
“It gets louder,” he says.
I wonder how Fargo could claim to be at peace with nature while promoting such a horrendous piece of machinery as this airboat. But he was the expert and I was the neophyte so I decide to reserve judgment for later. Fargo ties his hair into a ponytail then puts on his hearing protectors.
“Could you untie that rope?” he asks, pointing to a rope near the front of the airboat wrapped around a post on the pier. I do what he says while he unties the rope at the back of the boat.
As I get comfortable in my seat, Fargo revs up the engine slightly. The massive fan, only a few feet behind me, generates a high-pitched but tolerable whine causing the airboat to creep away from the pier. He maneuvers the boat into the channel, between groups of wooden poles topped with markers, until we are surrounded by clear water. Then, without warning, he shoves the accelerator to maximum turning the whine into an excruciating roar. The airboat accelerates violently, rises in the water, and within seconds, we are skimming across the surface scarcely making a ripple. Occasionally the airboat traverses a submerged log or hidden sandbar causing it to become airborne. The closest I have ever come to this sensation are the roller coaster rides at the Jersey Shore which thrill you by launching you into weightlessness for a few brief moments. But this is far worse. I desperately cling to the handrail to avoid being tossed out of my seat.
“How fast are we going?” I shout.
“About sixty,” he says.
My hair dances wildly in the wind, whipping against my face and making the whole experience supremely uncomfortable. It becomes apparent why Fargo has his hair tied into a ponytail. I wedge my feet under the seat to steady myself and then scavenge through my backpack desperately searching for a rubber band. It also becomes apparent why he’s not wearing a hat as I feel my cap begin to lift off my head. I quickly grab it, seconds before it would have blown off, and place it in the backpack. I’m lucky; I find a stray rubber band that’s probably left over from my school days. I don’t remember how it got there, but it was conveniently hidden in a remote corner deep within the backpack waiting for an opportunity to save the day. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and tie it with the rubber band.
The airboat skims across the lake for about twenty minutes and then Fargo suddenly changes course and begins heading for a shoreline about a mile away. I can see Palm Trees, Cypress, and Pines reaching high above the ground vegetation. As the boat gets closer, I realize the shoreline is completely encased in a continuous line of bushes. They’re so dense they reach right into the water.
When we get within a hundred feet, Fargo unexpectedly reduces
power. The airboat halts immediately causing me to lurch forward violently.
“Why did you stop?” I ask.
“We’re here,” he says.
We’re where? I think. There’s nothing here but bushes and water.
He brings the airboat within a few feet of the shoreline, and then shuts off the motor. He stands up and peers into the distance, scanning the lake, from one side to the other.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Shhh,” he says.
He continues to study the horizon for a couple more minutes and then announces: “We’re good.”
He takes out a pole, about 12 feet long, and then, like a gondolier, uses it to push the airboat into the underbrush.
“Watch your face,” he says.
The front of the airboat slides under the outer branches, but as we get in deeper, some of them get caught on the seatbacks. Eventually the branches work loose, snapping back and whipping at my face. I slip out of my seat and onto the floor, stooping as low as possible to avoid being hit. The lower branches scrape along the tops of the seats and along the metal sides occasionally tugging at my hair. I glance back at Fargo. He’s busily pushing the branches aside with an oar as they bunch up around the massive fan, first one side and then the other.
“Why all the secrecy?” I ask.
“Keeps out the under-age drinkers. They seek out places like this then leave behind empty beer cans, food wrappers, and broken glass.”
I nod in agreement.
Suddenly, there are no more branches. They’ve snapped back to their original position effectively sealing us off from the rest of the world. We are now floating in a small natural cove, three times as long and twice as wide as the airboat itself. Overhead is a canopy of pine shielding us from the midday sun and all around us is a field of Saw Palmetto. They look to be about four feet tall and give the illusion of an endless bright-green carpet laid out in every direction. Fargo pushes on the pole until the front of the airboat scrapes against the sandy bottom and brings us to a halt.
